From the poetry of inanimate nature, the transition was easy to that of simple feelings, particularly in rustic life. In the innocent plays of children of the cot, and the sparkling dews on the cheeks of wild mountain maids, Wordsworth found themes for reflection deep enough to sink into the memory of men. Who has not felt the inimitable simplicity of the verses in which the child, who often, after sunset, took her little porringer, and ate her supper beside her brother's grave, persisted in saying: "Oh! no, sir, we are seven," and in ignoring the power of death to sever or to annihilate? Purity marks all which this chief of the Lake School has composed; for how could he soothe the spirit if, like Moore and Byron, he pandered to vicious inclinations? Hence his successor as Poet-Laureate congratulates himself very properly on wearing
"The laurel greener from the brows
Of him that uttered nothing base."
A poet's best eulogy is that which comes from a poet. Having quoted that of Tennyson, therefore, I shall add that which Shelley also bestows on Wordsworth:
"Thou wert as a lone star, whose light did shine
On some frail bark in winter's midnight roar:
Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood
Above the blind and battling multitude
In honored poverty thy voice did weave
Songs consecrate to truth and liberty."
The quietude commended by infidel poets is, at the best, that of despair. It is rest without repose, pathetic but not peaceful—a spurious and delusive calm, difficult to attain for a moment, and certain not to endure.
"Yet now despair itself is mild.
Even as the winds and waters are;
I could lie down like a tired child.
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne and yet must bear." [Footnote 64]
[Footnote 64: P. B. Shelley.]
Such is their language; so writes one of the most distinguished of these "apostles of affliction." How different are the feelings of the Christian "quietist:"
"Nor let the proud heart say.
In her self-torturing hour,
The travail pangs must have their way.
The aching brow must lower.
To us long since the glorious Child is born,
Our throes should be forgot, or only seem
Like a sad vision told for joy at morn,
For joy that we have waked, and found it but a dream."
[Footnote 65]