'Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace; Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face; Flowers laugh before thee on their beds; And fragrance in thy footing treads; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; And the most ancient heavens through thee are fresh and strong.' I. 73. The two last [_sic_] lines seem to be utterly without meaning; at least we have no sort of conception in what sense _Duty_ can be said to keep the old skies _fresh_, and the stars from wrong. The next piece, entitled 'The Beggars,' may be taken, we fancy, as a touchstone of Mr Wordsworth's merit. There is something about it that convinces us it is a favourite of the author's; though to us, we will confess, it appears to be a very paragon of silliness and affectation. Our readers shall have the greater part of it. It begins thus. 'She had a tall man's height, or more; No bonnet screen'd her from the heat; A long drab-coloured cloak she wore, A mantle reaching to her feet: What other dress she had I could not know; Only she wore a cap that was as white as snow. 'Before me begging did she stand, Pouring out sorrows like a sea; Grief after grief:--on English land Such woes I knew could never be; And yet a boon I gave her; for the creature Was beautiful to see; a weed of glorious feature!' I. 77, 78. The poet, leaving this interesting person, falls in with two ragged boys at play, and 'like that woman's face as gold is like to gold.' Here is the conclusion of this memorable adventure. 'They bolted on me thus, and lo! Each ready with a plaintive whine; Said I, "Not half an hour ago Your mother has had alms of mine." "That cannot be," one answered, "She is dead." "Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread." "She has been dead, Sir, many a day." "Sweet boys, you're telling me a lie"; "It was your mother, as I say--" And in the twinkling of an eye, "Come, come!" cried one; and, without more ado, Off to some other play they both together flew.' I. 79. 'Alice Fell' is a performance of the same order. The poet, driving into Durham in a postchaise, hears a sort of scream; and, calling to the post-boy to stop, finds a little girl crying on the back of the vehicle. "My cloak!" the word was last and first, And loud and bitterly she wept, As if her very heart would burst; And down from off the chaise she leapt. "What ails you, child?" she sobb'd, "Look here!" I saw it in the wheel entangled, A weather beaten rag as e'er From any garden scarecrow dangled.' I. 85, 86. They then extricate the torn garment, and the good-natured bard takes the child into the carriage along with him. The narrative proceeds--