Among the pictures which Wordsworth has left us of the influence of
Nature on human character, _Peter Bell_ may be taken as marking one
end, and the poems on _Lucy_ the other end of the scale. Peter Bell
lives in the face of Nature untouched alike by her terror and her
charm; Lucy's whole being is moulded by Nature's self; she is
responsive to sun and shadow, to silence and to sound, and melts
almost into an impersonation of a Cumbrian valley's peace. Between
these two extremes how many are the possible shades of feeling! In
_Ruth_, for instance, the point impressed upon us is that Nature's
influence is only salutary so long as she is herself, so to say, in
keeping with man; that when her operations reach that degree of
habitual energy and splendour at which our love for her passes into
fascination and our admiration into bewilderment, then the fierce
and irregular stimulus consorts no longer with the growth of a
temperate virtue.
The wind, the tempest roaring high,
The tumult of a tropic sky,
Might well be dangerous food
For him, a youth to whom was given
So much of earth, so much of heaven,
And such impetuous blood.
And a contrasting touch recalls the healing power of those gentle
and familiar presences which came to Ruth in her stormy madness with
visitations of momentary calm.
Pages:
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190