And the power of her teaching grew from comfort to prayer, as will be seen in the poem I shall give.

Higher than all that Nature can do in the way of direct lessoning, is the production of such holy moods as result in hope, conscience of duty, and supplication.

Those who have never felt it have to be told there is in her such a power--yielding to which, the meek inherit the earth.
NINTH EVENING VOLUNTARY.
_Composed upon an evening of extraordinary splendour and beauty._ I.
Had this effulgence disappeared With flying haste, I might have sent Among the speechless clouds a look Of blank astonishment; But 'tis endued with power to stay, And sanctify one closing day, That frail Mortality may see-- What is ?--ah no, but what _can_ be! Time was when field and watery cove With modulated echoes rang, While choirs of fervent angels sang Their vespers in the grove; Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height, Warbled, for heaven above and earth below, Strains suitable to both .-- Such holy rite, Methinks, if audibly repeated now From hill or valley could not move Sublimer transport, purer love, Than doth this silent spectacle--the gleam-- The shadow--and the peace supreme! II.
No sound is uttered,--but a deep And solemn harmony pervades The hollow vale from steep to steep, And penetrates the glades.
Far distant images draw nigh, Called forth by wondrous potency Of beamy radiance, that imbues Whate'er it strikes with gem-like hues.
In vision exquisitely clear, Herds range along the mountain side, And glistening antlers are descried, And gilded flocks appear.
Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve! But long as godlike wish or hope divine Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe That this magnificence is wholly thine! From worlds nor quickened by the sun A portion of the gift is won; An intermingling of heaven's pomp is spread On ground which British shepherds tread! III.
And if there be whom broken ties Afflict, or injuries assail, Yon hazy ridges to their eyes Present a glorious scale[162] Climbing suffused with sunny air, To stop--no record hath told where; And tempting Fancy to ascend, And with immortal spirits blend! -- Wings at my shoulders seem to play! But, rooted here, I stand and gaze On those bright steps that heavenward raise Their practicable way.
Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad, And see to what fair countries ye are bound! And if some traveller, weary of his road, Hath slept since noontide on the grassy ground, Ye genii, to his covert speed, And wake him with such gentle heed As may attune his soul to meet the dower Bestowed on this transcendent hour.
IV.
Such hues from their celestial urn Were wont to stream before mine eye Where'er it wandered in the morn Of blissful infancy.
This glimpse of glory, why renewed?
Nay, rather speak with gratitude; For, if a vestige of those gleams Survived, 'twas only in my dreams.
Dread Power! whom peace and calmness serve No less than nature's threatening voice, If aught unworthy be my choice, From THEE if I would swerve; Oh, let thy grace remind me of the light Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored; Which, at this moment, on my waking sight Appears to shine, by miracle restored: My soul, though yet confined to earth, Rejoices in a second birth! -- 'Tis past; the visionary splendour fades; And night approaches with her shades.
Although I have mentioned Wordsworth before Coleridge because he was two years older, yet Coleridge had much to do with the opening of Wordsworth's eyes to such visions; as, indeed, more than any man in our times, he has opened the eyes of the English people to see wonderful things.

There is little of a directly religious kind in his poetry; yet we find in him what we miss in Wordsworth, an inclined plane from the revelation in nature to the culminating revelation in the Son of Man.
Somehow, I say, perhaps because we find it in his prose, we feel more of this in Coleridge's verse.
Coleridge is a sage, and Wordsworth is a seer; yet when the sage sees, that is, when, like the son of Beor, he falls into a trance having his eyes open, or, when feeling and sight are one and philosophy is in abeyance, the ecstasy is even loftier in Coleridge than in Wordsworth.

In their highest moods they seem almost to change places--Wordsworth to become sage, and Coleridge seer.