



still larger and more awful truths ; a sense 

 of wonder and awe makes the night solemn 

 with mystery. Who does not recall some 

 starlit night which suddenly, alone on a 

 country road, perhaps, seemed to flash its 

 splendour into his very soul and lift all life 

 for a moment to a sublime height? The 

 trees stood silent down the long road, no 

 other footstep echoed far or near, one was 

 alone with Nature and at one with her; 

 suspecting no strange nearness of her pres- 

 ence, no sudden revelation of her inner self, 

 and yet in the very mood in which these 

 were both possible and natural. The boy 

 of Wordsworth's imagination would stand 

 beneath the trees " when the earliest stars 

 began to move along the edges of the 

 hills," and, with fingers interwoven, blow 

 mimic hootings to the owls: 



And they would shout 

 Across the watery vale, and shout again, 

 Responsive to his call with quivering peals, 

 And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud, 

 Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse wild 

 Of mirth and jocund din. And when it chanced 

 That pauses of deep silence mock'd his skill, 



S7 



* 



