nt veil with light divine,
And, through the turnings intricate of verse,
Present themselves as objects recognised,
In flashes, and with glory not their own. 605

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: This quotation I am unable to trace.--Ed.]

[Footnote B: Compare Emily Bronte's statement of the same, in the last
verse she wrote:

'Though Earth and Man were gone,
And suns and universes ceased to be,
And Thou wert left alone,
Every existence would exist in Thee.

There is not room for Death,
Nor atom that His might could render void;
Thou--THOU art Being and Breath,
And what THOU art may never be destroyed.'

Ed.]

[Footnote C:

"Because she would then become farther and farther removed from the
source of essential life and being, diffused instead of concentrated."

(William Davies).--Ed.]

[Footnote D: Mr. A. J. Duffield, the translator of Don Quixote, wrote me
the following letter on Wordsworth and Cervantes, which I transcribe in
full.

"So far as I can learn Wordsworth had not read any critical work on
Don Quixote before he wrote the fifth book of 'The Prelude', [a] nor
for that matter had any criticism of the master-piece of Cervantes
then appeared. Yet Wordsworth,

'by patient exercise
Of study and hard thought,'

has given us not only a most poetical insight into the real nature of
the 'Illustrious Hidalgo of La Mancha'; he has shown us that it was a
nature compacted of the madman and the poet, and this in language so
appropriate, that the consideration of it cannot fail to give pleasure
to all who have found a reason for weighing Wordsworth's words.

"He demands

'Oh! why hath not the Mind
Some element to stamp her image on?'

then falls asleep, 'his senses yielding to the sultry air,' and he
sees before him

'stretched a boundless plain
Of sandy wilderness, all black and void,
And as I looked around, distress and fear
Came creeping over me, when at my side,
Close at my side, an uncouth shape appeared
Upon a dromedary, mounted high.
He seemed an Arab ...'

Here we have the plains of Montiel, and the poet realising all that
Don Quixote felt on that day of July, 'the hottest of the year,' when
he first set out on his quest and met with nothing worth recording.

'The