clergyman. He is the
Head of the Lake School, just as his brother is Master of Trinity.
Nothing in this life and in this world has he had to do, beneath sun,
moon, and stars, but

"To murmur by the living brooks
A music sweeter than their own."

What has been the result? Seven volumes (oh! why not seven more?) of
poetry, as beautiful as ever charmed the ears of Pan and of Apollo. The
earth--the middle air--the sky--the heaven--the heart, mind, and soul of
man--are "the haunt and main region of his song." In describing external
nature as she is, no poet perhaps has excelled Wordsworth--not even
Thomson; in imbuing her and making her pregnant with spiritualities,
till the mighty mother teems with "beauty far more beauteous" than she
had ever rejoiced in till such communion--he excels all the brotherhood.
Therein lies his especial glory, and therein the immortal evidences of
the might of his creative imagination. All men at times "muse on nature
with a poet's eye,"--but Wordsworth ever--and his soul has grown more
and more religious from such worship. Every rock is an altar--every
grove a shrine. We fear that there will be sectarians even in this
Natural Religion till the end of time. But he is the High Priest of
Nature--or, to use his own words, or nearly so, he is the High Priest
"in the metropolitan temple built in the heart of mighty poets." But has
he--even he--ever written a Great Poem? If he has--it is not "The
Excursion." Nay, "The Excursion" is not a Poem. It is a Series of Poems,
all swimming in the light of poetry; some of them sweet and simple, some
elegant and graceful, some beautiful and most lovely, some of "strength
and state," some majestic, some magnificent, some sublime. But though it
has an opening, it has no beginning; you can discover the middle only by
the numerals on the page; and the most, serious apprehensions have been
very generally entertained that it has no end. While Pedlar, Poet, and
Solitary breathe the vital air, may "The Excursion," stop where it will,
be renewed; and as in its present shape it comprehends but a Three Days'
Walk, we have but to think of an Excursion of three weeks, three months,
or three years, to have some idea of Eternity. Then the life of man is
not always limited to the term of threescore and ten years. What a
Journal might it prove at last! Poetry in profusion till the land
overflowed; but whether in one volume, as now, or in fifty, in future,
not a Great P