Lingering--and wandering on as loth to die"?

Read the first of these sonnets with the last--and then once more the
strains that come between--and you will be made to feel how various and
how vast beneath the sky are the regions set apart by the soul for
prayer and worship; and that all places become consecrated--the high and
the humble--the mean and the magnificent--in which Faith and Piety have
sought to hold communion with Heaven.

But they who duly worship God in temples made with hands, meet every
hour of their lives "Devotional Excitements" as they walk among His
works; and in the later poetry of Wordsworth these abound--age having
solemnised the whole frame of his being, that was always alive to
religious emotions--but more than ever now, as around his paths in the
evening of life longer fall the mysterious shadows. More fervid lines
have seldom flowed from his spirit in its devoutest mood, than some
awakened by the sounds and sights of a happy day in May--to him--though
no church-bell was heard--a Sabbath. His occasional poems are often felt
by us to be linked together by the finest affinities, which perhaps are
but affinities between the feelings they inspire. Thus we turn from
those lines to some on a subject seemingly very different, from a
feeling of such fine affinities--which haply are but those subsisting
between all things and thoughts that are pure and good. We hear in them
how the Poet, as he gazes on a Family that holds not the Christian
Faith, embraces them in the folds of Christian Love--and how religion as
well as nature sanctifies the tenderness that is yearning at his heart
towards them--"a Jewish Family"--who, though outcasts by Heaven's
decree, are not by Heaven, still merciful to man, left forlorn on earth.

How exquisite the stanzas composed in one of the Catholic Chapels in
Switzerland,--

"Doom'd as we are our native dust
To wet with many a bitter shower,
It ill befits us to disdain
The Altar, to deride the Fane,
Where patient sufferers bend, in trust
To win a happier hour.

I love, where spreads the village lawn,
Upon some knee-worn Cell to gaze;
Hail to the firm unmoving Cross,
Aloft, where pines their branches toss!
And to the Chapel far withdrawn,
That lurks by lonely ways!

Where'er we roam--along the brink
Of Rhine--or by the sweeping Po,
Through Alpine vale, or champaign wide,
_Whate'er we look on, at our s