It is the obscurity spread
before it that colours the prospect of life with hope, as it is the
cloud which reflects the rainbow. There is no occasion to resort to
any mystical union and transmission of feeling through different
states of being to account for the romantic enthusiasm of youth; nor
to plant the root of hope in the grave, nor to derive it from the
skies. Its root is in the heart of man: it lifts its head above the
stars. Desire and imagination are inmates of the human breast. The
heaven 'that lies about us in our infancy' is only a new world, of
which we know nothing but what we wish it to be, and believe all
that we wish. In youth and boyhood, the world we live in is the
world of desire, and of fancy: it is experience that brings us down
to the world of reality. What is it that in youth sheds a dewy light
round the evening star? That makes the daisy look so bright? That
perfumes the hyacinth? That embalms the first kiss of love? It is
the delight of novelty, and the seeing no end to the pleasure that
we fondly believe is still in store for us. The heart revels in the
luxury of its own thoughts, and is unable to sustain the weight of
hope and love that presses upon it.--The effects of the passion of
love alone might have dissipated Mr. Wordsworth's theory, if he
means anything more by it than an ingenious and poetical allegory.
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