some small degree enlarge our feelings of reverence for our species, and our knowledge of human nature, by showing that our best qualities are possessed by men whom we are too apt to consider, not with reference to the points in which they resemble us, but to those in which they manifestly differ from us. It is thus the honorable the Christian aim of much of Wordsworth's poetry, to persuade mankind of their common human-heartednessto correct whatever moral evil results from artificial divisions of society to disclose the natural dignity of humble life, and to create a sympathy with it in other ranks. The broken fellowship of our race, is one of the sorrows of humanity prompting the pathetic lament-"Alas! what differs more than man from man!" in the last book of the Excursion.

It is seen then that Wordsworth's predilection for the departments of daily life is not a mere intellectual choice of an apt subject, but a moral impulse, and when it is vindicated on principles of taste alone, the deeper and worthier motive is lost sight of. There is something noble in the fervor and fearlessness with which he embarks in the cause of the simple forms of humanity :

"Long have I loved what I behold,

The night that calms, the day that cheers;

The common growth of mother-earth

Suffices me-her tears, her mirth,

Her humblest mirth and tears.

The dragon's wing, the magic ring,
I shall not covet for my dower,
If I along that lowly way
With sympathetic heart may stray
And with a soul of power.

These given, what more need I desire

To stir, to soothe, or elevate?

What nobler marvels than the mind
May in life's daily prospect find,

May find or there create ?".

Peter Bell.

It is, however, a false, because a partial, estimate of Wordsworth's poetry that it is exclusively devoted to humble life. Its purpose is more comprehensive; first, to rescue from neglect the forlorn conditions, and then, to create an uninterrupted sympathy along the whole scale of society-feelings that can stoop

as well as soar:

"Glorious is the blending

Of light affections climbing or descending
Along a scale of light and life, with cares
Alternate; carrying holy thoughts and prayers
Up to the sovereign seat of the Most High;
Descending to the worm in charity;

Like those good Angels whom a dream of night
Gave, in the field of Luz, to Jacob's sight;
All, while he slept, treading the pendant stairs
Earthward or heavenward, radiant messengers,
That, with a perfect will in one accord

Of strict obedience, served the Almighty Lord;
And with untired humility forebore

To speed their errand by the wings they wore.” Humanity. Wordsworth's poetic zeal for the character of the poor is full of its moral uses. There is, for instance, no more hackneyed palliation for the want of charity than the demerit of those by whom it is solicited; our weak affections grow weaker still by disappointment, and the heart, almost instinctively, contracts itself on the discovery of bounty ill requited, and misplaced compassion. This is a common plea of selfishness, and a common refuge from ingratitude. Now, when the Poet vindicates the sensibilities of the lowly, he does a service — not to them alone, but to all humanity by fostering the natural love between man and man. It is a precious truth, that the heart of humble life is quickly susceptible to kindness. On more than one occasion in writings on the habits of the poor, have we seen careful observation bearing unintended testimony to this principle in Wordsworth's poems, and the touching stanza closing the little ballad of "Simon Lee" again and again recalled and quoted:

"I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds

With coldness still returning;

Alas! the gratitude of men

Hath oftener left me mourning."

What higher purpose need poetry seek, than that which is a pride of Wordsworth's spirit- the assertion of the indestructible dignity of human nature. It is apparent in the tear-moving story of the "Deserted Cottage," and the Church yard tales in the Excursion, as well as in many of the small poems. There is gospel love in his heart when he tells us,

""Tis Nature's law

That none, the meanest of created things,

Of forms created the most vile and brute,
The dullest or most noxious, should exist
Divorced from good-a spirit and pulse of good,
A life and soul, to every mode of being
Inseparably linked. Then be assured

That least of all can aught—that ever owned
The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime
Which man is born to sink, howe'er depressed,
So low as to be scorned without a sin;
Without offence to God cast out of view;
Like the dry remnant of a garden flower
Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement
Worn out and worthless."

The Old Cumberland Beggar.

In this poem, designed to show the moral value of a being whose active usefulness had wholly ceased, there is an exquisite trait of Wordsworth's genius. The portrait is minutely elaborated, of one in the last stages of animal decay- the pulses of life almost stopped even the passive emotions scarce recognised in a word, almost kindred to the dust that is hardly disturbed by his feet. Now, it is not enough to discover the negative attributes of such a shell of humanity- the unconscious instrument to inspire the hearts of others with impulses of kindness — but Wordsworth confers on this very shadow of a dream," an endowment, which, while it gives just a ray of human dignity, is in perfect harmony with the picture of utter human helplessness : "The aged Man

Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone
That overlays the pile; and from a bag

All white with flour, the dole of village dames,
He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one;
And scanned them with a fixed and serious look
Of idle computation. In the sun,

Upon the second step of that small pile,
Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills,
He sat, and ate his food in solitude;
And ever, scattered from his palsied hand,
That, still attempting to prevent the waste,
Was battled still, the crumbs in little showers
Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds,
Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal,
Approached within the length of half his staff.”

And the beauty of the Poet's benevolence shines forth in the closing aspiration, that the old man—a burthen to the earth

only in the thoughts of heart-swoln pride, and of " that half-wisdom half-experience gives" - may still in freedom live, the benefactor of inferior creatures:

"let him, where and when he will, sit down

Beneath the trees, or on a grassy bank

By highway side, and with the little birds
Share his chance-gathered meal; and, finally,
As in the eye of Nature he has lived,

So in the eye of Nature let him die!"

There are two poems-"The Two April Mornings," and "The Fountain" of which we desire to speak, without violating their beauty by broken extracts. Their indefinable charm we scarcely know how to explain, except by a conviction expressed by the Poet himself, in a note to the Excursion, that "vigorous human-heartedness is the constituent principle of true taste." The grace with which homely life is arrayed - the sympathetic power of the simplest emotions- the communion with nature and the independence of artificial excitement, do not adequately explain their effect. Inimitably they show the delicate ebb and flow of human feeling the mysterious visitations to the heart and oh! how the memory of the dead comes back to us, we know not whence.

In Wordsworth's highly cultivated affection for human uature we may look for that reverence of womanhood, which, it is our belief, is an inseparable accompaniment of all manly genius. It is part of his comprehensive scheme for elevating and purifying humanity, to throw the light of his imagination upon the meek majesty of the female heart-its faithfulness-its fortitude its heroism. Now the sanity of Wordsworth's genius admits of no romantic exaggeration or vapid sentimentality on this subject, nor does it correspond with his mood of thought to idolize a beauty that is perishable. While it is his delight to show "how divine a thing a woman may be made !" he regards her moving in the orbit of domestic life—not as enshrined by a superstitious chivalry, but the being that God gave, because it was not good for man to be alone. It is a worthy, and no light effort of poetic genius, to take from the extravagances of romance all that is attractive, and to blend it with the daily-household worth of womanhood, and thus preserving its beauty, to reveal the spiritual and the practical, which in their harmony make up the perfection of female loveliness. Such is the idea of this pic

"She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn

From May-time's brightest, loveliest dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

I saw her upon nearer view,

A Spirit, yet a Woman, too!

Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorroirs, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command ;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright

With something of an angel-light."

Into his pictures of female gracefulness, Wordsworth incorporates his love of external nature. In one finely imaginative piece, the processes are described by which Nature moulds the maiden's form and face by silent sympathy with the motions and appearance of "mute, insensate things," and so makes "a Lady of her own." It seems too, as if to give permanence to fleeting charms, that they are illustrated by the less perishable forms of beauty on the earth and in the sky as in that sweet stanza descriptive of a girlish loveliness:

"No fountain from its rocky cave
E'er tripped with foot so free;
She seemed as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea."