And in the _Sonnet on Calais Beach_ the sea is regarded in the same
way, with a sympathy (if I may so say) which needs no help from an
imaginary impersonation, but strikes back to a sense of kinship
which seems antecedent to the origin of man.
It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free;
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea:
Listen! The mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder--everlastingly.
A comparison, made by Wordsworth himself, of his own method of
observing Nature with Scott's expresses in less mystical language
something of what I am endeavouring to say.
"He expatiated much to me one day," says Mr. Aubrey de
Vere, "as we walked among the hills above Grasmere, on the
mode in which Nature had been described by one of the most
justly popular of England's modern poets--one for whom he
preserved a high and affectionate respect. 'He took pains,'
Wordsworth said; 'he went out with his pencil and note-book,
and jotted down whatever struck him most--a river rippling
over the sands, a ruined tower on a rock above it, a promontory,
and a mountain-ash waving its red berries.
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