How long to morning? Can any tell? How long since the warning On our ears fell? The bridegroom cometh Know we not well? Are we not ready, Our packet made, Our hearts steady, Last words said? Must we still eat The bread we have spurned? Must we rekindle The faggots we've burned? Must we go out By the poor man's gate? Die by degrees, Not by new fate? Is there no road This way, my friend? Is there no road Without any end? Have you not seen In ancient times Pilgrims go by here Toward other climes, With shining faces Youthful and strong Mounting this hill With speech and with song? Oh, my good sir, I know not the ways; Little my knowledge, Though many my days. When I have slumbered, I have heard sounds As travellers passing Over my grounds. 'Twas a sweet music Wafted them by; I could not tell If far off or nigh. Unless I dreamed it, This was of yore, But I never told it To mortal before; Never remembered But in my dreams What to me waking A miracle seems. If you will give of your pulse or your grain, We will rekindle those flames again. Here will we tarry, still without doubt, Till a miracle putteth that fire out. * * * * * At midnight's hour I raised my head. The owls were seeking for their bread; The foxes barked, impatient still At their wan [?] fate they bear so ill. I thought me of eternities delayed And of commands but half obeyed. The night wind rustled through the glade, As if a force of men there staid; The word was whispered through the ranks, And every hero seized his lance. The word was whispered through the ranks, Advance! To live to a good old age such as the ancients reached, serene and contented, dignifying the life of man, leading a simple, epic country life in these days of confusion and turmoil,—that is what Wordsworth has done. Retaining the tastes and the innocence of his youth. There is more wonderful talent, but nothing so cheering and world-famous as this.