No more; Time halts not in his noiseless march—
Nor turns, nor winds, as doth the liquid flood;
Life slips from underneath us, like that arch
Of airy workmanship whereon we stood,[574]
Earth stretched below, heaven in our neighbourhood.
Go forth, my little Book! pursue thy way;
Go forth, and please the gentle and the good;
Nor be a whisper stifled, if it say
That treasures, yet untouched, may grace some future Lay.
Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal of this Continental Tour contains the modest entry, made at "Paris, Monday, Oct. 2nd.—... I shall here close these very imperfect notices, commenced at D.'s request; and with a notion, on my part, that they might be useful when she wrote her Journal: but soon finding that, with such a view, mine was a superfluous labour, I should not have had the resolution to go on, except at Wm.'s desire, and from the feeling that my Daughter, and perhaps her brothers, might one day find pleasure, should they ever have the good fortune to trace our steps, in recognising objects their Mother had seen."