TO WORDSWORTH.
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The voice of Nature in her changeful moods Breathes o'er the solemn waters as they flow, And 'mid the wavings of the ancient woods Murmurs, now filled with joy, now sad and low. Thou gentle poet, she hath tuned thy mind To deep accordance with the harmony That floats above the mountain summits free— A concert of Creation on the wind. And thy calm strains are breathed as though the dove And nightingale had given thee for thy dower The soul of music and the heart of love; And with a holy, tranquillising power They fall upon the spirit, like a gleam Of quiet star-light on a troubled stream. M.A. Hoare.