Chapter 405

"A jolly place," said he, "in times of old! But something ails it now: the spot is cursed." Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

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_Tintern Abbey_.

Sensations sweet Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.

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That best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love.

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That blessed mood, In which the burden of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened.

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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.

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The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colors and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm By thoughts supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye. But hearing often-times The still, sad music of humanity.

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_To a Skylark_.

Type of the wise who soar, but never roam; True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.

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_Peter Bell_.

Prologue. St. 1.

There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.

Prologue. St. 27.

The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me--her tears, her mirths Her humblest mirth and tears.