To Wordsworth.
What power is thine ! that at thy word, a beck1
Flows at my feet, a daisy blooms, o’erhead2
A lark hangs singing, fair green fields outspread3
That each wild flower beloved by thee doth deck ;4
Or that I trace along its pebbly bed5
Thy river wild ; or watch the cloudlets fleck6
Thy mountains with their shadows—comes the check,7
Magic with music ceased, and vision fled.8
Fled—but the heart is sweeter for the gift9
That, midst of all the smoke-grimed ugliness10
Of this dull northern town, avails to lift11
To where wild Nature revels ; so I bless12
Thy Master, Wordsworth, who did compensate13
For lack of beauty, bidding thee create !14