So saith the mild Braminical Wordsworth. Now it will be remembered that Wordsworth, in that glorious ode whence we extract the above, develops the Platonic idea (shall we call Platonic that which has been entertained by the wise and the _feeling_ of all times?) of a shadowy recollection of past and eternal existence in the profundities of the Divine Heart. 'It sounds forth here a mournful remembrance of a faded world of gods and heroes--as the echoing plaint for the loss of man's original, celestial state, and paradisiacal innocence.' And then we have those transcendent lines that come to us like aromatic breezes blowing from the Spice Islands: 'Hence in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea, Which brought us hither, Can in a moment travel thither, And see the Children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.' But, 'descending From these imaginative heights that yield Far-stretching views into eternity,'-- what have the golden age and Platonic _dicta_ to do with our word-ramble? A good deal. For we will endeavor to show that words, being the very sign-manual of man's convictions, contain the elements of what may throw light on both. To essay this: Why is it that we generally speak of death as a 'return,' or a 'return home'? And how is it that this same idea has so remarkably interwoven itself with the very warp and woof of our language and poetry?--so that in our fervency, we can sing: 'Jerusalem, my glorious _home_,' etc. Does not the very idea (not to mention the composition of the word) of a 'return' involve a previously having been in the place? And we can scarcely call that 'home' where we have never been before. So, that 'old Hebrew book' sublimely tells us that 'the spirit of the man _returneth_ to God who gave it.' Is it possible that these can be obscure intimations of that bygone time when WE were rocked in the bosom of the Divine consciousness? Perhaps.... And now if the reader will pardon a piece of moralizing, we would say that these expressions teach us in the most emphatic way that--'_This is not our rest_.' So that when we have dived into every mine of knowledge and drunk from every fountain of pleasure; when, with Dante, we arrive at the painful conclusion that 'Tutto l'oro, ch'e sotto la luna, E che gia fu, di queste anime stanche Non poterebbe farne posar una,' (since, indeed, the Finite can never gain entire satisfaction in itself)--we may not despair, but still the heart-throbbings, knowing that He who has--for a season--enveloped us in the mantle of this sleep-rounded life, and thrown around himself the drapery of the universe--spangling it with stars--will again take us back to his fatherly bosom.