I am indebted to Dr. Taylor of Penrith for the following note in reference to these "Roman Antiquities" at Old Penrith:--"I have great pleasure in giving you what information I can, concerning the Roman Station of Old Penrith. It is called 'Petriana' by Camden, but most archaeologists now allocate it in the '2nd Iter,' as the Station 'Voreda'--on the road between York and Carlisle. This road passes over Stanemoor, by Bowes, Brough, Kirkbythore, Brougham, and Plumpton Wall (or Voreda), to Lugovallum or Carlisle. The Roman Camps are visible at all these places, and the old Roman road is recognisable in many parts. This Old Penrith, Plumpton Wall, or Voreda, is a camp of the third class. At a time, probably about the period which Wordsworth alludes to, several Roman stones and altars were dug up at Voreda, and are now deposited in Lowther Castle. Wordsworth had relations living in Penrith, whom he used to visit occasionally, and it is probable that after a visit to Voreda, which is about six miles from here, he wrote the Sonnet alluded to. The 'Hart-horn Tree' referred to in the 'Legend of the Hunt of the Stag' stood in the park of Whinfell, in the parish of Brougham, but has disappeared for many years."--ED. FOOTNOTES: [735] 1837. ... insatiate ... 1835. Our fond regrets, all that our hopes would grasp C. XXVI APOLOGY[736] FOR THE FOREGOING POEMS No more: the end is sudden and abrupt, Abrupt--as without preconceived design Was the beginning; yet the several Lays Have moved in order, to each other bound By a continuous and acknowledged tie 5 Though unapparent--like those Shapes distinct That yet survive ensculptured on the walls Of palaces, or temples,[737] 'mid the wreck Of famed Persepolis;[738] each following each, As might beseem a stately embassy, In set array; these bearing in their hands Ensign of civil power, weapon of war, Or gift to be presented at the throne Of the Great King; and others, as they go In priestly vest, with holy offerings charged, 15 Or leading victims drest for sacrifice. Nor will the Power we serve, that sacred Power, The Spirit of humanity, disdain A[739] ministration humble but sincere, That from a threshold loved by every Muse 20 Its impulse took--that sorrow-stricken door, Whence, as a current from its fountain-head, Our thoughts have issued, and our feelings flowed, Receiving, willingly or not, fresh strength From kindred sources; while around us sighed 25 (Life's three first seasons having passed away) Leaf-scattering winds; and hoar-frost sprinklings fell (Foretaste of winter) on the moorland heights; And every day brought with it tidings new Of rash change, ominous for the public weal. 30 Hence, if dejection has[740] too oft encroached