n science, isolated and glorified, has produced a contempt, not only
for vulgar errors, but for the truths which are incapable of scientific
proof, then, as we see in the French Revolution, the wild beast in man
breaks from its den, and chaos returns. But all the noblest minds in
Europe looked for grand things in the aurora of this uprising of the
people. To the terrible disappointment that followed, we are indebted for
the training of Wordsworth to the priesthood of nature's temple. So was
he possessed with the hope of a coming deliverance for the nations, that
he spent many months in France during the Revolution. At length he was
forced to seek safety at home. Dejected even to hopelessness for a time,
he believed in nothing. How could there be a God that ruled in the earth
when such a rising sun of promise was permitted to set in such a sea!
But for man to worship himself is a far more terrible thing than that
blood should flow like water: the righteous plague of God allowed things
to go as they would for a time. But the power of God came upon
Wordsworth--I cannot say as it had never come before, but with an added
insight which made him recognize in the fresh gift all that he had known
and felt of such in the past. To him, as to Cowper, the benignities of
nature restored peace and calmness and hope--sufficient to enable him to
look back and gather wisdom. He was first troubled, then quieted, and
then taught. Such presence of the Father has been an infinitely more
active power in the redemption of men than men have yet become capable of
perceiving. The divine expressions of Nature, that is, the face of the
Father therein visible, began to heal the plague which the worship of
knowledge had bred. And the power of her teaching grew from comfort to
prayer, as will be seen in the poem I shall give. Higher than all that
Nature can do in the way of direct lessoning, is the production of such
holy moods as result in hope, conscience of duty, and supplication. Those
who have never felt it have to be told there is in her such a
power--yielding to which, the meek inherit the earth.

NINTH EVENING VOLUNTARY.

_Composed upon an evening of extraordinary splendour and beauty._

I.

Had this effulgence disappeared
With flying haste, I might have sent
Among the speechless clouds a look
Of blank astonishment;
But 'tis endued with power to stay,
And sanctify one closing day,
That frail Mortality may see--
W