Or taught my soul to fancy ought
But a white, celestial thought;
When yet I had not walked above
A mile or two from my first love,
And, looking back, at that short space
Could see a glimpse of his bright face;
When on some gilded cloud or flower
My gazing soul would dwell an hour,
And in those weaker glories spy
Some shadows of eternity;
Before I taught my tongue to wound
My conscience with a sinful sound,
Or had the black art to dispense
A several sin to every sense;
But felt through all this fleshly dress
Bright shoots of everlastingness.
O how I long to travel back,
And tread again that ancient track!
That I might once more reach that plain
Where first I left my glorious train,
From whence the enlightened spirit sees
That shady city of palm-trees.
But ah! my soul with too much stay
Is drunk, and staggers in the way!
Some men a forward motion love,
But I by backward steps would move;
And when this dust falls to the urn,
In that state I came return.

Let any one who is well acquainted with Wordsworth's grand ode--that on
the _Intimations of Immortality_--turn his mind to a comparison between
that and this: he will find the resemblance remarkable. Whether _The
Retreat_ suggested the form of the _Ode_ is not of much consequence, for
the _Ode_ is the outcome at once and essence of all Wordsworth's
theories; and whatever he may have drawn from _The Retreat_ is glorified
in the _Ode_. Still it is interesting to compare them. Vaughan believes
with Wordsworth and some other great men that this is not our first stage
of existence; that we are haunted by dim memories of a former state. This
belief is not necessary, however, to sympathy with the poem, for whether
the present be our first life or no, we have come from God, and bring
from him conscience and a thousand godlike gifts.--"Happy those early
days," Vaughan begins: "There was a time," begins Wordsworth, "when the
earth seemed apparelled in celestial light." "Before I understood this
place," continues Vaughan: "Blank misgivings of a creature moving about
in worlds not realized," says Wordsworth. "A white celestial thought,"
says Vaughan: "Heaven lies about us in our infancy," says Wordsworth. "A
mile or two off, I could see his face," says Vaughan: "Trailing clouds of
glory do we come," says Wordsworth. "On some gilded cloud or flower, my
gazing soul would dwell an hour," says Vaughan: "The hour of splen