WORDSWORTH.

Not Wordsworth’ s genius, Pestalozzi’ s love,

The stream have sounded of clear infancy.

Baptismal waters from the Head above

These babes I foster daily are to me;

I dip my pitcher in these living springs

And draw, from depths below, sincerity;

Unsealed, mine eyes behold all outward things

Arrayed in splendors of divinity.

What mount of vision can with mine compare?

Not Roman Jove nor yet Olympian Zeus

Darted from loftier ether through bright air

One spark of holier fire for human use.

Glad tidings thence these angels downward bring,

As at their birth the heavenly choirs do sing.