And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down;
Creep home, and take your place there,
The spent and maimed among:
God grant you find one face there,
You loved when all was young."
X
THE SEASON AS IT IS
That delicate critic, the late Mr. William Cory, observes in one of his letters that Virgil's
"Sunt lacrymæ rerum, et mentem mortalia tangunt"
has its modern equivalent in Wordsworth's