IS»! III iMlli lijljilill! illill i ||||!|iiii||i|g^ I J i, i ! 'il'M ^w 111.,..! .1 li'iii'ih'iii'! ,. [1 ill', CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY THE WORDSWORTH COLLECTION FOUNDED BY CYNTHIA MORGAN ST. JOHN THE GIFT OF VICTOR EMANUEL OF THE CLASS OF I919 /( 6. H- ft it BRITISH POETS OF THE / 'n*«-- "/ NINETEENTH CENTURY SEIvKCTlONS FROM WORDSWORTH, COLERIDGE, SCOTT, BYRON, SHELLEY, KEATS, LANDOR, TENNYSON, ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING, ROBERT BROWNING, CLOUGH, ARNOLD, ROSSETTI, MORRIS, SWINBURNE EDITED, WITH REFERENCE LISTS AND NOTES BY CURTIS HIDDEN PAGE, Ph.D. COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY 01) TZoXX dXXa Tzoko BENJAMIN H. SANBORN & CO., BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO p^ //^ ^^ ^ Copyright, 1904, By CURTIS HIDDEN PAGE. All 7'is:lits reserved. PREFACE This volume makes no attempt to do what has already been so excel- lently done in Mr. Stedman's Victorian Anthology, Ward's English Poets, and other similar collections. It is not a new Anthology of nineteenth century poetry. Instead of giving a few " gems," or "flowers " from each one of several hundred authors, it includes only the fifteen chief poets of the century. From each one of these, however, it attempts to give a full and adequate selection, sufiicient really to represent the man and his work. The book has been planned, primarily, to give in one volume all the material which should be in the hands of the student for a College or University course on the British poets of the nineteenth century. I have therefore tried to include, first, all the poems which would be given as prescribed reading in such a course ; and, second, a thorough guide to the use of a well-equipped college or public library, in connection with that reading. I hope the book may also be found useful for more general courses on English Literature, for which there is no other collection cov- ering exactly this part of the field ; and for any reader who wishes to pos- sess in one volume the best work of the chief nineteenth century poets — " Infinite riches in a little room." The selections are very full, and for the most part consist of complete poems. They are designed both to give all the best of each poet's work, and also (except for Mrs. Browning) to give some representation of each important period and class of his work. Long poems are usually given entire, and space has been found for Byron's Manfred, Shelley's Prome- theus Unbound, Scott's Marmion, Coleridge's Ancient 3Iari7ier and ChHs- tabel, Keats' Hyperion, Tennyson's Guinevere and Morte d' Arthur, Browning's Pippa Passes, Mrs. Browning's Sonnets from the Portuguese, Arnold's Sohrab and Rustum, Morris's Atalanta's Race, etc., etc. In general, extracts from long poems are not given, except in the case of single cantos which are complete in themselves, like the last two cantos of (Jhilde Harold ; or lyrics, such as the songs from Tennyson's dramas, or the Hymns to Pan and Diana in Keats' Endymion, which, when de- tached, make perfect and independent poems. An exception has been vi PREFACE made in the case of Byron's master- work, Don Juan, which of course could not be given in full, and which has been represented by long passages. The amount of space given to an author does not necessarily corres]pond with his relative importance or rank as a poet. Some authors can best be represented by their shorter poems, while others — Scott, for instance, and William Morris — could not be fairly represented at all unless one of their longer poems were given. Browning and Byron could not be repre- sented without some complete example of their poems in dramatic form, while Tennyson's drama does not hold the same relative importance in his work. Byron, in particular, cannot really be known except through his longer poems ; some example must necessarily be given of the series of Oriental Romances, which, with Childe Harold, won him his early fame ; at least one Canto of Childe Harold must be given complete ; an example of the great Satires must be known in the V-ision of Judgment ; and finally the whole man is summed up in the different aspects of Don Juan. Wordsworth, on the other hand, has less space than poets of in- ferior rank ; but he is represented by a hundred complete poems, the lar- gest number given for any author. The selection of shorter poems has been made generously inclusive. For Browning, more than two-thirds of the Dramatic Lyrics, and more than half of the Dramatic Romances and Men and Women, as well as representative poems from the other collections, are given. For Keats, the entire contents (excei^t one poem) of the volume of 1820 is given, as well as full representation of his earlier volumes and of the posthumous poems. I have included nearly eighty poems from Landor, and hope that this — I think the first — representative selection from his verse may serve to make his work as a poet more familiarly known, in the sheer beauty of its simplicity and condensation. No apology need be made, I hope, for the extent of the Shelley selections, since his Alastor, Lines Written among the Euganean Hills, Epipsijcliidion, The Sensitive Plant, Adonais, etc., as well as the Prometheus Unbound, make his work take a large amount of space in proportion to the number of titles. For Rossetti, I have given more than two-thirds of the sonnets from the House of Life, as well as Sister Helen, The Stream^s Secret, Love's JSFocturn, The Pur- den of Nineveh, The King's Tragedy, and some thirty or forty of the shorter poems. 1 hope that the space devoted to him will be found to represent a true judgment of his great permanent value as a poet ; and that the same will be true of the still larger amount of space given to the poet most different from him, Matthew Arnold. PREFACE vii A principal feature of the volume is the classified Reference Lists. I have tried to indicate, for each poet, the standard editions, other import- ant editions, the best one- volume editions, the standard biography, the best brief biography, and all the important essays. The critical essays are usually classed in two paragraphs, and, throughout, the most import- ant books or essays are indicated by asterisks. The Notes have been made as few and brief as possible ; and critical comment, except that of the poet himself, or, in a few cases, of other poets, has been excluded from them. They give only essential facts re- garding the poems, or comment and explanation added by the poet him- self. The poems are arranged in chronological order under each author, ac- cording to the dates of writing when these are known, and in other, cases according to the dates of publication. The dates are given after each poem, dates of writing being indicated by italic figures, and dates of pub- lication by upright figures. It is a pleasure to acknowledge the ready generosity with which critics and teachers have given their help in making the selections. My thanks are due, in particular, to Mr. Paul E. More of the N'ew York livening Post, to Professor Stoddard of New York University, Professor Trent and Professor Odell of Columbia University, Professor Baker and Pro- fessor Sykes of Teachers' College, Professor Van Dyke of Princeton, and Professor Mott of the College of the City of New York. It can hardly be hoped that such a book as this will be entirely free from errors, especially in the reference lists and dates. Any corrections will be gratefully received. Most of the proof has been carefully read three timijs, but — as as my friend Ronsard hath it — Tit excuseras les f antes de Vimprimeur, car tous les yeux d'' Argus ri'y verraient assez clair. CuKTis Hidden Page. Columbia University, September, 1904. TABLE OF CONTENTS' WORDSWORTH PAGE 1 List of References LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW- TREE 4 THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN 5 A NIGHT-PIECE 5 WE ARE SEVEN 6 SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN 6 LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING 7 TO MY SISTER 8 A WHIRL-BLAST FROM BEHIND THE HILL 8 THE TABLES TURNED 9 LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY 9 THE SIMPLON PASS 12 INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS. ... 12 THERE WAS A BOY 18 NUTTING 13 STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I KNOWN 14 SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS 14 I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN.. 15 THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND SHOWER 15 A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL 15 A poet's EPITAPH. . 15 MATTHEW 16 THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS 17 THE FOUNTAIN : A CONVERSATION .... 17 LUCY GRAY ; OR, SOLITUDE 18 MICHAEL : A PASTORAL POEM 19 THE SPARROW'S NEST 26 MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD. 26 WRITTEN IN MARCH 26 TO THE SMALL CELANDINE 27 TO THE SAME FLOWER 27 RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE 28 I GRIEVED FOR BUONAPARTE 30 COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE. 31 COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS. . 31 IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND FREE 31 ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN PAGE TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE 32 NEAR DOVER, SEPTEMBER 1802 32 WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER 1802. 32 LONDON, 1802 33 GREAT MEN HAVE BEEN AMONG US 33 IT IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT OF 33 WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY 33 TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE, SIX YEARS OLD 33 TO THE DAISY 34 TO THE SAME FLOWER 35 TO THE DAISY 35 THE GREEN LINNET 35 YEW-TREES 36 AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS 36 TO A HIGHLAND GIRL 37 STEPPING WESTWARD 38 THE SOLITARY REAPER 38 YARROW UNVISITED 39 ODE: INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY.. 39 TO THE CUCKOO 42 SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. ... 42 I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD. ... 43 THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET 43 ODE TO DUTY 44 TO A SKYLARK 45 ELEGIAC STANZAS, SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE 45 TO A YOUNG LADY 46 FRENCH REVOLUTION, AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS COM- MENCEMENT 46 CHARACTER OF THE flAPPY WARRIOR. 47 YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN ECHO. ... 48 NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR CONVENT'S NARROW ROOM 48 PERSONAL TALK 49 THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US ... . 50 TO SLEEP 50 NOVEMBER, 1806 50 THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUB- JUGATION OF SWITZERLAND 50 HERE PAUSE : THE POET CLAIMS AT LEAST THIS PRAISE 51 LAODAMIA 51 YARROW VISITED 54 TO B. R. HAYDON 55 NOVEMBER 1 55 REPUBLIC 31 1 The poems of each author are arranged in chronological order. Exact dates will be found at the end of each poem. ix TABLE OF CONTENTS SURPRISED BY JOY— IMPATIENT AS THE WIND 55 HAST THOU SEEN WITH FLASH INCES- SANT 55 COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF EX- TRAORDINARY SPLENDOR AND BEAUTY 55 SEPTEMBER, 1819 56 AFTER-THOUGHT 57 MUTABILITY 57 INSIDE OF king's COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE 57 MEMORY 58 TO A SKYLARK 58 SCORN NOT THE SONNET 58 THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK 59 YARROW REVISITED 59 THE TROSACHS 60 IF THOU INDEED DERIVE THY LIGHT FROM HEAVEN 61 IF THIS GREAT WORLD OF JOY AND PAIN 61 "there!" SAID a STRIPLING, POINT- ING WITH MEET PRIDE 61 MOST SWEET IT IS WITH UNUPLIFTED 61 EYES 61 EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH OP JAMES HOGG 61 A POET ! — HE HATH PUT HIS HEART TO SCHOOL 62 SO FAIR, SO SWEET, WITHAL SO SENSI- TIVE 62 THE UNREMITTING VOICE OF NIGHTLY STREAMS 63 SONNET : TO AN OCTOGENARIAN 63 COLERIDGE List of References 64 LIFE 66 LINES ON AN AUTUMNAL EVENING 66 LEWTI, OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE CHANT 68 LA FAYETTE 69 REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF RETIREMENT 69 TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY 70 THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON. . . 70" KUBLA KHAN 72 SONG FROM OSORIO 73 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER . . 73 CHRIST ABEL 8V FRANCE : AN ODE 88 FROST AT MIDNIGHT 90 LOVE 91 THE BALLAD OF THE DARK LADIE 92 LINES WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE 93 PAGE ODE TO TRANQUILLITY 94 DEJECTION : AN ODE 94 HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI 96 THE GOOD GREAT MAN 98 THE PAINS OF SLEEP 98 TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 99 SONG, FROM ZAPOLYA 101 YOUTH AND AGE 101 WORK WITHOUT HOPE 101 THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO 102 PHANTOM OR FACT 103 SCOTT List of References 104 WILLIAM AND HELEN 105 THE VIOLET , 108 TO A LADY 108 THE EVE OF SAINT JOHN 108 CADYOW CASTLE Ill THE MAID OF NEIDPATH 113 HUNTING SONG, 113 MARMION 114 SOLDIER, REST ! THY WARFARE O'ER. 159 HAIL TO THE CHIEF WHO IN TRIUMPH ADVANCES ! , 159 CORONACH 160 HARP OF THE NORTH, FAREWELL ! 160 BRIGNALL BANKS 161 ALLEN-A-DALE 161 HIE AWAY, HIE AWAY 162 TWIST YE, TWINE YE ! EVEN SO 162 WASTED, WEARY, WHEREFORE STAY.. 162 JOCK O' HAZELDE A-N ... 162 PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU 163 TIME 163 CAVALIER SONG 163 CLARION 1 63 THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW HILL. . 1 64 PROUD MAISIE 164 TRUE-LOVE, AN THOU BE TRUE 164 REBECCA'S HYMN 164 BORDER BALLAD 165 LIFE 165 COUNTY GUY ' 165 BONNY DUNDEE 165 HERE'S A HEALTH TO KING CHARLES . . 166 BYRON List of References 167 LACHIN Y GAIR ....... 170 MAID OP ATHENS, ERE WE PART 170 AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AND FAIR 1-^1^ WHEN WE TWO PARTED \\ 171 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS ,,."'...".' 172 TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE 184 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY 186 OH ! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTYS BLOOM 186 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. . 187 SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BAT- TLE 187 STANZAS FOR MUSIC (THERE'S NOT A JOY) 187 FARE THEE WELL 188 STANZAS FOR MUSIC (THERE BE NONE OF BEAUTY'S DAUGHTERS) 189 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, CANTO m 189 SONNET ON CHILLON 206 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 206 STANZAS TO AUGUSTA 209 EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA 210 STANZAS FOR MUSIC (THEY SAY THAT HOPE) 212 DARKNESS 212 PROMETHEUS 213 SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN 214 MANFRED 214 TO THOMAS MOORE 234 FROM CHILDE HAROLD, CANTO IV 234 FROM DON JUAN DEDICATION 240 FROM CANTO I POETICAL COMMANDMENTS 242 LABUNTUR ANNI 242 FROM CAN-^O II THE SHIPWRECK 243 HAIDEE 244 FROM CANTO III THE ISLES OF GREECE, 249 CONCLUSION OF CANTO III 250 FROM CANTO IV 253 FROM CANTO XI : LONDON LITERA- TURE AND SOCIETY ... 253 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 257 IMPROMPTUS 270 STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BE- TWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA 271 ON THIS DAY 1 COMPLETE MY THIRTY- SIXTH YEAR 272 SHELLEY List of References 273 STANZAS — APRIL 1814 275 TO COLERIDGE 275 TO WORDSWORTH 276 ALASTOR ^',!? HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY ^b^ MONT BLANC 288 TO MARY : DEDICATION OF THE REVOLT OF ISLAM <'^i- PAGE OZYMANDIAS 293 ON A FADED VIOLET 293 LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EU- GANEAN HILLS 293 STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES 296 SONNET : ENGLAND IN 1819 297 ODE TO THE WEST WIND 297 THE INDIAN SERENADE 299 LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY 299 PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 299 THE SENSITIVE PLANT 338 THE CLOUD 343 TO A SKYLARK 344 TO (I FEAR THY KISSES) 345 ARETHUSA 346 HYMN OF PAN 346 THE QUESTION 346 SONG 347 TO THE MOON 348 THE world's WANDERERS 348 TIME LONG PAST 348 EPIPSYCHIDION 348 TO NIGHT 357 357 TIME SONNET : POLITICAL GREATNESS MUTABILITY A LAMENT TO (MUSIC, WHEN SOFT VOICES). . ADONAIS LIFE MAY CHANGE, BUT IT MAY PLY NOT WORLDS ON WORLDS ARE ROLLING EVER SONGS FROM HELLAS THE WORLD'S GREAT AGE BEGINS ANEW TO-MORROW TO (ONE WORD IS TOO OFTEN) WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE LINES : WHEN THE LAMP IS SHAT- TERED SONG FROM CHARLES THE FIRST A DIRGE 358 358 358 358 358 366 366 367 367 368 368 368 369 369 369 KEATS List of References IMITATION OF SPENSER TO SOLITUDE HOW MANY BARDS GILD THE LAPSES OF TIME KEEN FITFUL GUSTS ARE WHISPERING HERE AND THERE TO ONE WHO HAS BEEN LONG IN CITY PENT ON FIRST I,OOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER 370 372 372 373 373 373 373 TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE GREAT SPIRITS NOW ON EARTH ARE SOJOURNING 373 ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET . . 374 SLEEP AND POETRY 374 AFTER DARK VAPORS HAVE OPPRESSED OUR PLAINS 380 TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ 380 ON SEEING THE ELGIN MARBLES 380 ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER 380 ON THE SEA 380 WHEN I HAVE FEARS THAT I MAY CEASE TO BE 381 FROM ENDYMION : PROEM 381 HYMN TO PAN 382 THE COMING OF DIAN 383 INVOCATION TO THE POWER OF LOVE. 385 ROUNDELAY 386 THE FEAST OP DIAN 387 ROBIN HOOD 388 IN A DREAR-NIGHTED DECEMBER 389 TO AILSA ROCK 389 THE HUMAN SEASONS 389 TO HOMER 389 LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN 390 FANCY 390 ISABELLA ; OR, THE POT OF BASIL. ... 391 THE EVE OP ST. AGNES 398 THE EVE OF ST. MARK 404 ODE ON INDOLENCE . , 405 ODE (BARDS OF PASSION) 406 ODE TO PSYCHE 406 ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 407 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 408 ODE ON MELANCHOLY 409 TO AUTUMN . 409 HYPERION 410 LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 423 ON FAME 423 TO SLEEP 423 BRIGHT STAR ! WOULD I WERE STEAD- FAST AS THOU ART. 423 LANDOR List of References 424 GEBIR 425 ROSE AYLMER . 428 REGENERATION 429 CHILD OF A DAY, THOU KNOWEST NOT. 430 LYRICS, TO lANTHE : AWAY MY VERSE ; AND NEVER FEAR. 430 WHEN HELEN FIRST SAW WRINKLES IN HER FACE 430 lANTHE ! YOU ARE CALLED TO CROSS THE SEA 431 I HELD HER HAND, THE PLEDGE OF BLISS 431 PAGE PLEASURE ! WHY THUS DESERT THE HEART 481 MILD IS THE PARTING YEAR, AND SWEET 431 PAST RUINED ILI ON HELEN LIVES... 431 PIESOLAN IDYL 431 FOR AN EPITAPH AT FIESOLE 432 UPON A SWEET-BRIAR 432 THE maid's lament 433 THE SHADES OF AGAMEMNON AND IPHIGENEIA 433 THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA 436 CORINNA TO TANAGRA, FROM ATHENS. 436 SAPPHO TO HESPERUS 437 LITTLE AGLAE 437 DIRCE 437 CLEONE TO ASPASIA 437 ON LUCRETIA B0RGIA"S HAIR 438 TO WORDSWORTH 438 TO JOSEPH ABLETT 438 TO MARY LAMB 440 ON HIS OWN IPHIGENEIA AND AGA- MEMNON 440 FAREWELL TO ITALY 440 WHY. WHY REPINE 440 MOTHER, I CANNOT MIND MY WHEEL. . 440 TO A BRIDE 441 LYRICS DO YOU REMEMBER ME ? OR ARE YOU PROUD 441 NO, MY OWN LOVE OF OTHER YEARS ! p 441 ONE YEAR AGO MY PATH WAS GREEN 441 YES ; I WRITE VERSES NOW AND THEN 441 WITH ROSY HAND A LITTLE GIRL PRESSED DOWN 442 YOU SMILED, YOU SPOKE, AND I BELIEVED. ... 442 REMAIN, AH NOT IN YOUTH ALONE. . 442 SOON, O lANTHE ! LIFE IS O'ER 442 TO A CYCLAMEN 442 GIVE ME THE EYES THAT LOOK ON MINE 442 TWENTY YEARS HENCE 443 PROUD WORD YOU NEVER SPOKE . . . 443 ALAS, HOW SOON THE HOURS ARE OVER 443 QUATRAINS ON THE SMOOTH BROW AND CLUS- TERING HAIR 443 MY HOPES RETIRE 443 VARIOUS THE ROADS OF LIFE 448 IS IT NOT BETTER AT AN EARLY HOUR 443 I KNOW NOT WHETHER I AM PROUD. . . 443 THE DAY RETURNS, MY NATAL DAY. . . 443 TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE HOW MANY VOICES GAILY SING 443 TO ROBERT BROWNING 443 ON THE HELLENICS 444 THRASYMEDES AND EUNOE 444 IPHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON 445 THE HAMADRYAD 446 ACON AND RHODOPE 450 MENELAUS AND HELEN AT TROY 452 AESCHYLOS AND SOPHOCLES 454 SHAKESPEARE AND MILTON 454 TO YOUTH 454 TO AGE 455 THE CHRYSOLITES AND RUBIES BAC- CHUS BRINGS 455 SO THEN I FEEL NOT DEEPLY 455 YEARS, MANY PARTI-COLORED YEARS. 455 I WONDER NOT THAT YOUTH REMAINS. 455 ON MUSIC 455 ROSE AYLMER'S hair, GIVEN BY HER SISTER 456 DEATH STANDS ABOVE ME 456 ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY. . . . 456 ON THE DEATH OF SOUTHEY 456 ON southey's death 457 heart's-ease 457 the three ROSES 457 LATELY OUR SONGSTERS LOITERED IN GREEN LANES 457 THESEUS AND HYPPOLYTA 457 AN AGED MAN WHO' LOVED TO DOZE AWAY. 458 WELL I REMEMBER HOW YOU SMILED . 458 TO MY NINTH DECADE 458 TENNYSON List of References 459 CLARIBEL 461 THE POET 461 THE LADY OF SHALOTT 462 SONG : THE miller's DAUGHTER 463 OENONE 464 THE SISTERS 467 THE PALACE OF ART 468 THE LOTOS EATERS 472 CHORIC SONG 472 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 474 ST. AGNES' EVE 479 YOU ASK ME WHY, THOUGH ILL AT EASE 479 OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE HEIGHTS. 479 LOVE THOU THY LAND 480 MORTE d' ARTHUR 481 DORA 484 ULYSSES 487 LOCKSLEY HALL 488 GODIVA 492 SIR GALAHAD , - 493 PAGE A FAREWELL 494 THE VISION OF SIN 494 BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 497 THE POET'S SONG 497 LYRICS FROM THE PRINCESS TEARS, IDLE TEARS 497 O SWALLOW, SWALLOW, FLYING, FLYING SOUTH 498 AS THROUGH THE LAND AT EVE WE WENT 498 SWEET AND LOW 498 THE SPLENDOR FALLS ON CASTLE WALLS 498 THY VOICE IS HEARD THROUGH ROLLING DRUMS 498 HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WAR- RIOR DEAD 499 ASK ME NO MOKE 499 IN MEMORIAM 499 TO THE QUEEN. . . 513 THE EAGLE 514 COME NOT, WHEN I AM DEAD 514 ODE ON THE DEATH OP THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON 514 HANDS ALL ROUND 517 THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.. 518 THE BROOK 518 LYRICS FROM MAUD PART I, V. A VOICE BY THE CEDAR TREE 519 XI. O LET THE SOLID GROUND 519 XII. BIRDS IN THE HIGH HALL-GARDEN 519 XVII. GO NOT, HAPPY DAY. 520 XVIII. I HAVE LED HER HOME 520 XXI. RIVULET CROSSING MY GROUND 521 XXII. COME INTO THE GAR- DEN, MAUD 521 PART II, II. SEE WHAT A LOVELY SHELL 522 IV. O THAT 'twere POSSI- BLE 523 WILL : 524 ENID'S SONG (MARRIAGE OF GERAINT). 524 VIVIEN'S SONG (MERLIN AND VIVIEN) . 524 ELAINE'S SONG (LANCELOT AND ELAINE) 525 GUINEVERE 525 TITHONUS 535 THE SAILOR BOY 536 MILTON 536 THE VOYAGE 537 NORTHERN FARMER (OLD STYLE) 538 THE FLOWER 589 IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ 539 TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE A DEDICATION 539 WAGES 540 from the coming of arthur merlin's riddle 540 trumpet song 540 the higher pantheism 540 flower in the crannied wall. ... 541 northern farmer (new style) 541 england and america in 1783. ..... 542 the voice and the peak 542 lyrics from queen mary milkmaid's SONG 543 LOW, LUTE, LOW 543 MONTENEGRO 543 THE REVENGE 543 THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW 546 RIZPA.H 548 SONG FROM THE SISTERS 549 TO VIRGIL 550 FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE 550 EPILOGUE TO THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE 550 VASTNESS 550 MERLIN AND THE GLEAM 551 FAR-FAR-AWAY 553 THE THROSTLE 553 THE OAK 553 CROSSING THE BAR 553 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING LiM of References 554 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE 555 ROBERT BROWNING List of References 5G5 songs from paracelsus heap cassia, sandal-buds 568 over the sea our galleys went.. 568 porphyria's lover 569 pippa passes 570 cavalier tunes. i. marching along 592 ii. give a rouse 593 iii. boot and saddle 593 through the metidja to abd-el- KADR 593 CRISTINA 594 INCIDENT OP THE FRENCH CAMP 594 MY LAST DUCHESS 595 IN A GONDOLA 596 THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 598 RUDEL TO THE LADY OF TRIPOLI 602 there's a WOMAN LIKE A DEWDROP.. 602 THE LOST LEADER 603 HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX 603 PAGE earth's IMMORTALITIES 605 MEETING AT NIGHT 605 PARTING AT MORNING ". 605 SONG : NAY BUT YOU, WHO DO NOT LOVE HER 605 HOME-THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD 605 HOME-THOUGHTS FROM THE SEA 605 time's REVENGES 606 THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND 606 PICTOR IGNOTUS . . 608 THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH 609 SATJL 611 A woman's last WORD 617 EVELYN HOPE 618 LOVE AMONG THE RUINS , 618 UP AT A VILLA — DOWN IN THE CITY. . 619 A TOCCATA OF GALUPPl'S 621 OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE 622 DE GUSTIBUS 626 MY STAR 626 ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND 626 TWO IN THE C AMPAGNA 628 MISCONCEPTIONS 629 ONE WAY OF LOVE 629 ANOTHER WAY OF LOVE 629 RESPECTABILITY 630 LOVE IN A LIFE 630 LIFE IN A LOVE 630 IN THREE DAYS ' 631 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL 631 MEMORABILIA 632 POPULARITY 633 THE PATRIOT 633 A LIGHT WOMAN 633 THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER 634 A grammarian's funeral 635 THE STATUE AND TPIE BUST 637 CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME 641 FRA LIPPO LIPPI (344 ANDREA DEL SARTO 650 ONE WORD MORE 654 BEN KERSHOOK'S WISDOM ". 657 AMONG THE ROCKS 657 ABT VOGLER '..'.".'. 657 RABBI BEN EZRA . .'.'.'.".*.'." 659 CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS 661 CONFESSIONS .'.'.'.'.".".' 666 YOUTH AND ART . . '. 666 A FACE 667 PROSPICE .".'.'"" 667 EPILOGUE TO DRAMATIS PERSONAE ' ' 668 FROM THE RING AND THE BOOK DEDICATION ^ 668 HERVE RIEL 669 FIFINE AT THE FAIR PROLOGUE — AMPHIBIAN. . . . , 671 Table of contents XV PAGE EPILOGUE— THE HOUSEHOLDER 671 HOUSE 672 PEARS AND SCRUPLES 673 NATURAL MAGIC 674 MAGICAL NATURE 674 APPEARANCES 674 EPILOGUE TO THE PACCHIAROTTO VOLUME 674 LA SAISIAZ PROLOGUE 677 THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC ' PROLOGUE 677 EPILOGUE 678 TRAY 679 ECHETLOS 679 TOUCH HIM ne'er SO LIGHTLY 680 WANTING IS — WHAT ? 680 ADAM. LILITH AND EVE 680 NEVER THE TIME AND THE PLACE 681 SONGS FROM FERISHTAH'S FANCIES ROUND US THE WILD CREATURES. . . 681 WISH NO WORD UNSPOKEN 681 FIRE IS IN THE FLINT 681 VERSE-MAKING WAS LEAST OF MY VIRTUES 681 ASK NOT ONE LEAST WORD OF PRAISE . 683 WHY FROM THE WORLD 682 WHY I AM A LIBERAL 682 ROSNY 682 POETICS 683 SUMMUM EONUM 683 A PEARL, A GIRL 683 MUCKLE-MOUTH MEG 683 DEVELOPMENT 684 EPILOGUE TO ASOLANDO 686 CLOUQH List of References 687 IN A LECTURE-ROOM 688 BLANK MISGIVINGS 688 TO Ka\6v 688 QUA CURSUM VENTUS 688 THE NEW SINAI 689 THE QUESTIONING SPIRIT 690 BETHESDA (A SEQUEL) 691 PROM AMOURS DE VOYAGE EN ROUTE 691 ROME 092 THE PANTHEON 692 ON MONTORIO'S HEIGHT 692 THE REAL QUESTION 693 SCEPTIC MOODS 693 ENVOI G93 PESCHIERA 693 ALTERAM PARTEM 094 IN THE DEPTHS 694 PAGE THE LATEST DECALOGUE , . . 694 FROM DIPSYCHUS "THERE IS NO GOD," THE WICKED SAITH 694 OUR GAIETIES, OUR LUXURIES 695 THIS WORLD IS VERY ODD WE SEE . . 695 WHERE ARE THE GREAT 695 WHEN THE ENEMY IS NEAR THEE. . . 695 SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH 695 EASTER DAY, NAPLES, 1849 696 EASTER DAY, II 697 HOPE EVERMORE AND BELIEVE 698 QUI LABORAT ORAT 698 VjlVOQ aVjUVOQ . . 699 THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY 699 AH ! YET CONSIDER IT AGAIN 700 SONGS IN ABSENCE 700 COME HOME, COME HOME 700 GREEN FIELDS OF ENGLAND 700 COME BACK, COME BACK 700 SOME FUTURE DAY, 701 WHERE LIES THE LAND ; . . . 701 WERE YOU WITH ME 702 O SHIP, SHIP, SHIP 702 THE STREAM OF LIFE 702 WITH AVHOM IS NO VARIABLENESS 702 ITE DOMUM SATURN, VENIT HESPERUS 702 CURRENTE CALAMO 703 COME, POET, COME 704 THE HIDDEN LOVE ... 704 PERCHE PENSA? PENSANDO S' INVEC- CHIA 704 LIFE IS STRUGGLE 705 SONNETS ON THE THOUGHT OF DEATH. 705 IN A LONDON SQUARE 705 ALL IS WELL 705 ARNOLD List of References 706 QUIET WORK , 708 TO A FRIEND 708 SHAKESPEARE 708 THE FORSAKEN MERMAN ... 708 THE STRAYED REVELLER 710 MEMORIAL VERSES 713 SELF-DECEPTION 714 THE SECOND BEST 714 LYRIC STANZAS OF EMPEDOCLES 715 CALLICLES' SONG 719 THE YOUTH OF NATURE 719' SELF-DEPENDENCE . 721 MORALITY 721 A SUMMER NIGHT 721 THE BURIED LIFE 723 LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GAR- DENS , 724 TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE THE FUTURE 724 STANZAS IN MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR OF " OBERMANN " 725 REQUIESCAT 727 SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 728 PHILOMELA 741 THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY 741 BALDER DEAD (SECTION III) 745 STANZAS FROM THE GRANDE CHAR- TREUSE 754 FROM SWITZERLAND ISOLATION. TO MARGUERITE 756 TO MARGUERITE — CONTINUED 757 THYRSIS 757 YOUTH AND CALM 761 AUSTERITY OF POETRY 761 WORLDLY PLACE 761 EAST LONDON 761 WEST LONDON 762 EAST AND WEST 762 THE BETTER PART 762 IMMORTALITY ; 762 DOVER BEACH 763 GROWING OLD 763 PIS-ALLER 764 THE LAST WORD 764 BACCHANALIA ; OR, THE NEW AGE 764 PALLADIUM 765 A WISH 765 RUGBY CHAPEL 766 HEINE (FROM HEINE'S GRAVE) 768 OBERMANN ONCE MORE 768 ROSSETTl List of References 778 MY sister's sleep 774 THE blessed damozel 774 AUTUMN SONG 776 THE PORTRAIT 776 THE CARD-DEALER 777 AT THE SUNRISE IN 1848 778 ON REFUSAL OF AID BETWEEN NA- TIONS 778 MARY'S GIRLHOOD 778 FOR A VENETIAN PASTORAL 779 THE SEA-LIMITS 779 THE MIRROR 779 A YOUNG FIR- WOOD 779 PENUMBRA 780 SISTER HELEN 780 THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH 783 MARY MAGDALENE AT THE DOOR OF SIMON THE PHARISEE 785 ASPECTA MEDUSA 786 love's NOCTURN 786 FIRST LOVE REMEMBERED 787 PLIGHTED PROMISE 788 PAGE SUDDEN LIGHT 788 THE WOODSPURGE 788 THE HONEYSUCKLE 788 A LITTLE WHILE 788 TROY TOWN 789 THE stream's secret 789 LOVE-LILY 792 THE HOUSE OF LIFE THE SONNET 793 LOVE ENTHRONED 793 BRIDAL BIRTH 793 love's TESTAMENT 793 lovesight 794 heart's hope . 794 love's lovers 794 passion and worship 794 the portrait 794 the love-letter 795 the lovers' walk 795 youth's antiphony , 795 youth's spring-tribute 795 the birth-bond. . . 796 beauty's pageant 796 genius in beauty 796 silent noon 796 love-sweetness 797 pride of youth 797 mid-rapture 797 heart's compass 797 her gifts 798 equal troth 798 venus victrix 798 the dark glass 798 severed selves 799 through death to love 799 death-in-love 799 willowwood, i-iv 799 without her 800 stillborn love 800 true woman HERSELF 801 HER LOVE . . . . 801 HER HEAVEN 801 love's LAST GIFT 801 TRANSFIGURED LIFE '.."". 802 THE SONG-THROE .* 802 KNOWN IN VAIN \ \\ 802 THE HEART OF THE NIGHT .. 802 THE LANDMARK 802 THE HILL SUMMIT . .. 803 THE CHOICE, I-III ....'. 803 OLD AND NEW ART ST. LUKE THE PAINTER 804 NOT AS THESE 804 THE HUSBANDMEN \\\' 804 SOUL'S BEAUTY ." ' " ' 804 BODY'S BEAUTY 805 MEMORIAL THRESHOLDS ...... 805 TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE HOARDED JOY 805 BARREN SPRING 805 FAREWELL TO THE GLEN 806 LOST DAYS 806 THE TREES OF THE GARDEN 806 RETRO ME, SATHANA 806 LOST ON BOTH SIDES 806 MICHELANGELO'S KISS 807 LIFE THE BELOVED. . 807 A SUPERSCRIPTION 807 NEWBORN DEATH, l-II 807 THE ONE HOPE 808 THE CLOUD CONFINES 808 THREE SHADOWS 809 INSOMNIA 809 CHIMES 809 SOOTHSAY 810 ON BURNS 811 FIVE ENGLISH POETS THOMAS CHATTERTON 811 WILLIAM BLAKE 81 1 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 812 JOHN KEATS 812 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 812 THE KING'S TRAGEDY 812 MORRIS List of References 823 WINTER WEATHER 824 RIDING TOGETHER 825 THE CHAPEL IN LYONESS 826 SUMMER DAWN 827 HANDS 827 GOLD HAIR 827 THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE 828 THE GILLIFLOWER OF GOLD 832 SHAMEFUL DEATH 833 THE EVE OF CRECY 884 THE SAILING OF THE SWORD 834 THE BLUE CLOSET 835 THE HAYSTACK IN THE FLOODS . . 836 TWO RED ROSES ACROSS THE MOON . . . 838 SIR GILES' WAR-SONG 838 NEAR AVALON 838 IN PRISON 839 FROM THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON TO THE SEA 839 THE NYMPH'S SONG TO HYLAS 839 ORPHEUS' SONG OF TRIUMPH 840 SONGS OP ORPHEUS AND THE SIRENS. 840 INVOCATION TO CHAUCER 842 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE AN APOLOGY 843 atalanta's race. 843 SONG FROM THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE 854 JUNE 854 PAGE AUGUST 855 song from ogier the dane 855 song from the story of acon- tius and cydippe. . 855 l'envoi 856 the seasons 857 error and loss 857 from love is enough the day of love 858 final chorus. 859 the voice of toil 859 no master 860 the day is coming 860 the days that were 861 the day of days 861 the burghers' battle 862 agnes and the hill-man 862 iceland first seen 863 to the muse of the north 864 drawing near the light . 864 SWINBURNE List of References 865 A SONG IN TIME OF ORDER 866 CHORUSES FROM ATALANTA IN CALY- DON THE YOUTH OF THE YEAR 866 THE LIFE OP MAN 867 LOVE AND LOVE'S MATES 868 NATURE 868 FATE 869 THE DEATH OF MELEAGER 869 FINAL CHORUS 871 SONGS FROM CHASTELARD MARY BEATON'S SONG 871 LOVE AT EBB 872 THE queen's SONG 873 HYMN TO PROSERPINE 872 A MATCH 874 A BALLAD OF BURDENS 875 RONDEL 876 IN MEMORY OF WALTER SAVAGE LAN- DOR 876 THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE 877 LOVE AT SEA 878 SAPPHICS 878 DEDICATION (POEMS AND BALLADS, FIRST SERIES) 879 AN APPEAL 881 HERTHA 883 THE PILGRIMS 884 TO WALT WHITMAN IN AMERICA 886 FROM MATER TRIUMPHALIS 887 COR CORDIUM 888 NON DOLET 889 THE OBLATION 889 A FORSAKEN GARDEN 889 XVIU TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE A BALLAD OP DREAMLAND 890 A BALLAD OP PRANQOIS VILLON 891 TO LOUIS KOSSUTH 891 CHILD'S SONG 892 TRtADS 892 ON THE CLIFFS 892 ON THE DEATHS OF THOMAS CARLYLE AND GEORGE ELIOT 899 SONG PROM MARY STUART 899 HOPE AND PEAR 899 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 899 CHILDREN 900 A child's LAUGHTER 900 THE SALT OP THE EARTH 900 CHILD AND POET 900 A child's FUTURE 901 ETUDE REALISTE 901 l-\ GUERNSEY 901 PAGE A- SINGING LESSON 902 THE ROUNDEL 902 A SOLITUDE 902 ON A COUNTRY -ROAD 903 THE SEABOARD 903 THE CLIFFSIDE PATH 904 IN THE WATER 905 THE SUNBOWS 905 ON THE VERGE 906 ON THE MONUMENT ERECTED TO MAZ- ZINI AT GENOA 907 THE INTERPRETERS 907 A WORD WITH THE WIND 908 IN TIME OF MOURNING 909 SEQUENCE OF SONNETS ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT BROWNING 909 INDEXES 911 WORDSWORTH LIST OF REFERENCES Edition^s The standard edition of Wordsworth is that edited by ** W. Knight, 1882-1886, Poetical Works, 8 volumes; Prose Works, 2 volumes. There is a good edition of the * Poetical Works, com])lete in 1 volume, with Wordsworth's Prefaces, published by The Macmillan Co. at $1.76. Biography *KxTGHT (W.), William Wordsworth, 3 volumes, 1889 (the standard biography.) Wordsworth (Chr.), Memoirs of W^illiam Wordsworth, 2 volumes, 1851. Hood (E. P.), William Wordsworth ; A Biography, 185(3. SY:k[TNGT0x (A. J.), William Wordsworth ; A Biographical Sketch, with Selections from his Writings in Poetry and Prose, 2 volumes, 1881. * Myers (F. W. H.), William Wordsworth, English Men of Letters' Se- ries^ 1881 (the best brief biography, with adequate criticism). Suth- erland (J. 31.), William Wordsworth ; the Story of his Life, with criti- cal remarks on his Writings, 1887. Encyclopedia Britanjstica, Words- worth, by Prof. W. Minto, Vol. XXIV, pp. 668-676, 1888. Wordsworth (Elizabeth), William Wordsworth, 1891. Gothein (M.), Wordsworth, sein Leben, seine VVerke, Halle, 1898. Raleigh (W. A.), Wordsworth, 1903. See also Lee (Edmund), Dorothy Wordsworth. Personal Reminiscences and Contemporary Criticism * Wordsworth, The Prelude, the Preface to the Lyrical Ballads, etc. * Wordsworth (Dorothy), Journal, and Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland. * Coleridge (S. T.), Biographia Literaria ; Chap. 4, 5, 14, 17, 19, 20, and especially 22. Coleridge (S. T.), Poems ; To William Wordsworth. Cottle (J.), Early Recollections of S. T. Coler- idge. SouTiiEY (R.), Life and Correspondence: Chap. 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 15, 19, 26, 32, 36. Talfourd (T. N.), Memorials of Lamb : especially Chap. 6 and 7. Jeffrey (Lord I'rancis), Edinburgh Review, No. 21, art. 14, Wordsworth's Poems ; * No. 47, art. 1, Wordsworth's Excursion, a Poem ; No. 50, art. 4, Wordsworth's White Doe of Rylstone : also in his Critical Essays. Hazlitt, (William), * My First Acquaintance with Poets ; The Spirit of the Age. Hunt (Leigh), The Seer, I., 204 : Words- I WORDSWORTH worth and Milton. De Quince y (Thomas), Works, edited Ly David Masson ; Vols. II and III, Recollections of Wordsworth, etc. ; Vol. V, On Wordsworth's Poetry ; and especially Vol. XI, Wordsworth (Essay of 1845) : Landor (W. S.), Imaginary Conversations ; Southey and Porson. * RoBixsoN (H. C), Diary, passim (see Index). Proctor (B. W.), Auto- biographical Fragment. Mitford (M. R.), Recollections of a Literary Life. Carlyle, Reminiscences. Duffy (C. Gavan), Conversations with Carlyle. Mill (J. S.), Autobiography, Chapter V. Colerige (Sara),_ Me- moirs and Letters. Wilson (John), Essays. TAyLOR (H), Critical Essays on Poetry. Later Criticism Knight (W.), Wordsworthiana ; Selection from Papers read by The Wordsworth Society. Knight (W.), Studies in Philosophy : Nature as Interpreted by Wordsworth. Taine (H.), History of English Literature, Vol. IV. ** Arnold (M.), Essays in Criticism, Second Series. * Stephen (Leslie), Hours in a Library, Vol. II. * Morley (John),. Studies in Lit- erature. *Huttox (R. H.), Literary Essays. * Caird (Edward), Litera- ture and Philosophy, Vol. I. * Pater (Walter), Appreciations. * Swin- burne (A. C), Miscellanies : Wordsworth and Byron. Lowell (J. R.), Prose Works, Vols. IV and VI. Woodberry (G. E.), Studies hi Letters : Sir George Beaumont, Coleridge and Wordsworth. Woodberry (G. E.), Makers of Literature. Mabie (H. W.), Backgrounds of Literature: Wordsworth and the Lake Country. * Legouis (Emile), La Jeunesse de WiUiam Wordsworth, 1770-98: Etude sur le "Prelude." The same, translated by J. W. Matthews, with prefatory note by Leslie Steplien. Stephen (Leslie), Studies of a Biographer, Vol. I : Wordsworth's Youth (on Legouis' book). Texte (Joseph), Etudes de Litterature europeene : Wordsworth et la poesie lakiste en France. Duwden (Edward), Studies in Literature : The French Revolution and Literature ; The Transcen- dental Movement and Literature. Dowden (Edward), The French Rev- olution and English Literature ; Essay V. Hancock (A. E.), The French Revolution and the English Poets. Darmesteter (J.), English Studies : Wordsworth and the French Revolution. Symoxs (A.), Fortnightly Re- view, 1902. Church (R. W.), Dante and Other Essays. Macdonald (G.), Imagination and Other Essays : Wordsworth's Poetry Rossetti (W. M.), Lives of Famous Poets. Scherer (Edmond), Etudes, Vol. VII ; the same essay, translated, in his Essays on English Literature. Shairp (J. C), Aspects of Poetry : " The Three Yarrows ; " " White Doe of Rylstone." Shairp (J. C), Studies in Poetry and Philosophy : Wordsworth, the Man and the Poet. Clough (A. H.), Prose Remains. De Vere (Aubrey), Essays, Chiefly on Poetry : The Genius and Passion of Wordsworth ; The Wisdom and Truth of Wordsworth's Poetry ; Recollections of Wordsworth. Hare (J. C. & A. W.), Guesses at Truth, Vol. IT. Mas- son (D.), Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, and Other Essays. Stanley (H. M.), Essays on Literary Art : Some Remarks on Wordsworth. Daw- son (W. J.), Makers of Modern English. ** Bagehot (Walter), Literary Studies, Vol. II : Wordsworth, Tennyson and Browning. Alger (W. R.), Solitudes. Bell (C. D.), Some of our English Poets. Brimley (G.), Essays. Brooke (Stopford A.), Theology in the English Poets. Brooks (S. W.), English Poetry and Poets. Burroughs (John), Fresh Fields: Country of Wordsworth. Caine (T. H.), Cobwebs of Criticism. Chenet (J. V.), That Dome in Air. Chorley (H. F.), Authors of England. Courtiiope (V. J.), Liberal Movement in English Literature : Wordsworth's Theory of Poetry. Devey (J.), Comparative Estimate of Modern English Poets. Dixon (W. M.), English Poetry, Blake to Brown- ing. Fields (J. T.), Yesterdays with Authors. Frothingham (O. B.), Transcendentalism in New England. Giles (H.), Illustrations of Genius. Graves (R. P.), Afternoon Lectures : Wordsworth and the Lake Country. Hamilton (Walter), Poets Laureate. IIaweis (H. R.), Poets in the Pul- pit. HowiTT (W.), Homes of the British Poets, Vol. II. Hudson (II. N.), Studies in Wordsworth. Ingleby (C. M.), Essays. Johnson (C. F.), Three Americans and Three Englishmen. Reed (H.), Lectures on British Poets, Vol. II. McCoRMicK (W. S.), Three Lectures on English Litera- ture. Macdonald (G.), England's Antiphon. Minto (W.), Literature of the Georgian Era. Mitchell (D. G.), English Lands, Letters and Kings, Vol. III. MoiR (D. M.), Lectures on Poetical Literature. Rawnsley (H. D.), Literary Associations of the English Lakes, Vol. V. Robertson (F. W.), Lectures and Addresses. Rushton (W.), Afternoon Lectures, Vol. I. Saunders (F.), Famous Books. Scudder (V. D.), Life of the Spirit in Modern English Poetry : Wordsworth and the new Democracy. SwANWicK (A.), Poets the Interpreters of their Age. Tuckerman (II. T.), Thoughts on the Poets. Winter (William), Gray Days and Gold: Lakes and Fells of Wordsworth. Whipple (E. P.), Essays and Reviews. Whipple (E. P.), Literature and Life. Memorial Verses, etc. ** Watson (William), Wordsworth's Grave. * Arnold (M.), Memorial Verses, April 1850. Shelley, Poems : Sonnet to Wordsworth (arraign- ment of Wordsworth for apostasy to the cause of liberty). Palgrave (F. T.), William Wordsworth (in Stedman's Victorian Anthology, p. 240). *WinTTiER, Poems: Wordsworth. Lowell, Poetical Words, Vol. I. Sainte-Beuve, Poesies : Trois sonnets imites de Wordsworth. * An asterisk marks the most important books and essays. WORDSWORTH LINES Left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the lake of Esthwaite, on a desolate part of the shore, commanding a beautiful prospect. Composed in part at school at Hawkshead. The tree has disappeared, and the slip of Com- mon on which it stood, that ran parallel to the lake and lay open to it, has long been enclosed ; so that the road has lost much of its attraction. This spot was my favorite walk in the evenings during the latter part of my school-time. {Wordsworth's note.) Nay, Traveller ! rest. This lonely Yew- tree stands Far from all human dwelling : what if here No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb ? What if the bee love not these barren boughs ? Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. Who he was That piled these stones and with tlie mossy sod First covered, and here taught this aged Tree With its dark arms to form a circling bower, I well remember. — He was one wlio owned No common soul. In youth by science nursed, And led by nature into a wild scene Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth A favored Being, knowing no desire Which genius did not hallow ; 'gainst the taint Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate. And scorn, — against all enemies pre pared, All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, Owed him no service ; wherefore he at once With indignation turned himself away. And with the food of pride sustained his soul In solitude. — Stranger ! these gloomy bouglis Had cliarms for him ; and hei'e he loved to sit, His only visitants a straggling sheep, Tlie stone-chat, or the glancing sand- piper : And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath. And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er. Fixing liis downcast eye, he many an hour A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here An emblem of his own unfruitful life : And, lifting up his head, lie then would gaze On tlie more distant scene, — how lovely 'tis Thou seest, — and he would gaze till it became Far lovelier, and his heart could not sus- tain The beauty, still more beauteous ! Nor, that time. When nature had subdued him to her- self. Would he forget those Beings to whose minds. Warm from tlie labors of benevolence. The world, and hiunan life, appeared a scene Of kindred loveliness : then he would sigh, Inly disturbed, to think that others felt What he must never feel : and so, lost Man ! On visionary views would fancy feed. Till liis eye .streamed witli tears. In tliis deep vale 4 WORDSWORTH He died, — this seat liis only monument. If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms Of j^oung imagination have kept pure. Stranger ! henceforth be warned ; and know that pride, Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, Is littleness ; that he, who feels con- tempt For any living thing, hath faculties Which he has never used ; that thought with him Is in its infancy. The man whose eye Is ever on himself doth look on one. The least of Nature's works, one who might move The wise man to that scorn which wis- dom holds Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou ! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love ; True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought. Can still suspect, and still revere him- self, In lowliness of heart. 1795. 1798.1 THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN This arose out of my observation of the affect- ing music of these birds hanging in this way in the London streets during the freshness and stillness of the Spring morning.— (T-Fordsi«ori/i.) At the corner of Wood Street, when day- light appears. Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years ; Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the Bird. 'Tis a note of enchantment ; wliat ails her ? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; Bright volumes of vapor through Loth- bury glide. And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, 1 Italic figures indicate the year of writing ; upright figures the year of publication. The dates for Wordsworth are taken from the biblio- graphical tables in Vol. VIII of Knight's edition of the Poems. Down wliich she so often has tripped with her pail ; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's. The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and tlie shade : The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise. And the colors have all passed away from her eyes ! 1797. 1800. A NIGHT-PIECE Composed on the road between Nether Stowey and Alfoxden, extempore. I distinctly recollect the very moment when I was struck, as described — '■ He looks up— the clouds are split," etc. (Wordsivorth) " Wordsworth particularly recommended to me among his Poems of Imagination, Fe?« Trees, and a description of Night. These, he says, are amongst the best for the imaginative power displayed in them." (Diary of Henry Crabb Robinson, May 9, 1815.) The sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, A dull, contracted circle, yielding' light So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, Chequering the ground — from rock, plant, tree, or tower. At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller wdiile lie treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye Bent earthward ; he looks up — the clouds are split Asunder, — and above his head he sees The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. There, in a black-blue vault she sails along. Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives : how fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not ! — the wind is in the tree, But they are silent ; — still they roll along Immeasurably distant ; and the vault. ENGLISH POETS Built round by those white clouds, enor- mous clouds, Still deepens its unfathomable depth. At length the Vision closes ; and the mind, Not undisturbed by the dehglit it feels. Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene. 1798. 1815. WE ARE SEVEN — A SIMPLE Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in everj' limb, What should it know of death ? I met a little cottage Girl : She was eiglit years old, she said ; Her hair was thick with many a curl Tliat clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air. And she was wildly clad : Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; — Her beauty made me glad. "Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How manj^ niay you be ? " "How many? Seven in all," she said And wondering looked at me. " And where are they ? I pray you tell." She answered, " Seven are we ; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. " Two of us in tlie church-yard lie. My sister and my brotlier ; And in the cluu'cli-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with. my mother." " You say that two at Conway dwell. And two are gone to sea. Yet ye are seven ! — I pray you tell. Sweet Maid, how this may be." Then did the little Maid reply, " Seven boys and girls are we ; Two of us in the church-yard lie. Beneath the church-yard" tree." " You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive ; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five." "Their graves are green, they may be seen." The little Maid replied, " Twelve steps or more from my mother's door. And they are side by side. " My stockings there I often knit, IMy kerchief there I liem ; And there upon tlie ground I sit, And sing a song to them. " And often after sunset. Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer. And eat my supper there. " The first tliat died was sister Jane ; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of lier pain ; And then she went away. " So in the clmrch-yard she was laid ; And, when the grass was dry. Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. ' ' And when the ground was white with snow. And I could run and slide. My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." " How many are you, then," said I, •• If they two are in heaven ? " Quick w'as tlie little Maid's re.ply, •■ O Master ! we are seven." " But tliey are dead ; those two are dead ! Tlieir spirits are in heaven ! " "Twas throwing words away ; for still The little Maid would have her will. And said, " Nay, we are seven ! " 179S. 1798. SIMON LEE THE OLD HUNTSBIAN ; WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED. This old man had been huntsman to the squires of Alfoxden. . . . The fact was as meniioned in the poem ; and I have, after an interval of forty- five years, the imasre of the old man as fresh before my eyes as if I had seen him yesterday. The expression vs^lien the hounds were out, "' I dearly love their voice," was vs^ord for word from his own lips. {Wordsworth.) In the sweet shire of Cardigan, Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, WORDSWORTH An old Man dwells, a little man, — 'Tis said he once was tall. Full five and'thirty years he lived A running huntsman merry ; And still the centre of his cheek Is red as a ripe cherry. No man like him the horn could sound. And hill and valley rang with glee When Echo bandied, round and round. The halloo of Simon Lee. In those proud days, he little cared For husbandry or tillage ; To blither tasks did Simon rouse The sleepers of the village. He all the country could outrun , Could leave both man and horse behind : And often, ere the chase w^as done, He reeled and was stone-blind. And still there's something in the world At which his heart rejoices ; For when the chiming hounds are out, He dearly loves their voices ! But, oh the heavy change ! — bereft Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see ! Old Simon to the world is left In liveried poverty. His Master's dead, — and no one now Dwells in the Hall of Ivor ; Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead ; He is the sole survivor. And he is lean and he is side ; His body, dwindled and awry. Rests upon ankles swoln and thick ; His legs are thin and dry. One prop he has, and only one, His wife, an aged woman. Lives with him, near the waterfall, Upon the village Common. Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, Not twenty paces from the door. A scrap of land they have, but they Are poorest of the poor. This scrap of land he from the heath Enclosed when he was stronger ; But what to them avails the land Which he can till no longer ? Oft, working by her Husband's side, Ruth does what Simon cannot do : For she, with scanty cause for pride, Is stouter of the two. And, though you with your utmost skill From labor could not wean them, 'Tis little, very little— all That they can do between them. Few months of life has he in store As he to you will tell. For still, the more he works, the more Do his weak ankles swell. iMy gentle Reader, I perceive How patiently you've waited. And now I fear tliat j^ou expect Some tale will be related. O Reader ! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, gentle Reader ! you would find A tale in every thing. What more I have to say is short, And you must kindly take it : It is no tale ; but, should you think, Perhaps a tale you'll make it. One summer-day I chanced to see This old Man doing all he could To unearth the root of an old tree, A stump of rotten wood. The mattock tottered in his hand ; So vain was his endeavor. That at the root of the old tree He might have worked for ever. " You're overtasked, good Simon Lee, Give me your tool," to him I said ; And at the word right gladly he Received my proffered aid. 1 struck, and with a single blow The tangled root I severed. At which the poor old Man so long And vainly had endeavored. The tears into his eyes were brought. And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would liave done. — I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning ; Alas ! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning. 1798. 1798. LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING I HEARD a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined. In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To lier fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran ; ^ And mucli it grieved my heart to think ': What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys tlie air it breathes. The birds around nie hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure : — But the least motion which tliey made It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air ; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If tills belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man ? 17'JS. 1798. TO MY SISTER It is the first mild day of March : Each minute sweeter tlian before The redbreast sings from the tall larch That stands beside our door. There is a blessing in the air, Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare, And grass in the green field. My sister ! ('tis a wish of mine) Now that our morning meal is done, Make haste, your morning task resign ; Come forth and feel the sun. Edward will come with you ; — and, praj- Put on with speed your woodland dress And bring no book : for tl)is one day We '11 give to idleness. No joyless forms sliall regulate Our living calendar : We from to-day, my Friend, will date The opening of the year. Love, now a universal birth. From heart to heart is stealing. From earth to man, from man to earth ; — It is the hour of feeling. One moment now may give us more Than years of toiling reason : Our minds shall drink at every pore The spirit of the season. Some silent laws our hearts will make, Which they shall long obey : We for the year to come may take Our temper from to-day. AtkI from the blessed power that rolls About, below, above. We "11 frame the measure of our souls : They shall be tuned to love. Then come, my Sister ! come, I pray. With speed put on your woodland dress ; And bring no book : for this one day We '11 give to idleness. 170S. 1798. A WHIRL-BLAST FROM BEHIND THE HILL A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound ; Tlien — all at once the air was still, And showers of hailstones pattered round. Where leafless oaks towered high above, I sat witliin an undergrove Of tallest hollies, tall and green ; A fairer bower was never seen. From year to year the spacious floor With withered leaves is covered o'er, And all tlie year the bower is green. But see ! where'er the hailstones drop Tiie withered leaves all skip and hop ; There's not a breeze — no breatli of air — Yet here, and there, and everywhere Along tlie floor, beneath the sliade By those embowering liollies made. The leaves in myriads jump and spring. As if ^^^ith pipes and music rare Some Robin Good-fellow were there. And all tliose leaA^es, in festive glee, Were dancing to the minstrelsv. 1798". 1800. EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY "Why, William, on that old gray stone Thus for the length of half a day, Why, William, sit you thus alone, And dream your time away ? WORDSWORTH " Where are your books? — that light be- queathed To Beings else forlorn and blind ! Up 1 up ! and drink the spirit breathed From dead men to their kind. " You look round on your Mother Earth, As if she for no purpose bore you ; As if you were her first-born birth, And none had lived before you ! " One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, When life was sweet, I knew not why, To me my good friend Matthew spake, And thus I made reply : " The eye — it cannot choose but see ; We cannot bid tlie ear be still ; Our bodies feel, where'er they be, Against or with our will. " Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress ; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness. "Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum Of things for ever speaking. That nothing of itself will come. But we must still be seeking ? " — Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I may, I sit upon tliis old gray stone, And dream my time away." 1798. 1798. THE TABLES TURNED AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT Up !up ! my Friend, and quit your books ; Or surely you'll grow double : Up ! up ! my Friend, and clear your looks ; Why all this toil and trouble ? The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields lias spread. His first sweet evening yellow. Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife : Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet liis music ! on rtxj life, There's more of wisdom in it, And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! He, too, is no mean preacher : Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless — Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man. Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. Sweet is tlie lore which Nature brings ; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things : We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art ; Close up tliose barren leaves ; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. 179S. 1798. LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE V\^YE DURING A TOUR. JULY 13, 1798. No poem of mine was composed under circum- stances more pleasanf for me to remember than this. I began it upon leaving Tintern, after crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was entering Bristol in the evening, after a ramble of four or Ave days, with my sister. Not a line of it was altered, and not any part of it written down till I reached Bristol. It was published almost immediately after in the little volume of which so much has been said in these Notes. {Wordsiuorth. The volume referred to is The Lyrical Ballads, as first published at Bristol by Cottle.) Five years have past ; five summers, with the length Of five long winters ! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their moun- tain-springs With a soft inland murmur. ^ — Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose ' The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Tintern, BRITISH POETS Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts. Which at tliis season, witli their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and coi^ses. Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly liedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild : these pas- toral farms, Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees ! With some unc;ertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some Hermit's cave, where" by his fire The Hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the lieart ; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration : — feelings too Of unremembered pleasure : such, per- haps. As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life. His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift. Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery. In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened : — that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on, — Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul : While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, /■ We see into the life of things. I If this ■ Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft — In darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight ; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have liung upon the beatings of my lieart — How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, sylvan Wye ! thou wanderer thro' the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee ! And now, witli gleams of half-extin- guished thought. With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perjalexity, Tlie picture of the mind revives again : WJiile here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and . food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was wlien first 1 came among these hills ; when like a roe I bounded o"er the mountains, by the sides Of tlie deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wlierever nature led : more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who souglit the thing he loved. For nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by) To me was all in all. — I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cata- ract Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock. The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colors and their forms, were then to me An appetite ; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, WORDSWORTH By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts Have followed ; for such loss, I would believe. Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing often- times The still, sad music of humanity. Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply inter- fused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns. And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man ; A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Tlierefore am I still A lover of the jneadows and the woods. And mountains ; and of all that we be- hold From this green earth ; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear, — both what they half create. And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize In nature and the language of the sense. The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse. The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being. Nor perchance. If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay : For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river ; thou my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend ; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oli ! yet a little while May I behold in tliee M'hat I was once, My dear, dear Sister ! and tliis prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray ;; The heart that loved her ; 'tis her privi- lege, \, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy : for she. can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues. Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life. Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we f behold I Is full of blessings. Therefore let the X moon ^ Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee : and , in after years. When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure ; when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms. Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. Should be thy portion, with what heal- ing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me. And these my exhortations ! Nor, per- chance — If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence — wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together ; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in tliat service : ]-ather say With warmer love- — oh ! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then for- BRITISH POETS That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, botli for themselves and for thy sake ! 17DS. 1798. THE SIMPLON PASS Brook and road Were fellow-travellers in tliis gloomy Pass, And with them did we journey several hours At a slow step. The immeasurable height Of woods decaying, never to be decayed. The stationary blasts of waterfalls. And in the nan'ow rent, at every turn, Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn , The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky, The rocks tliat muttered close upon our ears. Black drizzling crags that spake by tlie wayside As if a voice were in them, the sick sight And giddy prospect of the raving stream. The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens. Tumult and peace, the darkness and tlie light- Were all like workings of one mind, the features Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree. Characters of the great Apocalypse, The types and symbols of Eternity, Of first, and last, and midst, and witli- out end. 17UD. 1845. INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHENING THE IMAGINATION IN BOYHOOD AND EARLY YOUTH Wisdom and Spirit of the universe ! Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought ! And giv'st to forms and images a bi'eath And everlasting motion ! not in vain. By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me The passions that build up our human soul ; Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man, But with high objects, with enduring things. With life and nature ; purifying thus The elements of feeling and of thought, And sanctifying by such discipline Both i^ain and fear, — until we recognize A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. Nor was tliis fellowshii^ vouchsafed to me With stinted kindness. In November days. When vapors rolling down the valleys made A lonely scene more lonesome ; among v.'oods At noon ; and 'mid the calm of summer nights, When by the margin of the trembling lake. Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went In solitude, such intercourse was mine : Mine was it in the fields both day and night, And by the waters, all the summer long. And in the frosty season, wlien the sun Was set, and, visible for many a mile. The cottage-windows through the twi- light blazed, I heeded not the summons : liappy time It was indeed for all of us ; for me It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud The village-clock tolled six — I wheeled about, Proud and exulting like an untired horse Tliat cares not for his home. — All shod with steel We hissed along the polished ice, in games Confederate, imitative of the chase And woodland pleasures, — the resovmd- ing horn. The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare. So through the darkness and the cold we flew. And not a voice was idle : with the din Smitten, the precipices rang aloud ; The leafless trees and every icy crag Tinkled like iron ; while far-distant hills Into the tumult sent an alien sound Of melancholj', not unnoticed while the stars. WORDSWORTH 13 Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west The orange sky of evening died away. Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay, or sportively Glanced sideway, leaving the tumult- uous throng, To cut across the reflex of a star ; Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed Upon the glassy plain : and oftentimes. When we had given our bodies to the wind, And all the sliadowy banks on either side Came sweeping through tlie darkness, spinning still The rapid line of motion, then at once Have I, reclining back upon my heels, Stopped short ; yet still the solitary cliffs Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had rolled With visible motion her diurnal round ! Behind me did they stretch in solemn train. Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. 1799. 1809. THERE WAS A BOY Written in Germany, This is an extract from the poem on my own poetical education. ( Words- ivorth. The poem referred to is Tli-e Prelude.) There was a Boy ; ye knew him well, ye cliffs And islands of Winander !— many a time. At evening, when the earliest stars began To move along the edges of the hills. Rising or setting, would he stand alone. Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake ; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument. Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, That they might answer him.— And they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout again. Responsive to his call,— with quivering peals. And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse wild Of jocund din ! And, when there came a pause Of silence such as baffled his best skill. Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise Has carried far into his heart the voice Of mountain-torrents ; or the visible scene Would enter unawares into his mind With all its solemn imagery, its rocks. Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received Into the bosom of the steady lake. This boj^ was taken from his mates, and died lu childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale Where he was born and bred : the church- yard hangs Upon a slope above the village-school ; And through that church-yard when my way has led On summer-evenings, I believe, that there A long half-hour together I have stood Mute — looking at the grave in which he lies ! 1799. 1800. NUTTING Written in Germany ; intended as part of a poem on mv own life, but struck out as not being wanted there (Wordsivorth) . It seems a day (I speak of one from many singled out) One of those heavenly days that cannot die ; When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, A nutting-crook in hand ; and turned my steps Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds Which for that service had been hus- banded. By exhortation of my frugal Dame — Motley accoutrement, of power to smile At thorns, and brakes, and brambles — and, in truth. More ragged than need was ! O'er patliless rocks. 14 BRITISH POETS Through beds of matted fern, and tan- gled tliickets, Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook Un visited, where not a broken bough Drooped with its withered leaves, un- gracious sign Of devastation ; but the hazels rose Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, A virgin scene ! — A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the heart As joy delights in ; and, with wise re- straint Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed The banquet ; — or beneath the trees I sate Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played ; A temper known to those, who, after long And weary expectation, have been blest With sudden happiness beyond all hope. Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons re-appear And fade, nnseen by aiiy human eye ; Where fairj^ water-breaks do murmur on For ever ; and I saw the sparkling foam. And — with my cheek on one of those green stones That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees. Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep — I lieard the murmur and the murmuring sound. In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease ; and, of its joy secure. The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones And on the vacant air. Then up I rose. And dragged to earth both branch and bough, \vith crash And merciless ravage : and the shady nook Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower. Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up Tlieir quiet being : and. unless I now Confound my present feelings with the past ; Ere from the mutilated bower I tvirned Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, I felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky.— Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades In gentleness of heart ; with gentle hand Touch — for there is a spirit in the woods. 1799. 1800. STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I KNOWN The next three poems were written in Germany. (Wordsivorth.) Strange fits of passion have I known : And I will dare to tell, But in the Lover's ear alone, What once to me befell. When she I loved looked every day Fresh as a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath an evening-moon. Upon the moon I fixed my eye, All over the wide lea ; With quickening pace my horse drew nigh Those paths so dear to me. And now we I'eached tlie orchard-plot ; And, as we climbed the liill. The sinking moon to Lucy's cot Came near, and nearer still. In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! And all the while my eyes I kept On tlie descending moon. My horse moved on ; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopped : When down behind the cottage roof, At once, the bright moon dropped. What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a Lover's head ! " O mercy ! " to myself I cried, " If Lucy should be dead I " 1799. 1800. SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTROD- DEN WAYS She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside tlie springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love : WORDSWORTH IS A violet hy a mossy stone Half hidden f'roru the ej^e ! — Fair as a star, Avhen only one Is shining in tlie sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in 'her grave, and, oh. The difference to me ! 17D9. 1800. I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN I TRAVELLED among unknown men. In lands beyond the sea ; Nor, England ! did I know till then What love I bore to thee. 'Tis past, that melancholy dream ! Nor will I quit thy shore A second time ; for still I seem To love thee more and more. Among the mountains did I feel The joy of my desire ; And she I cherished turned her wheel Beside an English fire. Thy mornings showed, thy niglits con- cealed The bowers where Lucy played ; And tliine too is the last green field That Lucv's eyes surveyed. 1799. 1807. THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND SHOWER Three years she grew in sun and sllo\^'er, Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower On earth was never sown ; This Child I to myself will take ; She shall be mine, and I will make A Lady of my own. " Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse : and with me The Girl, in rock and plain. In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. " She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across tlie lawn. Or up the mountain springs ; And hers shall be the breatliing balm. And hers the silence and the calm Of mute Insensate things. " The floating clouds their state shall lend To her ; for her the willow bend ; Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the Storm Ch'ace that shall mould the Maiden's form By silent sympathy. " Tlie stars of midnight shall be dear To her ; and she sliall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murinuring sound Shall pass into her face. " And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to statel}' height, Her virgin bosom swell ; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake. — The work w^as done — How soon my Lucy's race was run ! She died, and left to me Tills heath, this calm and quiet scene ; The memory of what has been. And never more will be. 1799. 1800. A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL A SLUMBER did mj' spirit seal ; I had no human fears : She seemed a thing that could not feel The toucli of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force ; Slie neither hears nor sees ; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course. With rocks, and stones, and trees. 1799. 1800. A POET'S EPITAPH Art thou a Statist in the van Of public conflicts trained and bred ? — First learn to love one living man ; Then may'st thou think upon the dead. A Lawyer art thou ? — draw not nigh ! Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practised ej'e. The hardness of that sallow face. Art thou a Man of puri^le cheer ? A rosy Man, right phimp to see ? Approacli ; yet, Doctor, not too near. This grave no cushion is for thee. Or art thou one of gallant pride, A Soldier and no man of chaff ? Welcome ! — but lay tliy sword aside, And lean upon a peasant's staff. Physician art thou ? one all eyes. Philosopher ! a fingering slave. One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave? Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, O turn aside, — and take, I pray, That he below may rest in peace. Thy ever-dwindling soul away ! A Moralist perchance appears ; Led, Heaven knows how ! to this poor sod : And he has neither eyes nor ears ; Himself his world, and his own God ; One to whose smootli-rubbed soul can cling Nor form, nor feeling, great or small ! A reasoning, self-sufficing thing. An intellectual All-in-all ! Shut close the door ; press down the latch ; Sleep in thy intellectual crust ; Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch Near this unprofitable dust. But who is he, with modest looks. And clad in homely russet brown ? He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own. He is retired as noontide dew, Or fountain in a noon-daj' grove ; And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of j^our love. Tiie outward shows of sky and eartli. Of hill and valley, he has viewed ; And impulses of deeper birth Have come to him in solitude. In common things that round us lie Some random truths he can impart, — The harvest of a (piiet eye That broods and sleeps on his own heart. But he is weak ; both Man and Boy, Hath been an idler in the land ; Contented if he might enjoy The things which others understand. — Come hither in thy hour of strength Come, weak as is a breaking wave ! Here stretch thy body at full length ; Or build thy house upon this grave. 1799. 1800. MATTHEW In the School of is a tablet, on which are' inscribed in gilt letters, the Names of the sev- eral persons who have been Schoolmasters there since the foundation of the School, witli the time at which they entered upon and quitted their office. Opposite to one of those names the Author wrote the following lines. Such a Tablet as is here spol^en of continued to be preserved in Hawkshead School, though the inscriptions were not brought down to our time. This and other poems connected with Matthew would not gain by a literal detail of facts. Lilce the Wanderer in " The Excursion," this Schoolmaster was made up of several both of his class and men of other occupations. I do not ask pardon for what there is of untruth in such verses, considered strictly as matters of fact. It is enough if, being true and consistent in spirit, they move and teach in a manner not unworthy of a Poet's calling. (Wurdswurth.) If Natiu-e, for a favorite child. In thee hath tempered so her clay, Tliat every hour tliy heart runs wild. Yet never once doth go astraj'. Read o'er these lines ; and then review Tliis tablet, tliat tluis luuubly rears In such diversity of hue Its history of two hundred years. — Wlien through this little wreck of fame, Ciplier and syllable ! thine eye Has travelled down to Matthew's name. Pause with no common sympathy. And, if a sleeping tear should wake, Then be it neither checked nor stayed : For Matthew a request I make Which for himself he hath not made. Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, Is silent as a standing pool ; Far from the chimney's merry roar, Aud murmur of the village school. The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs Of one tired out with fun and madness ; WORDSWORTH ly The tears which came to Matthew's eyes Were tears of light, the dew of gladness. Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up — He felt with spirit so profound. — Thou soul of God's best earthly mould ! Thou happy Soul ! and can it be That these two words of glittering gold Are all that must remain of thee ? 1799. 1800. THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS We walked along, wliile bright and red Uprose the morning sun ; And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said, " The will of God be done ! " A village schoolraiaster was he. With hair of glittering gray ; As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday. And on that morning, through the grass. And by tlie steaming rills. We travelled merril3% to pass A day among the hills. " Our work," said I, " was well begun, Then, from thy breast what thought, Beneath so beautiful a sun. So sad a sigh has brought ? " A second time did Matthew stop ; And fixing still his eye Upon the eastern mountain-top, To me he made reply : " Yon cloud Math that long purple cleft Brings fresh into my mind A day like this which I have left Full thirty years behind. " And just above yon slope of corn Such colors, and no other. Were in the sky, that April morn. Of this the very brother. " With rod and line I sued the sport Which that sweet season gave, And, to tlie church-yard come, stopped short Beside my daughter's grave. " Nine summers had she scai'cely seen, The pride of all the vale ; And then she sang ; — she would have been A very nightingale. " Six feet in earth my Emma lay ; And yet I loved her more. For so it seemed, than till that day I e'er had loved before. " And, turning from her grave, I met. Beside the church-j'ard yew, A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet With points of morning dew, " A basket on her head she bare ; Her brow was smooth and white : To see a child so very fair, It was a j^ure delight ! ' ' No fountain from its rocky cave E'er tripped with foot so free ; She seemed as happy as a wave That dances on the sea; " There came from me a sigh of pain Which I could ill confine ; I looked at her, and looked again : And did not wish her mine ! " Matthew is in his grave, yet now, Methinks, I see him stand. As at that moment, with a bough Of wilding in his hand. 1799. 1800. THE FOUNTAIN A CONVERSATION We talked with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true. A pair of friends, though I was young, And Matthew seventy-two. We lay beneath a spreading oak, Beside a mossy seat ; And from the turf a fountain broke. And gurgled at our feet. " Now. Matthew ! " said I, " let us match This water's pleasant tune With some old border-song, or catch That suits a summer's noon ; " Or of the church-clock and the chimes Sing here beneath the shade, Tliat half-mad tiling of witty rhymes Whicli you last April made ! " In silence Matthew lay, and eyed The spring beneath the tree ; And thus tlie dear old Man replied, The gray haired man of glee : " No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears ; How merrily it goes ! 'Twill murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows. " And here, on this delightful day, I cannot choose but think How oft, a vigorous man, I lay Beside this fountain's brink. " My eyes are dim with childish tears. My heart is idly stirred. For tlie same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard, " Thus fares it still in our decay : And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what age takes away Than what it leaves behind. " The blackbird amid leafy trees, The lark above the hill. Let loose tlieir carols when tiiey please Are quiet when they will. " With Nature never do they wage A foolish strife ; tliey see A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free : " But we are pressed by heavy laws ; And often, glad no more. We wear a face of joy, because We have been glad of yore. ' ' If there be one who need bemoan His kindred laid in earth. The household hearts that were his own ; It is the man of mirth. " My days, my Friend, are almost gone, My life has been approved, And many love me ; but by none Am I enough beloved." " Now both himself and me he wrongs. The man who tlius complains ; I live and sing my idle songs Upon these happy plains ; " And, Matthew, for thy children dead I'll be a son to thee ! " At this he grasped my hand, and said, " Alas ! that cannot be." We rose up from the fountain-side ; And down the smooth descent Of the green sheep-track did we glide ; And through the wood we went ; And, ere we came to Leonard's rock. He sang those witty rhymes About the crazy old church-clock, And the bewildered chimes. 1799. 1800. LUCY GRAY OR, SOLITUDE Written at Goslar in Germany. It was founded on a circumstance told me by my Sister, of a little girl who, not far from Halifax in Yorkshire, was bewildered in a snow-storm. Her footsteps were traced by her parents to the middle of the lock of a canal, and no other vestige of her, backward or forward, could be traced. The body however was found in the canal. The way in which the incident was treated and the spirit- ualizing of the character might furnish hints foi' contrasting the imaginative influences which I have endeavored to throw over common life with Crabbe's matter of fact style of treating subjects of the same kind. Thi§ is not spoken to his disparagement, far from it, but to direct the attention of thoughtful readers, into whose hands these notes may fall, to a comparison that may both enlarge the circle of their sensibilities, and tend to produce in them a catholic judg- ment. ( Wordsworth . ) See also Henry Crabb Robinson's Diary, Sept. 11,1816. Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray : And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child. No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; She dwelt on a wide moor, — The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door ! You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green ; But the sw^eet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. " To-night will be a stormy night — You to the town must go ; And take a lantern. Child, to light Your mother through the snow." " That, Father ! will I gladly do : 'Tis scarcely afternoon — Tlie minster-clock lias just struck two, And yonder is the moon ! " At this the Father raised his hook, And snapped a fagot band ; He plied his work ; — and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe : With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse tlie powdery snow, That I'ises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time : She wandered up and down ; And many a hill did Lucy climb : But never reached the town. The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide ; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At daybreak on the hill they stood That overlooked the moor ; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. They wept — and, turning homeward, cried, " In heaven we all shall meet ; " — Wlien in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small ; And through the broken hawthorn hedge. And by the long stone-wall ; And then an open field they crossed: The marks were still the same ; They tracked them on, nor ever lost ; And to the bridge they came. They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank ; And further there were none ! — Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child ; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along. And never looks behind ; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. 1799. 1800. MICHAEL A PASTORAL POEM Written at Town-end, Grasmere, about the same time as " Tlie Brothers." The Sheepfold, on wliicli so much of the poem turns, remains, or rather the ruins of it. The character and cir- cumstances of Luke were taken from a family to whom had belonged, many years before, the house we lived in at Town-end, along with some fields and woodlands on the eastern shore of Grasmere. The name of the Evening Star was not in fact given to this house, but to another on the same side of the valley, more to the north. (Wordsworth.) If from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll, You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle ; in such bold ascent Tlie pastoral mountains front you, face to face. But, courage ! for around that boister- ous brook The mountains have all opened out them- selves. And made a hidden valley of their own. No habitation can be seen ; but they Who journey thither find themselves alone With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites That overhead are sailing in the sky. It is in truth an utter solitude ; Nor should I have made mention of this Dell But for one object which you migjit pass by. Might see and notice not. Beside the brook Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones ! And to that simple object appertains A story — unenriched with strange events, Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside. Or for the summer shade. It was the first Of those domestic tales that spake tome Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men Whom I already loved ; not verily For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills Where was their occupation and abode. And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy Careless of books, yet having felt the power 20 BRITISH POETS Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life. Tlierefore, although it be a history Homely and rude, I will relate the same For the delight of a few natural hearts ; And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake Of youthful Poets, who among tliese hills Will be my second self when I am gone. Upon tlie forest-side in Grasmere Vale There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name ; An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength : his mind was keen. Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs. And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt And watchful more than ordinary men. Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds. Of blasts of every tone ; and. oftentimes. When others heeded not. He heard the South Make subterraneous music, like the noise Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock Bethought him, and he to himself would say, "The winds are now devising work for me ! " And, truly, at all times, the storm that drives The traveller to shelter, sunnnoned him Up to the mountains : he liad been alone Amid the heart of many thousand mists, Tliat came to him, and left him, on the lieights. So lived he till his eightieth year was past. And grossly that man errs, who should suppose That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks. Were things indifferent to the Shep- herd's thoughts. Fields, where with clieerful spirits lie had breathed The common air ; hills, which with vig- orous step ■ He had so often climbed ; which liad impressed So many incidents upon his mind Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear ; Which, like a book, preserved the mem- ory Of the dumb animals, wliom he had saved. Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts Tlie certainty of lionorable gain ; Those fields, those liills — what could thej^ less ? had laid Strong hold on his affections, were to him A pleasurable feeling of blind love. The pleasure which there is in life itself. His days liad not been passed in sin- gleness. His Helpmate was a comely matron, old— Tliough younger than himself full twenty years. She was a woman of a stirring life. Whose heart was in lier house : two wheels slie had Of antique form : tliis large, for spinning wool ; Tliat small, for flax ; and if one wheel had rest It was because the otlier was at work. Tlie Pair had but one inmate in their house. An only Ciiild, who had been born to til em Wlien Michael, telling o'er his years, began To deem that he was old, — in shep- herd's phrase, With one foot in the grave. This only Son, Witli two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm, Tlie one of an inestimable worth, Made all their household. I may truly say, Tliat tliey were as a proverb in the vale For endless industry. Wlieu day was gone. And from their occupations out of doors The Son and Father were come liome, even then, Their labor did not cease ; unless when all Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there, Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk. WORDSWORTH 21 Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes, And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) And his old Father both betook them- selves To such convenient work as might em- ploy Their hands by the fireside ; perhaps to card Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, Or other implement of house or field. Down from the ceiling, by the chim- ney's edge. That in our ancient uncouth country style With huge and black projection over- browed Large space beneath, as duly as the light Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp ; An aged utensil, which had performed Service beyond all others of its kind. Early at evening did it burn — and late. Surviving comrade of uncounted hours. Which, going by from year to j^ear, had found. And left, the couple neither gay perhaps Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, Living a life of eager industry. And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year, There by the light of this old lamp they sate, Father and Son, while far into the night The Housewife plied her own peculiar work. Making the cottage through the silent hours Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. This light was famous in its neighbor- hood. And was a public symbol of the life That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced. Their cottage on a plot of rising ground Stood single, with large prospect, north and south. High into Easedale, up to Dunmail- Raise, And westward to the village near tlie lake ; And from this constant light, so regular And so far seen, the House itself, by all Who dwelt within the limits of the vale. Both old and young, was named The Evening Star. Thus living on through such a length of years , The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs Have loved his Helpmate ; but to Mi- chael's heart This son of his old age was j'et more dear — Less from instinctive tenderness, the same Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all — Than that a child, more than all other gifts That earth can offer to declining man, Brings hope with it, and forward-look- ing thoughts, And stirrings of inquietude, when they By tendency of nature needs must fail. Exceeding was the love he bare to him. His heart and his heart's joy ! For oftentimes Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms. Had done him female service, not alone For pastime and delight, as is the use Of fathers, but with patient mind en- forced To acts of tenderness ; and he had rocked His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand. And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love. Albeit of a stern unbending mind. To have the Young-one in his sight, when he Wrought in the field, or on his shep- herd's stool Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched Under the largf old oak, that near his door Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade, Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, Thence in our rustic dialect was called The Clipping TiiEE,i a name which yet it bears. ^ Clipping is the word used in tVie North of England for shearing. (Wordsworth.) 22 BRITISH POETS There, wliile they two were sitting in the sliade, With others round them, earnest all and blithe. Would Michael exercise his heart witli looks Of fond correction and reproof bestowed Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep By catching at their legs, or with his shouts Scared them, while they lay still be- neath tlie shears. And when by Heaven's good grace tlie boy grew up A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek Two steady roses that were five years old; Then Michael from a winter coppice cut With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped With iron, making it throughout in all Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff, And gave it to the Boy ; wherewith equipt He as a watchman oftentimes was placed At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock; And, to his office pi"ematurely called. There stood the urchin, as you will di- vine, Something between a hindrance and a help ; And for this cause not always, I believe, Receiving from his Father hire of praise ; Though nouglit was left undone which staff, or voice. Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform. But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand Against the mountain blasts ; and to the heights. Not fearing toil, nor length of wearj^ ways. He with his Father daily went, and they Were as companions, why should I relate That objects which the Shepherd loved before Were dearer now ? that from the Boy there came Feelings and emanations — things which were Light to the sun and music to the wind ; And that the old Man's heart seemed born again ? Thus in liis Father's sight the Boy grew up : And now, when he had reached his eigh- teenth year, He was his comfort and his daily hope. While in this sort the simple house- hold lived From day to day, to Michael's ear there came Distressful tidings. Long before the time Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound In surety for his brother's son, a man Of an industrious life, and ample means ; But unforeseen naisfortunes suddenly Had prest upon him ; and old Michael now Was summoned to discharge the forfeit- ure, A grievous penalty, but little less Than half his substance. This unlooked- for claim. At the first hearing, for a moment took IMore hope out of his life than he sup- posed That any old man ever could have lost. As soon as he had armed himself with strength To look his trouble in the face, it seemed The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once A portion of his patrimonial fields. Such was his first resolve ; he thought again. And his heart failed him. " Isabel," said he, Two evenings after he had heard the news, " I have been toiling more than seventy years. And in the open sunshine of God's love Have we all lived ; yet if these fields of ours Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think Tliat I could not lie quiet in my grave. Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself Has scarcely been more diligent than I ; And I have lived to be a fool at last To my own family. An evil man That was, and made an evil choice, if he Were false to us ; and if he were not false. There are ten thousand to whom loss like this Had been no sorrow. I forgive him ; — but 'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. WORDSWORTH 23 " When I began, my purpose was to speak Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel ; the land Shall not go from us, and it shall be free ; He shall -possess it, free as is the wind That passes over it. We have, thou know'st, Another kinsman — he will be our friend In this distress. He is a prosperous man, Thriving in trade — and Luke to hina shall go, And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift He quickly will repair this loss, and then He may return to us. If here he stay, What can be done V Where every one is poor. What can be gained ? " At this the old Man paused, And Isabel sat silent, for her mind Was busy, looking back into past times. There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself. He was a parish-boy — at the church-door They made a gathering for him, shil- lings, pence And halfpennies, wherewith the neigh- bors bought A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares ; And, with this basket on his arm, tlie lad Went up to London, found a master there, Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy To go and overlook his merchandise Beyond the seas ; where he grew won- drous rich, And left estates and monies to tlie poor And, at his birthplace, built a chapel, floored With marble which he sent from foreign lands. These thoughts, and many others of like sort. Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, And her face brightened. The old Man was glad. And thus resumed :—" Well, Isabel! this scheme These two days, has been meat and drink to me. Far more than we have lost is left us yet. —We have enough— I wish indeed that I Were younger ;— but this hope is a good hope. —Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best Buy for him more, and let us send him forth To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night : — If lie could go, the boy should go to- night." Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth With a light heart. The Housewife for five days Was restless morn and night, and all day long Wrought on with her best fingers to pre- pare Things needful for the journey of her son. But Isabel was glad when Sunday came To stop her in her work : for, when slie lay By Michael's side, she through the last two nights Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep : And when they rose at morning she could see That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon She said to Luke, wliile they two by themselves Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go : We have no other child but thee to lose, None to remember — do not go away, For if thou leave thy Father lie will die." The Youtli made answer with a jocund voice ; And Isabel, when she had told her fears. Recovered heart. That evening her best fare Did she bring forth, and all together sat Like happy people round a Christmas fire. With daylight Isabel resumed her work ; And all the ensuing week the house appeared As cheerful as a grove in Spring : at length The expected letter from their kinsman came. With kind assurances that he would do His utmost for the welfare of the Boy ; To wliich, requests were added, that fortlnvith He might be sent to liim. Ten times or more The letter was read over ; Isabel Went fortli to show it to the neighbors round ; Nor was there at that time on English land 24 BRITISH POETS A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel Had to her house returned, the old Man said, " He shall depart to-morrow."' To this word The Housewife answered, talking much of things Which, if at such short notice he should go. Would surely be forgotten. But at length She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. Near the tumultuous brook of Green- head Ghyll, In that deep valley, Michael had de- signed To build a Sheepfold ; and, before he heard The tidings of his melancholy loss, For this same purpose he had gathered up A heap of stones, which by the stream- let's edge Lay thrown together, ready for the work. With Luke that evening thitherward lie walked : And soon as they had reached the place he stopped, And thus the old Man spake to him : — "My Son, To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with full heart I look upon thee, for thou art the same That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, And all tliy life hast been my daily joy. I will relate to thee some little part Of our two histories ; 'twill do thee good When thou art from me, even if I should touch On things thou canst not know of. After thou First cam'st into the world — as oft befalls To new-born infants — thou didst sleep away Two days, and blessings from tJiy Fatlier's tongue Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on, And still I loved thee with increasing love. Never to living ear came sweeter sounds Than when I lieardtheeby our own fire- side First uttering, without words, a natural tune ; While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month fol- lowed month. And in the open fields my life was passed And on the mountains ; else I think that thou Hadst been brought up upon tliy Fatlier's knees. But we were playmates, Luke : among these hills. As well thou knowest, in us the old and young Have played together, nor with me didst thou Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." Luke had a manly heart ; but at these words He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand. And said, " Nay, do not take it so — I see That these are things of which I need not speak. — Even to the utmost I have been to thee A kind and a good Father : and herein I but repay a gift which I myself Received at others' hands ; for, though now old Beyond the common life of man, I still Remember them who loved me in my youth. Both of them sleep together : here they lived, As all their Forefathers had done ; and when At length their time was come, tliey were not loth To give tlieir bodies to the family mould. I wished that thou should'st live the life they lived : But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son , And see so little gain from threescore years. These fields were burthened vi'hen they came to me ; Till I was forty years of age, not more Than half of my inheritance was mine. I toiled and toiled ; God blessed me in my work, And till these three weeks past the land was free. — It looks as if it never could endure Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good That tliou sliould'st go." At tliis tlie old Man paused : Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood, WORDSWORTH 25 Thus, after a short silence, he resumed : " This was a work for us ; and now, my Son, It is a work for me. But, lay one stone — Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. Nay, Boy, be of good hope ; — we both may live To see a better day. At eighty-four I still am strong and hale ; — do thou thy part ; I will do mine. — I will begin again With many tasks tliat were resigned to thee : Up to the heights, and in among the storms, Will I without thee go again, and do All works whicli I was wont to do alone, Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bless thee, B03' ! Thy heart tliese two weeks has been beating fast With many hopes ; it should be so — yes — yes— I knew that thou could'st never have a wish To leave me, Luke : thou hast been bound to me Only bj^ links of love : when thou art gone. What will be left to us !— But, I forget My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone. As I requested ; and hereafter, Luke, When thou art gone away, should evil men Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, And of this moment ; hither turn thy thoughts. And God will strengthen thee : amid all fear And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived. Who, being innocent, did for that cause Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well — When tliou return'st, thou in this place wilt see A work which is not here : a covenant 'Twill be between us ; but, whatever fate Befall tliee, I shall love tliee to the last, And bear thy memory with me to the grave." The Shepherd ended here ; and Luke stooped down. And, as his Father had requested, laid TJie first stone of the Slieepfold. At tiie sight The old Man's grief broke from him ; to liis heart He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept ; And to the house together they returned. — Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace, Ere the night fell : — with morrow's dawn the Boy Began his journey, and when lie had reached The public way, he put on a bold face ; And all the neighbors, as he passed their doors. Game forth with wishes and with fare- well prayers. That followed him till he was out of sight. A good report did from their Kinsman come. Of Luke and his well-doing : and the Boy Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout '• The prettiest letters that were ever seen." Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. So, many months passed on : and once again Tiie Shepherd went about his daily work With confident and cheerful thoughts ; and now Sometimes when lie could find a leisure hour He to that valley took his way, and there Wrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime Luke began To slacken in his duty ; and, at length, He in the dissolute citj'- gave himself To evil courses : ignominy and shame Fell on him. so that he was driven at last To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. There is a comfort in the strength of love ; 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else Would overset the brain, or break the heart : I have conversed with more than one who well Remember the old Man , and what he was Years after he had heard this heavy news. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud, And listened to the wind ; and, as before, Performed all kinds of labor for his sheep, And for the land, his small inheritance. And to that hollow dell from time to time Did he repair, to build the Fold of which His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet The pity which was tlien in every heart For the old Man — and 'tis believed by all TJiat manj' and many a day he thither went. And never lifted up a single stone. There, by the Slieepfold, sometimes was he seen Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, Then old, beside him, lying at liis feet. The length of full seven years, from time to time, He at the building of this Sheepfold wrought. And left the work uniinisJied when he died. Three years, or little more, did Isabel Survive lier Husband : at her death tlie estate Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. The Cottage which was named the Even- ing Star Is gone — the i)^o^ighsihare has been through the ground On which it stood ; great changes liave been wrought In all the neighborhood : — yet tlie oak is left That grew beside their door ; and the remains Of the unfinished Slieej^fold may be seen Beside the boisterous brook of Green- head Ghyll. 1800. 1800. THE SPARROWS' NEST Written in the Orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. At the end of the garden of my father's house at Cockermoutli was a hi^h terrace that com- manded a fine view of the river Derwent and Cockermoutli Castle. This was our favorite play-ground. The terrace-wall, a low one, was covered with closely-clipt privet and roses, which gave an almost impervious shelter to hirds that built their nests there. The latter of these stanzas alludes to one of those nests. ( Wordsioorth. ) Behold, within the leafy shade. Those bright blue eggs togetlier laid ! On me the chance-discovered sight Gleamed like a vision of delight. I started — seeming to esp}' The liome and sheltered bed, The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by My Father's house, in wet or dry My sister Emmelinei and I Together visited. She looked at it and seemed to fear it ; Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it : Such heart was in her, being then A little Prattler among men. The Blessing of my later years Was with me when a boy : She gave me eyes, she gave me ears ; And humble cares, and delicate fears ; A heart, the fountain of sweet tears ; And love, and thought, and jov. 1801. 1807. MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD My lieart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky : So was it when my life began ; So is it now I am a man ; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die ! The Child is father of the Man ; And I could wish mj^ daj'S to be Bound each to each by natural piety. 180S. 1807. WRITTEN IN MARCH WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHER'S WATER Extempore. This little poem was a favorite with Joanna Baillie. ( Wordsworth) Compare the description of the same scene by Wordsworth's sister : " There was the gentle flowing of the stream, the glittering, lively lake, green fields without a living creature to be seen on them ; behind us, a flat pasture with forty- two cattle feeding ; to our left, the road leading to the hamlet. No smoke there, the sun shone on the bare roofs. The people were at work ploughing, harrowing, and sowing; . . .a dog barking now and then, cocks crowing, birds twittering, the snow in patches at the top of the highest hills, yellow palms, purple and green twigs on the birches, ashes with their glittering spikes, stems quite bare. The hawthorn a bright green, with black stems under the oak. The moss of the oak glossy. We went on . . . AVilliam finished his poem before we got to the footof Kirkstone." {Dorothy Wordsworth'' s Jour- nal, April 16, 1802.) The Cock is crov^ing. The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter, 1 Dorothy Wordsworth, called Emmeline also in the poem To a Butterfl.y. See the beautiful lines To my Sister, p. 8, the last lines of the Sonnet p. 31, and notes on the Sonnets of 1803. WORDSWORTH 27 The green field sleeps in the sun ; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest ; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising ; There are forty feeding like one ! Like an army defeated Tlie snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of tlie bare hill : The ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon : There's joy in the mountains ; There's life in the fountains ; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing : The rain is over and gone ! 1802. 1807. TO THE SMALL CELANDINE Written at Town-end, Grasmere. It is re- markable that this flower, coming out so early in the spring as it does, and so bright and beauti- ful, and in such profusion, should not have been noticed earlier in English verse. What adds much to the interest that attends it is its habit of shutting itself up and opening out according to the degree of light and temperature of the air. (Wordsworth.) PANSlt;s, lilies, kingcups, daisies. Let tliem live upon their praises ; Long as there's a sun that sets. Primroses will have their glory ; Long as there are violets. They will liave a place in story : There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine. Eyes of some men travel far For the finding of a star ; Up and down the heavens they go, Men that keep a mighty rout ! I'm as great as they. I trow, Since tlie day I found thee out, Little Flower ! — I'll make a stir, Like a sage astronomer. Modest, yet withal an Elf Bold, and lavish of thyself ; Since we needs must first have met I have seen thee, high and low, Thirty years or more, and yet 'Twas a face I did not know ; Tliou hast now, go where I may, Fifty greetings in a day. Ere a leaf is on a bush, In the time before the thrush Has a thought about her nest. Thou wilt come with half a call, Spreading out thy glossy breast Like a careless Prodigal ; Telling tales about the sun, When we've little warmth, or none. Poets, vain men in their mood ! Travel with the multitude : Never heed them ; I aver That the}" all are wanton wooers ; But the thrifty cottager. Who stirs little out of doors, Joys to spy thee near her Ijome ; Spring is coming, Thou art come ! Comfort have thou of thy merit, Kindly, unassuming Spirit ! Careless of thy neighborhood. Thou dost show thy pleasant face On the moOr, and in the wood. In tlie lane ; there's not a place. Howsoever mean it be. But 'tis good enough for thee. Ill befall the yellow flowers. Children of the flaring hours ! Buttercups, that will be seen, Whether we will see or no ; Others, too, of lofty mien ; They have done as worldlings do. Taken praise that should be thine, Little, humble Celandine ! Prophet of delight and mirth, Ill-requited upon earth ; Herald of a mighty band. Of a joyous train ensuing. Serving at my heart's command, Tasks that are no tasks renewing, I will sing, as doth behove. Hymns in praise of what I love ! 1802. 1807. TO THE SAME FLOWER Pleasures newly found are sweet Wlien they lie about our feet : February last, my heart First at sight of thee was glad ; All unheard of as thou art. Thou must needs, I think, have had, Celandine ! and long ago. Praise of which I nothing know. I have not a doubt but he. Whosoe'er tlie man miglit be, Who the first wiMi pointed rays (Workman worthy to be sainted) 28 BRITISH POETS Set the sign-board in a blaze, When the rising sun he painted, Took tlie fancy from a glance At thy glittering countenance. Soon as gentle breezes bring News of winter's vanishing, And the children build their bowers, Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould All about witli full-blown flowers, Thick as sheep in slieplierd's fold ! With the proudest thou art there. Mantling in the tiny square. Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure, Sighed to think I read a book Only read, perhaps, by me ; Yet I long could overlook Thy bright coronet and Thee, And tliy arch and wily vs^ays. And thy store of other praise. Blithe of heart, from week to week Tliou dost pla}^ at hide-and-seek ; While the patient primrose sits Like a beggar in the cold, Thou, a flower of wiser wits, Slipp'st into thy sheltering hold ; Liveliest of the vernal train When ye all are out again. Drawn by what pecviliar spell. By wl)at charm of sight or smell. Does the dim-eyed curious Bee, Laboring for her waxen cells, Fondly settle upon Thee Prized above all buds and bells Opening dailj' at thy side. By the season multiplied ? Tliou are not beyond the moon, But a thing " beneath our shoon : " Let the bold Discoverer thrid In his bark the polar sea ; Rear who will a pyramid ; Praise it is enough for me. If there be but three or four Who will love my little Flower. lS0i2. 1807. RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE This poem was originally known as The Leech Gatherer, and is still often called by that title. Compare the account of its origin, in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal : "' When William and I returned, we met an old man almost double. He had on a coat, thrown over his shoulders, above his waistcoat and coat. Under this he carried a bundle, and had an apron on and a night-cap. His face was interesting. He had dark eyes and a long nose. John, who afterwards met him at Wytheburn, took him tor a Jew. He was of Scotch parents, but had been born in the ai-my. He had had a wife, and ' she was a good woman, and it pleased God to bless us with ten children.' All these were dead but one, of whom he had not heard for many years, a sailor. His trade was to gather leeches, but now leeches were scarce, and he had not strength for it. He lived by begging, and was making his way to Carlisle, where he should buy a few godly books to sell. He said leeches were very scarce, partly owing to this dry season, but many years they have been scarce. He supposed it owing to their being much sought after, that they did not breed fast, and were of slow growth. Leeches were formerly 2s. 6d. per 100 ; they are now 30s. He had been hurt in driving a cart, his leg broken, his body driven over, his skull fractured. He felt no pain till he recovered from his first insen- sibility. ... It was then late in the evening, when the light was just going away." (Dorothy Wordsivorth^s Journal, October 3, 1800.) There was a roaring in the wind all night ; Tlie rain came heavily and fell in floods ; But now the sun is rising calm and bright ; Tlie birds are singing in the distant woods ; Over liis own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods ; The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters ; And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters. All things tliat love the sun are out of doors ; The skj^ rejoices in the morning's birth ; The grass is bright with rain-drops ; — on the moors The hare is running races in her mirth ; And with her feet she from the plashy earth Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun. Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. I was a Traveller then upon the moor, I saw the hare that raced about with joy; I heard the woods and distant waters roar ; Or heard them not, as happy as a boy : The pleasant season did my heart em- ploy : ]My old remembrances went from me wholly ; And all tlie ways of men, so vain and melancholy. WORDSWORTH 29 But, as it sometimes chanceth, from tlie might Of joy ill minds that can no further go. As liigli as we have mounted in delight In our dejection do we sink as low ; To me that morning did it happen so ; And fears and fancies tliick upon me came ; Dim sadness — and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name. I lieard tlie skjdark warbling in the sky ; And I bethought me of the playful hare : Even sucli a happy Child of earth am I ; Even as these blissful creatures do I fare ; Far from the world I walk, and from all care ; But tliere may come another daj- to me — Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and jwverty. My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought. As if life's business were a summer mood ; As if all needful things would come un- sought To genial faith, still rich in genial good ; But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for liini, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all ? I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride ; Of liim who walked in glory and in joy Following liis plough, along the moun- tain-side : By our own spirits are we deified : We Poets in our youth begin in glad- ness ; But thereof come in the end desponden- cy and madness. Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, A leading froih above, a something given. Yet it befell, that, in this lonely place, When I with these untoward thoughts had striven. Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven I saw a Man before me unawares : The oldest man lie seemed that ever wore gray hairs. As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie Couched on the bald top of an eminence ; Wonder to all who do the same espy. By what means it could thither come, and whence ; So that it seems a thing endued witli sense : Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf Of rock or sand reposetli, tliere to sun itself ; Such seemeil this Man, not all alive nor dead, Nor all asleep, in his extreme old age : His body was bent double, feet and head Coming together in life's pilgrimage ; As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage Of sickness felt bj^ him in times long past, A more than human weight upon his frame had cast. Himself he i^ropped, limbs, body, and laale fac-e, Upon a long gray staff of shaven wood : And, still as I drew near with gentle pace. Upon the margin of that moorish flood Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood. That heareth not the loud winds wlien they call And nioveth all together, if it move at all. At length, himself unsettling, he the pond Stirred with his staff, and fixedl}^ did look Upon tlie muddy water, which he conned, As if he had been reading in a book : A nd now a stranger's privilege I took ; And, drawing to his side, to him did say, "This morning gives us promise of a glorious day." A gentle answer did the old Man make, 111 courteous speech which forth he slowly drew ; And him with further words I thus be- spake, " What occupation do you there pursue ? This is a lonesome place for one like j'ou." Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise Broke from the sable orbs of his yet- vivid eyes. His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, But each in solemn order followed each, 3° BRITISH POETS With something of a lofty utterance drest — • Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach Of ordinary men ; a stately speech ; Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use, Religious men, who give to God and man their dues. He told, that to these waters he had come To gather leeches, being old and poor : Employment hazardous and wearisome ! And he had many hardships to endure : From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor ; Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance. And in this way he gained an honest maintenance. The old Man still stood talking by my side ; But now his voice to me was like a stream Scarce heard ; nor word from word could 1 divide ; And the whole body of the Man did seem Like one whom I had met witli in a dream ; Or like a man from some far region sent. To give me human strength, by apt ad- monishment. My former thoughts returned : the fear that kills ; And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; Cold, pain, and labor, and all fleshly ills ; And mighty Poets in their misery dead. — Perplexed, and longing to be com- forted, My question eagerly did I renew, " How is it that you live, and what is it you do ? " He with a smile did then his words repeat ; And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide He travelled ; stirring thus about his feet The waters of the pools where they abide. " Once I could meet with them on every side ; But they have dwindled long by slow decay ; Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may." While he was talking thus, the lonely place. The old Man's shape, and speech — all troubled me : In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace About the weary moors continually, Wandering about alone and silently. While I these thoughts within myself pursued. He, having made a pause, the same dis- course renewed. And soon with this he other matter blended, Cheerfully uttered, with demeanor kind. But stately in the main ; and when he ended, I could have laughed myself to scorn, to find In tliat decrepit Man so firm a mind. "God," said I, "be my help and stay secure ; I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor ! " 1802. 1807. I GRIEVED FOR BUONAPARTE The direct influence of Milton seems evident in many of tlie following sonnets, and is con- firmed by the entry in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, May 21, 1802: "William wrote two sonnets of Buonaparte, after I had read Milton's sonnets to him." See also Wordsworth's note on " Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room," p. 48. I GRIEVED for Buonaparte, with a vain And an unthinking grief ! The tenderest mood Of that Man's mind — what can it be? what food Fed his first hopes ? what knowledge could he gain ? 'Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good. And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as woman- liood. Wisdom doth live with children round her knees : Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk Of the mind's business : these are the degrees WORDSWORTH 31 By which true Sway doth mount ; this is the stalk True Power doth grow on ; and her rights are these. 1802. 1807. COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, September 8, 1802 "We left London on Saturday morning at half-past five or six, the 30th of July. We mounted the Dover coach at Charing Cross. It was a beautiful morning. Tlie city, St. Paul's, vvith the river, and a multitude of little boats, made a most beautiful sight as we crossed Westminster Bridge. The houses were not over- hung by their cloud of smoke, and they were spread out endlessly ; yet the sun shone so briglitly, with such a fierce light, that there was even something like the purity of one of nature's own grand spectacles." {Dorothy Wordsworth .9 Journal, July, 1802.) Earth has not anything to show more fair : Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty : This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare. Ships, towers, domes, theatres and tem- ples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky ; All bright and glittering in the smoke- less air. Never did .sun more beautifully steep In his fir.st splendor, valley, rock, or hill : Ne'er saw I. never felt, a calm so deep ! The river glideth at his own sweet will : Dear G^od ! the verj^ houses seem asleep ; And all that miglity heart is lying still ! 1802. 1807. COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS, August, 1802 " We had delightful walks after the heat of the day was passed — seeing far off in the west the coast of England like a cloud crested with Dover Castle, which was but like the summit of the cloud — the evening star and the glory of the sky, the reflections in the water were more beautiful than the sky itself, purple waves brighter than precious stones, for ever melting away upon the sands Nothing in romance was ever half so beautiful. Now came in view, as the evening star sunk down, and the colors of the west faded away, the two lights of England." (Doro- thy WordsivortWs Journal, August, 1802.) Fair Star of evening. Splendor of tlie west. Star of my Country ! — on the horizon's brink Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink On England's bosom ; yet well pleased to rest. Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I 1 1 link, Should'st be my Country's emblem ; and sliould'st wink. Bright Star ! with laughter on her ban- ners, drest In tliy fresh beauty. There! tliatduskj^ spot Beneatli thee, that is England ; tliereshe lies. Blessings be on you both ! one hope, one lot, One life, one glory ! — I, with many a fear For my dear Country, many lieartfelt sighs. Among men who do not love her, linger here. 1802. 1807, IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND FREE This vi^as composed on the beach near Calais, in the autumn of 1802. {Wordsworth.) Tlie last six lines are addressed to Words- worth's sister Dorothy. See note to the preced- ing Sonnet. It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun Is sinking down 'in its tranquillity ; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea : Listen ! the mighty Being is awake. And doth with liis eternal motion make A sound like thunder — everlastingly. Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkest witli me here. If thou appear untouched by solemn thought. Thy nature is not therefore less divine : Thou liest in Abraham's bosonr all the year : And worsliip'st at tlie Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not, 1802. 1807. ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee ; And was the safeguard of the west : the worth 32 BRITISH POETS Of Venice did not fall below her birtli, Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. She was a maiden City, bright and free ; No guile seduced, no force could violate ; And when she took unto herself a Mate, She must espouse the everlasting Sea. And what if she had seen those glories fade, Those titles vanish, and that strength decay ; Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid Wlien her long life hath reached its final day: Men are we, and must grieve when even "the Shade Of that which once was great, is passed away. 1S02. 1807. TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE TOUSSAINT, the most unliappy man of men ! Whetlier the whistling Rustic tend his plough Within thy hearing, or thy head be now- Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den ; — miserable Chieftain ! wliere and when Wilt thou find patience ? Yet die not ; do thou Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow : Tliough fallen thyself, never to rise again. Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind Powers that will work for thee ; air, earth, and skies ; There's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee ; thou hast great allies ; Thy friends are exultations, agonies. And love, and man's unconquerable mind. 1803. 1807. NEAR DOVER, September, 1802 Inland, within a liollow vale, I stood ; And saw, wliile sea was calm and air was clear. The coast of France — the coast of France how near ! Drawn aln:iost into frightful neighbor- hood. 1 shrunk ; for verily the barrier flood Was like a lake, or river bright and fair, A span of waters ; yet what power is there ! What miglitiness for evil and for good I Even so doth God protect us if we be Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll, Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity ; Yet in themselves are notl)ing ! One decree Spake laws to them, and said that by tlie soul Only, the Nations shall be great and free. 1S02. 1807. WRITTEN IN LONDON, September, 1802 This was written immediately after my return from France to London, when I could not but be struck, as here described, with the vanity and parade of our own country, especially in great towns and cities, as contrasted with the quiet, and I may say the desolation, that the revolution had produced in France. This must be borne in mind, or else the reader may thinli that in this and the succeeding Sonnets I have exaggerated the mischief engendered and fos- tered among us by undisturbed wealth. It would not be easy to conceive with what a depth of feel- ing I entered into the struggle carried on by the Spaniards for tlieir deliverance from the usurped power of the French. Many times have I gone from Allan Bank in Grasmere vale, where we were then residing, to the top of the Raise-gap as it is called, so late as two o'clock in the morn- ing, to meet the carrier bringing the newspaper from Keswick. Imperfect traces of the state of mind in which I then was may be found in my Tract on the Convention of Cintra, as well as in these Sonnets. {Wordsvmrtli.) , O Friend ! I know not which way I must look For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, To tliink that now our life is only drest For show ; mean handy- work of crafts- man, cook. Or groom ! — We must run glittering like a brook In the open sunshine, or we are unblest : The wealthiest man among us is the best : No grandeur now in nature or in book Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, Tliis is idolatry : and these we adore : Plain living and high thinking are no more : Tlie homely beauty of tlie good old cause Is gone ; our peace, our fearful inno- cence. And pure religion breathing household laws. 1SU,2. 1807. WORDSWORTH 33 LONDON, 1803 Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour : England hath need of thee ; she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower. Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea : Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free. So didst thou travel on life's common way. In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 180S. 1807. GREAT MEN HAVE BEEN AMONG US Great men have been among us ; hands that penned And tongues that uttered wisdom — bet- ter none : The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend. These moralists cou^d act and compre- hend : They knew^ how genuine glory was put on ; Taught us how rightfully a nation shone In splendor : what strengtli was, that would not bend But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange. Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. Perpetual einptiness ! unceasing change ! No single volume paramount, no code. No master spirit, no determined road ; But equally a want of books and men ! ISOS. 1807. IT IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT OF It is not to be thought of that the Flood Of British freedom, which, to the open sea 3 Of the world's praise, from dark an- tiquity Hath flowed, " with pomp of waters, un- withstood," Roused though it be full often to a mood Which spurns the check of salutary bands, That this most famous stream in bogs and sands Sliould perish ; and to evil and to good Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung Armory of the invincible Knights of old: We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakspeare spake ; the faith and morals hold Which Milton lield. — In everything we are sprung Of Earth's first blood, have titles mani- fold. 1803. 1807. WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY When I have borne in memory what lias tamed Great Nations, liow ennobling thoughts depart When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country ! — am I to be blamed? Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art. Verily, in the bottom of my heart. Of tliose un filial fears I am ashamed. For dearly must we prize thee ; we who find In tliee a bulwark for the cause of men : And I by my afi'ection w^as beguiled : What wonder if a Poet now and then. Among the many movements of his mind, Felt for thee as a lover or a child ! ISO:?. 1807. TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE SIX YEARS OLD O THOU ! whose fancies from afar are brought ; Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel. And fittest to unutterable thought The breeze-like motion and the self- born carol ; 34 BRITISH POETS Thou faery voyager ! that dost float In such clear water, that thy boat May rather seem To brood on air than on an earthly stream ; Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, Where earth and heaA'en do make one imagery ; blessed vision ! happy child ! Thou art so exquisitely wild, 1 think of thee with many fears For what may be thy lot in future years. I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest. Lord of thy house and liospitality ; And Grief, uneasy lover ! never rest But when she sate within the touch of thee. O too industrious folly ! O vain and causeless melancholy ! Nature will either end thee quite ; Or, lengthening out thj^ season of delight. Preserve for thee, by individual right, A young lamb's heart among the full- grown flocks. What hast thou to do with sorrow. Or the injui-ies of to-morrow ? Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth, 111 fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, Or to be trailed along the soiling earth ; A gem that glitters while it lives. And no forewarning gives ; But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife Slips in a moment out of life. 1S02. 1807. TO THE DAISY In youth from rock to rock I went, From hill to hill in discontent Of pleasure high and turbulent. Most pleased when most uneasy ; But now my own delights I make, — My thirst at every rill can slake. And gladly Nature's love partake, Of Thee, sweet Daisy ! Thee Winter in the garland wears That thinly decks his few gray hairs ; Spring parts the clouds witli softest airs, . That she may sun thee ; Whole Sunamer-fields are thine by right ; And Autumn, melancholy Wight ! Doth in thy crimson head delight When rains are on thee. In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane ; Pleased at his greeting thee again ; Yet nothing daunted, Nor grieved if tliou be set at nought : And oft alone in nooks remote We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted. Be violets in their secret mews The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose ; Proud be the rose, witli rains and dews Her head im pearling ; Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, Yet hast not gone without thy fame ; Tiiou art indeed by many a claim The Poet's darling. If to a rock from rains he fly, Or, some bright day of April sky. Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie Near tlie green holly. And wearily at length should fare ; He needs but look about, and there Thou art ! — a friend at hand, to scare His melancholy. A hundred times, by rock or bower, Eie thus I have lain couched an hour, Have I derived from thy sweet power Some apprehension ; Some steady love ; some brief delight ; Some memory tliat had taken fliglit ; Some cliime of fancy wrong or right ; Or stray invention. If stately passions in me burn, And one chance look to Tliee should turn, I drink out of an humbler urn A lowlier pleasure ; Tlie liomely sympathy that heeds Tlie common life our nature breeds ; A wisdom fitted to the needs Of hearts at leisure. Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, Wlien tliou art up, alert and gay, Tlien, cheerful Flower ! my spirits play With kindred gladness : And when, at dusk, by dews opprest Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest Hath often eased my pensive breast Of careful sadness. And all day long I number yet, All seasons through, another debt, Which I, wherever tliou art met, To thee am owing ; An instinct call it, a blind sense ; A happy, genial influence, Coming one knows not how, nor wlience, Nor whither going. WORDSWORTH 35 Cliild of the Year ! that round dost run Tliy pleasant course, — when day's begun As ready to salute the sun As lark or leveret, Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain ; Nor be less dear to future men Than in old time ; thou not in vain Art Nature's favorite. i I'ioS. 1807. TO THE SAME FLOWER With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Daisy ! again I talk to thee, For thou art worthy. Thou unassuming Common-place Of Nature, with tlaat homely face, And yet with something of a grace. Which Love makes for thee ! Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose types of things through all de- grees, Thoughts of thy raising : And many a fond and idle name I give to thee, for praise or blame. As is the humor of the game, While I am gazing. A nun demure of lowly port ; Or sprightly maiden,- of Love's covu't. In thy simplicity the sport Of all temptations ; A queen in crown of rubies drest ; A starveling in a scanty vest ; Are all, as seems to suit thee best. Thy appellations. A little Cyclops, witli one eye Staring to threaten and defy. That thought conies next — and instantly The freak is over. The shape will vanish — and behold A silver shield with boss of gold, That spreads itself, some faery bold In fight to cover ! I see thee glittering from afar — And then thou art a j^retty star ; Not quite so fair as many are In heaven above thee ! Yet like a star, with glittering crest. Self-poised m air thou seem'st to rest ; — May peace come never to his nest. Who shall reprove thee ! J See, in Chaucer and the eldfr Poets, the honors formerly paid to this flower. (. Wordsworth.) Bright Floiver ! for by that name at last, When all my reveries are past, I call thee, and to that cleave fast. Sweet silent creature ! That breath'st with me in sun and air, Do thou, as thou art wont, repair Mv heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature ! ISO'^. 1807. TO THE DAISY Bright Flower ! whose home is every- where. Bold in maternal Nature's care. And all the long year through, the heir Of joy or sorrow ; IMethinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity. Given to no other flower I see The forest thorough ! Is it that Man is soon deprest ? A thoughtless Thing ! who, once un- blest. Does little on his memory rest. Or on his reason, And Thou would'st teach him how to find A shelter under every wind, A hope for times that are unkind And every season ? Thoit wander'st the wide world about. Unchecked by pride or scrupulous doubt. With friends to greet thee, or without. Yet pleased and willing ; Meek, yielding to the occasion's call. And all things suffering from all, Tliy function apostolical In peace fulfilling. 1S03. 1807. THE GREEN LINNET Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather. In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat ! And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together. One have I marked, the happiest guest In all this covert of the blest : Hail to Thee, far above the rest In joy of voice and pinion ! 36 BRITISH POETS Thou, Linnet ! in thy green array, Presiding Spii'it here to-day, Dost lead the revels of the May ; And this is thy dominion. While birds, and butterflies, and flow- ers. Make all one band of paramours, Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, Art sole in thy employment : A Life, a Presence like tlie Air, Scattering thy gladness without care, Too blest with any one to pair ; Thyself thp own enjoyment. Amid yon tuft of hazel trees. That twinkle to the gusty bi"eeze, Behold him perched in ecstasies. Yet seeming still to hover ; There ! where tlie flutter of his wings Upon his back and body flings Shadows and sunny glimmerings. That cover him all over. My dazzled sight he oft deceives, A Brother of the dancing leaves ; Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves Pours forth his song in gushes ; As if by that exulting strain He mocked and treated witlj disdain The voiceless Form lie cliose to feign, While fluttering in the buslies. 1803. 1807. YEW-TREES Compare the note on A Night-Piece. There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, Which to this day stands single, in tlie midst Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore ; Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands Of XJmfraville or Percy ere they marched To Scotland's heaths ; or those tliat crossed the sea And drew their sounding bows at Azin- cour, Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. Of vast circumference and gloom pro- found This solitary Tree ! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay ; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed. But worthier still of note Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale, Joined in one solemn and capacious grove ; Huge trunks; and each particular trunk a growth Of intertwisted fibres serpentine Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved ; Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks That threaten the profane ; — a isillared shade, UjDon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue, By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged Perennially — beneath whose sable roof Of boughs, as if for festal puipose, decked With unrejoicing berries — ghostly Shapes May meet at noontide ; Fear and trem- bling Hope. Silence and Foresight ; Death the Skele- ton And Time the Shadow ; — there to cele- brate, As in a natural temple scattered o'er With altars undisturbed of nioss}^ stone, United worship ; or in mute repose To lie, and listen to the mountain flood Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves. 1S03. 1807. AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS 0_ 1803 SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH For illustration, see my Sister's Journal. ( Wordsworth). I SHIVER. Spirit fierce and bold, At thought of what I now behold : As vapors breathed from dungeons cold , Strike pleasure dead. So sadness conies from out tlie mould Where Burns is laid. And have I then thy bones so near. And thou forbidden to appear ? As if it were thyself that's here I shrink with pain ; And both my wishes and my fear Alike are vain. Off weight — nor press on weight ! — away Dark thoughts !— they came, but not to stay ; WORDSWORTH 37 With chastened feelings would I pay The tribute due To him, and aught that hides his clay From mortal view. Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth He sang, his genius " glinted " forth. Rose like a star that touching earth, For so it seems. Doth glorify its humble birth With matchless beams. The piercing eye. the thoughtful brow. The struggling heart, where be they now ? — Full soon the Aspirant of the plough. The prompt, the brave, Slept, with the obscurest, in the low And silent grave. I mourned with thousands, but as one More deeply grieved, for He was gone Whose light I hailed when first it shone, And showed my youth How Verse may build a princely throne On humble truth. Alas ! where'er the current tends. Regret pursues and with it blends, — Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends Hy Skiddaw seen, — Neighbors we were, and loving friends We might have been ; True friends though diversely inclined ; But heart with heart and mind with mind. Where the main fibres are entwined. Through Nature's skill, May even by contraries be joined More closely still. The tear will start, and let it flow ; Thou " poor Inhabitant below," At this dread moment— even so — Might we together Have sate and talked where gowans blow. Or on wild heather. What treasures would have then been placed Within my reach ; of knowledge graced By fancy what a rich repast ! But wliy go on ? — Oh ! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast. His grave grass-grown. There, too, a Son, his joy and pride, (Not three weeks past the Stripling died,) Lies gathered to his Father's side, Soul-moving siglit ! Yet one to which is not denied Some sad delight : For he is safe, a quiet bed Hath early found among the dead, Harbored where none can be misled, Wronged, or distrest ; And surely here it may be said That such are blest. And oh for Thee, by pitying grace Checked oft-times in a devious race, May He who hallowetli the place Where Man is laid Receive thy Spirit in the embrace For which it prayed ! Sighing I turned away ; but ere Niglit fell I heard, or seemed to hear, Music that sorrow comes not near, A ritual hymn. Chanted in love that casts out fear By Seraphim. 1803. 1845. TO A HIGHLAND GIRL AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND This delightful creature and her demeanor are particularly described in my Sister's Journal. (Wordsivorth.) Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head : And these gray rocks ; that household lawn ; Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; This fall of water that doth make A murmur near the silent lake ; This little bay ; a quiet road That holds in shelter thy Abode — In trutli together do ye seem Like something fashioned in a dream : Such Forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep ! But, O fair Creature ! in the light Of common day. so heavenly bright, I bless Thee, Vision as thou art I bless thee with a human heart ; God shield thee to tliy latest years ! Thee neither know I, nor thy peers ; And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 38 BRITISH POETS With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away : For never saw I mien, or face, In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and liome-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence. Here scattered, like a random seed. Remote from men. Thou dost not need The embari-assed look of shy distress. And maidenly shamefacedness : Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear Tlie freedom of a Mountaineer : A face with gladness overspread ! Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ! And seemliness complete, tliat sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts tliat lie beyond the reacli Of thy few words of English speech : A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife Tliat gives thy gestures grace and life ! So have I, not unmoved in mind. Seen birds of tempest-loving kind — Thus beating up against the wind. Wliat hand but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful ? happy pleasure ! here to dwell Beside thee in some iieathy dell ; Adopt your homely ways, and dress, A Shepherd, tlioua Shepherdess ! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality : Thou ai't to me but as a wave Of the wild sea ; and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could. Though but of common neighborhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see ! Thy elder Brother I would be, Thy Father — anything to thee ! Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace Hath led me to this lonely place. Joy have I had ; and going hence 1 bear avyay my recompense. In spots like these it is we prize Our Memory, feel that she hatli eyes: Then, why should I be lotli to stir? I feel this place was made for her ; To give new pleasure like the past, Continued long as life shall last. Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart. Sweet Highland Girl ! from thee to part : For I, methinks, till I grow old, As fair before me shall behold. As I do now, the cabin small. The lake, the bay, the waterfall ; And Thee, the spirit of them all ! 1S03. 1807. STEPPING WESTWARD While my Fellow-traveller and I were walk- ing by the side of Loch Ketterine, one fine even- ing aiter sunset, in our road to a Hut where, in the course of our Tour, we had been hospitably entertained some weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region, two well-dressed Women, one of whom said to us by way of greeting, " What, you are stepping west- ward ? " {Wordsworth.) " WJiat, you are stepping westward ?" — " Yea." — 'Twould be a wildish destiny. If we, who thus together roam In a strange Land, and far from home. Were in this place the guests of Chance : Yet who would stop, or fear to advance Though home or shelter he had none, With such a sky to lead him on? The dewy ground was da.rk and cold : Behind, all gloomy to behold ; And stepping westward seemed to be A kind of heavenly destiny : I liked the greeting ; 't was a sound Of something without place or bound ; And seemed to give me spiritual right To travel through that region bright. The voice was soft, and she who spake Was walking by her native lake : The salutation had to me The very sound of courtesy : Its power was felt ; and while my eye Was fixed upon the glowing Sky, The echo of the voice en wrought A human sweetness with the thought Of travelling through the world that lay Before me in my endless way. 1S03. 1807. THE SOLITARY REAPER Behold her, single in the field. Yon solitary Highland Lass ! Reaping and singing by herself ; Stop here, or gently pass ! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain ; O listen ! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No Nightingale did ever chant More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands : A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. WORDSWORTH 39 Will no one tell me what she sings ? — Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things. And battles long ago : Or is it some more humble lay, , Familiar matter of to-day ? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again ? Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending ; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the siclcle bending ; — I listened, motionless and still ; And, as I mounted up the hill The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more. 1803. 1807. YARROW UNVISITED See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks of the Yarrow ; in particu- lar, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton beginning "Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, — Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow I — " (Wordsworth) , From Stirling castle we had seen Tlie mazy Forth unravelled : Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, And with the Tweed had travelled ; And when we came to Clovenford, Then said my " ivinsome Marrow,'" "Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, And see the Braes of Yarrow." " Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, Who have been buying, selling. Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own ; Each maiden to her dwelling ! On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! But we will downward with the Tweed, Nor turn aside to Yarrow. "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, Both lying right before us ; And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed The lintwhites sing in chorus ; There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land Made blithe with plough and li arrow : Why throw away a needful day To go in search of Yarrow ? " What's Yarrow but a river bare. That glides the dark hills under ? There are a thousand such elsewhere As worthy of your wonder." ^Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn My True-love sighed for sorrow ; And looked me in the face, to think I thus could speak of Yarrow ! "Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms, And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, But we will leave it growing. O'er hilly path, and open Strath, We'll wander Scotland thorough ; But, though so near, we will not turn Into the dale of Yarrow. " Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; The swan on still St. Maiy's Lake Float double, swan and shadow ! We will not see them ; will not go, To-day, nor yet to-morrow, Enough if in our hearts we know There's such a place as Yarrow. " Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown ! It must, or we shall rue it : AVe have a vision of our own ; Ah ! why should we undo it ? The treasured dreams of times long past. We'll keep them, winsome Marrow ! For when we're there, altliough 'tis fair, 'Twill be another Yarrow ! "If Care with freezing years should come. And wandering seem but folly, — Should we be loth to stir from home, And yet be melancholy ; Should life be dull, and spirits low, 'Twill soothe us in our sorrow. That earth has something yet to show, The bonny holms of Yarrow ! " 1803. 1807. ODE INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM REC- OLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD "In my Ode on the Intimations of Immor- tality in Childhood, I do not profess to give a literal representation of the state of the affec- tions and of the moral being in childhood. I re- cord my own feelings at that time— my absolute spirituality, my ' all-soulness,' if I may so speak. At that time I could not believe that I should lie down quietly in the grave, and that my body would moulder into dust." (Wordsworth in con- versation ; Knight's Life of Wordsicorth, II, 326.) I There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 40 BRITISH POETS The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glor.y and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — Turn wliereso'er I may, By night or day, Tlie things which I have seen I now can see no more. II The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose, The Moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare ; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair ; Tlie sunshine is a glorious birth ; But 3^et I know, where'er I go, Tiiat tliere liath past away a glory from the earth. Ill Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song. And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound. To me alone there came a thought of grief ; A timely utterance gave that thouglit relief. And I again am strong : The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; I hear the Echoes through the inoun- tains throng, The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep. And all the earth is gay ; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every Beast keep holiday ; — Thou Child of Joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shef)herd-boy ! IV Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make ; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; My heart is at your festival. My head hath its coronal. The fulness of your bliss, I feel — T feel it all, Oh evil day ! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning, This sweet May-morning, And the Children are culling On every side. In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm. And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm : — I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! — But tliere's a Tree, of many, one, A single Field which I have looked upon, Both of them sj^eak of something that is gone : The Pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat : Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? V Our birth is but a sleep and a forget- ting : The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And Cometh from afar : Not in entire forgetfulness. And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home : Heaven lies about us in our infaiicy ! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy. But he beholds the light, and whence it flows. He sees it in his joy ; The Youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended ; At length the Man perceives it die awa5% And fade into the light of common daj'. VI Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind. And, even with something of a Mother's mind. And no unworthy aim. The homely Nurse doth all she can To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, WORDSWORTH 41 Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came. Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies. Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. With light upon him from his father's eyes ! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart. Some fragment from his dream of hu- man life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral ; And this hath now his heart. And unto this he frames his song : Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little Actor cons another part ; Filling from time to time his "humor- ous stage " With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her equip- age ; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation. VIII Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy Soul's immensity ; Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,' That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted forever by the eternal mind,— Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! On whom those truths do rest. Which we are toiling all our lives to find. In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, A Presence which is not to be put by ; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height. Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ■? Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight. And custom lie upon thee with a weight, Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! O joy ! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive ! The thought of our past years in me dotli breed Perpetual benediction : not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest — Delight and liberty, tlie simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest. With new-fiedged hope still fluttering in his breast : — Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise ; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings ; Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realized. High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty Thing sur- prised : But for those first affections. Those shadowy recollections. Which, be they what they may. Are yet the fountain light of all our day. Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake. To perisli never ; Which neither listlessness, nor mad en- deavor. Nor Man nor Boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy ! Hence in a season of calm weather Tliouirh inland far we be, 42 BRITISH POETS Our Souls have sight of that imuiortal sea Which brought us hither, Can in a moment traA'el thither, And see the Children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. X Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! And let the young Lambs bound As to the tabor's sound ! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that plaj'. Ye tliat through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May ! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour" Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower ; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind ; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be ; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering ; In the faith that looks through death. In years that bring the philosophic mind. XI And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves ! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; I only have I'elinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the Brooks which down their channels fret. Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; The innocent brightness of a new-born Day Is lovely yet ; The Clouds that gather round the set- ting sun Do take a sober coloring from an eye That hatli kept watch o'er man's mor- tality ; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live. Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 1803-6. 1807. TO THE CUCKOO BLITHE New-comer ! I have heard, 1 hear thee and rejoice. Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice ? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to liill it seems to pass, At once far off, and near. Though babbling only to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers. Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery ; The same whom in my school-boy days 1 listened to ; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green ; And tliou wert still a hope, a love ; Still longed for, never seen. And I can listen to thee yet ; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again. O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, faery place ; That is fit home for Thee ! 1804. 1807. SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The germ of this poem was four lines composed as a part of the verses on the Highland Girl. Though begin- ning in tliis way, it was written from my heart, as is sufficiently obvious. ( Wordsroorth.) She was a Phantom of deliglit When first she gleamed upon my sight ; WORDSWORTH 43 A lovely Apparition sent To be a moment's ornament ; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. I saw her upon nearer view. A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! Her liousehold motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty ; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet ; A Creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food ; For transient sorrows, simple Mnles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine ; A Being breathing thouglitful breath, A Traveller between life and death ; The reason firm, the temperate will. Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; A perfect Woman, nobly planned. To warn, to comfort, and command ; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With sometlaing of angelic light. 180I^. 1807. I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The Daf- fodils grew and still grow on the margin of Ulls- water, and probably may be seen to this day as beautiful in the month of March, nodding their golden heads beside the dancing and foaming waves. ( Wordsworth. ) I WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills. When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils ; Beside the lake, beneath the trees. Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay : Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced ; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company : I gazed — and gazed — but little thouglit What wealth the show to me had brought : For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, Tliey flash upon that inward eye AVhich is the bliss of solitude ; And then my heart with pleasure fllls, And dances with the daffodils. 1304. 1807. THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET Written at Town-end, Grasmere. This was taken from the case of a poor widow who lived in the town of Penrith. Her sorrow was well known to Mrs. Wordsworth, to my Sister, and, I believe, to the whole town. She kept a shop, and when she saw a stranger passing by, she was in the habit of going out into the street to en- quire of him after her son. ( Wordsivorth.) Where art thou, my beloved Son, Where art thou, worse to me than dead ? Oh find me, prosperous or undone ! Or, if the grave be now thy bed. Why am I ignorant of the same, That I may rest, and neither blame Nor sorrow may attend thy name ? Seven years, alas ! to have received No tidings of an only child ; To have despaired, have hoped, believed. And been for evermore beguiled ; Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss ! I catch at them, and then I miss ; Was ever darkness like to this ? He was among the prime in worth. An object beauteous to behold ; AVeli born, well bred ; I sent him forth Ingenuous, innocent, and bold : If things ensued that wanted grace. As hath been said, they were not base ; And never blush was on my face. Ah ! little doth the young one dream, When full of play and childish cares. What power is in his wildest scream, Heard by his mother unawares ! He knows it not, he cannot guess : Years to a mother bring distress ; But do not make her love the less. Neglect me ! no, I suffered long From that ill thought ; and, being blind. Said, " Pride shall help me in my wrong ; Kind mother have I been, as kind As ever breathed;" and that is true ; I've wet my path with tears like dew, Weeping for him when no one knew. 44 BRITISH POETS My Son, if tliou be humbled, poor, Hopeless of honor and of gain, Oh ! do not dread thy mother's door ; Think not of me with grief and pain : I now can see with better eyes ; And worldly grandeur I despise, And fortune with her gifts and lies. Alas ! the fowls of heaven have wings. And blasts of heaven will aid their flight ; They mount — liow short a voyage brings The wanderers back to their delight ! Chains tie us down by land and sea ; And wishes, vain as mine, inay be All that is left to comfort thee. Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan. Maimed, mangled by inhuman men ; Or thou upon a desert thrown Inheritest the lion's den ; Or hast been summoned to the deep, Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep An incommunicable sleep. I look for ghosts ; but none will force Their way to me : 'tis falsely said That there was ever intercourse Between the living and the dead ; For, surely, then I should have sight Of him I wait for day and night, With love and longings infinite. My apprehensions come in crowds ; I dread the rustling of the grass ; The verj'- shadows of the clouds Have power to sliake me as they pass : I question things and do not find One that will answer to my mind ; And all the world appears unkind. Beyond participation lie My troubles, and beyond relief : If any chance to heave a sigh. They pity me, and not my grief. Then come to me, my Son, or send Some tidings that my woes may end ; I have no other earthly friend ! I8O4. 1807. ODE TO DUTY Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! O Duty ! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove ; Thou, who art factory and law When empty terrors overawe : From vain temptations dost set free : And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity ! There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them ; wlio, in love and ti'uth, Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth : Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot Who do thy work, and know it not : Oh ! if through confidence misplaced They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power ! around them cast. Serene will be our days and bright, And happy will our nature be, Wlien love is an unerring light, And joy its own security. And they a blissful course may hold Even now, wlio, not unwiselj^ bold. Live in the spirit of this creed ; Yet seek thy firm support, according to tlieir need. I, loving freedom, aud untried, No sport of every random gust. Yet being to myself a guide. Too blindly have reposed my trust : • And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferred The task, in smoother walks to stray ; But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. Through no disturbance of my soul. Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for tliy control ; But in the quietness of thought : Me this unchartered freedona tires ; I feel the weight of chance-desires : My hopes no more must change tlieir name, I long for a repose that ever is the same. 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 tliy footing treads ; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; And tlie most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong. To humbler functions, awful Power ! I call thee : I myself commend Unto thy guidance from this hour ; Oh, let my M^eakness have an end ! Give unto me. made lowly wise. The spirit of self-sacrifice ; The confidence of reason give : And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live ! 1805. 1807. WORDSWORTH 45 TO A SKY-LARK Up with me! up with me into the clouds ! For thy song, Lark, is strong ; Up with nie, up witli me into the clouds ! Singing, singing, With clouds and sky about thee ringing Lift me. guide me till I find That spot which seems so to thy mind ! I have walked through wildernesses dreary And to-day my heart is weary ; Had I now the wings of a Faery, Up to thee would I fly. Thei-e is madness about thee, and joy divine In that song of thine ; Lift me, guide me high and high To thy banqueting-place in the sky. Joyous as morning Thou art laughing and scorning ; Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest. And, though little troubled with sloth, Drunken Lark ! tliou would'st be loth To be such a traveller as I. Happy, happy Liver, With a soul as strong as a mountain river Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, Joy and jollity be witli us both ! Alas ! my journey, rugged and uneven, Through prickly moors or dusty ways mvist wind ; But liearing thee, or others of thy kind. As full of gladness and as free of heaven, I, with my fate contented, will plod on, And hope for higher raptures, when hfe's day is done. 1805. 1807. ELEGIxiC STANZAS SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE, IN A STORM, PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT T WAS thy neighbor once, thou rugged Pile ! Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee : I saw thee every day ; and all the while Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. So pure the sky, so quiet was the air ! So like, so very like, was day to day ! Whene'er I looked, tliy Image still was there ; It trembled, but it never passed away. How perfect was the calm ! it seemed no sleep ; No mood, whicli season takes away, or brings : I could have fancied that the mighty Deep Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things. Ah ! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's hand, To express wJiat then I saw ; and add the gleam, • The light that never was, on sea or land. The consecration, and the Poet's dream ; I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile Amid a world how different from this ! Beside a sea that could not cease to smile ; On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure- house divine Of peaceful years ; a chronicle of heaven ; — Of all tlie sunbeams that did ever shine The very sweetest had to thee been given. A picture had it been of lasting ease, Elysian quiet, without toil or strife ; No motion but the moving tide, a breeze. Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. Such, in the fond illusion of my heart. Such Picture would I at that time have made : And seen the soul of truth in every part, A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed. So once it would have been, — 'tis so no more ; I have submitted to a new control : A power is gone, which nothing can restore ; A deep distress hath humanized my Soul. 46 BRITISH POETS Not for a moment could I now behold A smiling sea, and be what I have been : The feeling of my loss will ne'ei' be old ; This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would have been the Friend, If he had lived, of Him jvliom I deplore, This work of thine I blame not, but commend : This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 'tis a passionate Work ! — yet wise and well, Well chosen in the spirit that is here ; That Hulk which labors in the deadly swell, This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! And this huge Castle, standing liere sub- lime, 1 love to see the look with which it braves. Cased in the unfeeling armor of old time, The lightning, the fiei-ce wind, and trampling waves. Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind ! Such happiness, wherever it be known. Is to be pitied ; for 't is surely blind. But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, And frequent sights of what is to be borne! Such sights, or worse, as are before me here. — Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 1805. 1807. TO A YOUNG LADY WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAK- ING LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY De4R Child of Nature, let them rail! — There is a nest in a green dale, A harbor and a hold ; Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see Thy own heart-stirring days, and be A light to young and old. There, healthy as a shepherd boy, And treading among flowers of joy Which at no season fade, Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, Shalt show us how divine a thing A Woman may be made. Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die. Nor leave thee, when gray hairs are nigh, A melancholy slave ; But an old age serene and bright, And lovely as a Lapland night, Shall lead thee to thy grave. 1805. 1807. FRENCH REVOLUTION AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS COMMENCEMENT An extract from the long poem of my own poetical education. It was first publislied by Coleridge in his "Friend," which is the reason of its having had a place in every edition of my poems since. ( Wordsworth. ) From The Prelude, Bk. XI. Oh ! pleasant exercise of hope and joy ! For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood Upon our side, we who were strong in love ! Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive. But to be young was very heaven ! — Oh ! times. In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways Of custom, law, and statute, took at once Tlie attraction of a country in romance ! When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights, When most intent on making of herself A prime Enchantress — to assist the work. Which then was going forward in her name ! Not favored spots alone, but the whole earth. The beauty wore of promise, that which sets (As at some moment might not be imfelt Among the bowers of paradise itself) The budding rose above the rose full blown. What temper at the prospect did not wake To happiness unthought of ? The inert Were roused, and lively natures rapt away ! They who had fed their childhood upon dreams. The playfellows of fancy, who had made All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and strength WORDSWORTH 47 Their ministers, — who in lordly wise had stirred Among the grandest objects of the sense, And dealt with whatsoever they found there As if they had w^ithin some kirking right To wield it ; — they, too, who, of gentle mood, Had watched all gentle motions, and to these Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild, And in the region of their peaceful selves ; — Now was it that both found, the meek and lofty Did both find, helpers to their heart's desire, And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish ; Were called upon to exercise their skill, Not in Utopia, subterranean fields, Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where ! But in the very w^orld, w^hich is the wOrld Of all of us, — the place where in the end We find our happiness, or not at all ! 1S05. 1810. CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR Suggested In part by an event which all Eng- land was lamenting— the death of Lord Nelson— and in part by the personal loss, tvhlch he still felt so keenly, his brother John's removal. On the 4th of February, 1806, Southey wrote thus to Sir Walter Scott: . . . 'Wordsworth was with me last week ; he has been of late more employed in correcting his poems than in writ- ting others ; but one piece he has written, upon the ideal character of a soldier, than which I have never seen anything more full of meaning and sound thought. The subject was suggested by Nelson's most glorious death. . . .' (Knight, Life of Wordsworth, II, 46-7.) Who is the happy Warrior ? Who is he That every man in arms should wish to be? —It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought Among the task of real life, hath wrought Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought : Whose high endeavors are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright : Who, with a natural instinct to discern What knowledge can perform, is dili- gent to learn ; Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, But makes his moral being his prime care ; Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train ! Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; In face of these doth exercise a power Which is our human nature's highest dower ; Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives : By objects, which might force the soul to abate Her feeling, rendered more compassion- ate ; Is placable — because occasions rise So often that demand such sacrifice ; More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, As tempted more ; more able to endure. As more exposed to suffering and dis- tress ; Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. — 'Tis he whose law is reason ; who de- pends Upon that law as on the best of friends ; Whence, in a state where men are tempted still To evil for a guard against worse ill, And what in quality or act is best Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, He labors good on good to fix, and owes To virtue every triumph that he knows : —Who, if he rise to station of command, Rises by open means ; and there will stand On honorable terms, or else retire. And in himself possess his own desire ; Who comprehends his trust, and to the same Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state ; Whom they must follow ; on whose head must fall. Like showers of manna, if they come at all: Whose powers shed round him in the common strife. Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 48 BRITISH POETS A constant influence, a peculiar grace ; But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to wliich Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for human kind, Is happy as a Lover ; and attired With sudden brightness, like a Man in- spired ; And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw ; Or if an unexpected call succeed. Come when it will, is equal to tlie need : — He who, though thus endued as with a sense And faculty for storm and turbulence, Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans To horaefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes ; Sweet images ! which, wheresoe'er he be, Are at his heart ; and such fidelity It is his darling passion to approve ; More brave for this, that he hath nnich to love : — 'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, Or left unthought-of in obscurity, — Who, with a toward or untoward lot, Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not — Plays, in the many games of life, that one Where what he most doth value must be won : Whom neither shape of danger can dis- may. Nor thought of tender happiness betray ; Who, not content that former worth stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last. From well to better, daily self-surpast : Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth For ever, and to noble deeds give birth. Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, And leave a dead uniDrofitable name — Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ; And, while the moral mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause : This is the happy Warrior ; this is He That every Man in arms should wisli to be. 1SU6. 1807. YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN ECHO Yes, it was the mountain Echo, Solitary, clear, profound, Answering to the shouting Cuckoo, Giving to her sound for sound ! Unsolicited reply To a babbling wanderer sent ; Like her ordinary cr\% Like — but oh, how different ! Hears not also mortal Life ? Hear not we, unthinking Creatures! Slaves of folly, love, or strife — ■ Voices of two different natux'es ? Have not ive too ? — yes, we have Answers, and we know not whence; Echoes from beyond the grave, Recognized intelligence ! Such rebounds our inward ear Catches sometimes from afar — Listen, ponder, hold them dear; For of God, — of God they are. ISOG. 1807. NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR CON- VENT'S NARROW ROOM In the cottage, Town-end, Grasmere, one after- noon in 1801, my sister read to me the Sonnets of Milton. I liiid long been well acquainted with them, but I was particularly struck on that occa- sion with the dignified simplicity and majestic harmony that runs through most of them, — in character so totally different from the Italian, and still more so from Shakspeare's fine Sonnets. I took fire, if I may be allowed to say so, and produced three Sonnets the same afternoon, the first I ever wrote except an ii-regular one at school. Of these three, the only one I distinctly remember is^" I grieved for Buonaparte." One was never written down : the third, which was, I believe, preserved, I cannot particularize. {Wordsworth.) Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room ; And hermits are contented with their cells ; And students with their pensive citadels ; Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom. Sit blithe and happy ; bees that soar for bloom. High as the highest Peak of Furh ess-fell?. Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells : WORDSWORTH 49 In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is : and hence for me, In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground ; Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be) Who liave felt the weight of too much liberty, Should find brief solace there, as I liave found. 1S06. 1807. PERSONAL TALK I AM not One who much or oft delight To season my fireside with personal talk— Of friends, who live within an easy walk, Or neighbors, daily, weekly, in my sight : And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies' bright. Sons, mothei'S, maidens withering on the stalk, Tliese all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night. Better than such discoui'se dotli silence long. Long, barren silence, square with my desire ; To sit without emotion, hope, or aim. In the loved presence of my cottage-fire. And listen to the flapping of the flame. Or kettle whispering its faint undersong. II "Yet life," you say, "is life; we have seen and see, And with a living pleasure we describe ; And fits of sjn-ightly malice do but bribe The languid mind into activity. Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee Are fostered by the comment and the gibe." Even be it so ; yet still among your tribe. Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me ! Children are blest, and powerful ; their world lies More justly balanced ; partly at their feet, And part far from them : sweetest mel- odies Are those that are by distance made more sweet ; Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes. He is a Slave ; the meanest we can meet ! Ill Wings have we, — and as far as we can go. We may find pleasure : wilderness and wood. Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood Which with the lofty sanctifies the low. Dreams, books are each a world ; and books, we know. Are a substantial world, both pure and good : Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow. There find I personal themes, a plente- ous store. Matter wherein right voluble I am. To which I listen with a ready ear ; Two sliall be named, pre-eminently dear. — The gentle Lady married to tlie Moor ; And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb. Nor can I not believe but tliat hereby Great gains are mine ; for thus I live re- mote From evil-speaking ; rancor, never souglit. Comes to me not ; malignant truth, or lie. Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought : And thus from day to day my little boat Rocks in its harbor, lodging peaceably. Blessings be with them — and eternal praise. Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares — The Poets, who on earth have made us lieirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays ! Oh ! miglit my name be numbered among theirs. Then gladly would I end my mortal days. 1S06. 1807. 50 BRITISH POETS THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US The world is too much with us ; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : Little we see in Nature that is ours ; We have given our hearts away, a sor- did boon ! The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea. Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; Or hear old Triton blow liis wreathed horn. 1SU6. 1807. TO SLEEP A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by. One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring ; the fall of rivers, winds and seas. Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky ; I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie Sleepless ! and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees ; And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay. And could not win thee, Sleep ! hy any stealth : So do not let me wear to-night away : Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth ? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and jov- ous health ! 1S06. 1807. NOVEMBER, 1806 Another year !— another deadly blow ! Another mighty Empire overthrown ! And We are left, or shall be left, alone ; The last that dare to struggle with the Foe. 'Tis well ! from this day forward we shall know That in ourselves our safety must be sought ; That by our own right hands it must be wrought ; That we must stand un propped, or be laid low. ■O dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer ! We shall exult, if they who rule the land Be men who hold its many blessings dear. Wise, upriglit, valiant ; not a servile band, Wlio are to judge of danger which they fear, And honor which they do not under- stand. IfiOG. 1807. THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND Two Voices are there ; one is of the sea. One of the mountains ; each a miglity Voice : In both from age to age thou didst re- joice, Tliey were thy chosen music, Liberty ! Tliere came a Tyrant, and with holy glee Thou fought'st against him ; but hast vainly striven : Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, Where not a ton-ent murmurs heard by thee. Of one deep bliss thine ear liath been bereft : Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left; For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be That mountain floods should thunder as before. And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore. And neither awful Voice be heard by thee ? 1S07. 1807. WORDSWORTH SI HERE PAUSE : THE POET CLAIMS AT LEAST THIS PRAISE Here pause : tlie poet claims at least this praise, That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope , Of his pure song, which did not shrink * from hope In the worst moment of these evil days ; From hope, the paramount duty that Heaven lays, For its own honor, on man's suffering heart. Never may from our souls one trutli depart — I That an accursed thing it is to gaze I On prosperous tyrants with a dazzled ^ eye ; Nor — touched with due abhorrence of their guilt For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt. And justice labors in extremity — Forget thy weakness, upon which is built O wretched man, the throne of tyranny ! ISll. 1815. LAODAMIA Written at Rydal Mount. The incident of the trees growing and withering put the subject into my thoughts, and I wrote with the hope of giving it a loftier tone tlian, so far as I know, has been given to it by any of the Ancients who have treated of it. It cost me more trouble than al- most anything of equal length I have ever writ- ten. (Worclsivorth.) "Laodamia is a very original poem; I mean original with reference to your own manner. You have nothing like it. I should have seen it in a strange place, and greatly admired it, but not suspected its derivation. . ." (Lamb to Wordsworth. Talfourd, Final Memories of Charles Lamb, p. 151.) " With sacrifice before the rising morn Vows have I made by fruitless hope in- spired ; And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required : Celestial pity I again implore ; — Restore him to my siglit — great Jove, restore ! " So speaking, and by fervent love en- dowed With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her liands ; While, like the sun emerging from a cloud, Her countenance brightens — and her eye expands ; Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stat- ure grows ; And slie expects the issue in repose. O terror ! what hath she perceived ? — O joy ! What doth she look on? — whom dotli she behold ? Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy ? His vital presence ? his corporeal mould ! It is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis He ? And a God leads him, winged Mercury ! Mild Hermes spake — and touched her with Jiis wand That calms all fear ; " Such grace liath crowned thy prayer, Laodanua ! that at Jove's command Thy Husband walks the paths of upper air : He comes to tarry with thee three hours', space : Accept the gift, behold him face to face ! Forth sprang the impassioned Queen ; her Lord to clasp ; Again that consummation she essayed ; But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp As often as that eager grasp was made, Tlie Phantom parts — but parts to re-unite, And re-assume his place before her sight. " Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice : This is our palace, — yonder is thy throne ; Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice. Not to appal me have the gods bestowed This precious boon ; and blest a sad abode." " Great Jove, Laodamia ! doth not leave His gifts imperfect : — Spectre though I be, I am not sent to scare thee or deceive ; But in reward of thy fidelity. And somethi)ig also did my worth obtain ; For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. " Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle fore- told That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand Should die ; but me the threat could not withhold ; 52 BRITISH POETS A generous cause a victim did demand ; And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain ; A self-devoted chief — by Hector slain." "Supreme of Heroes — bravest, noblest, best ! Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, Whicli then, when tens of thousands were deprest By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore ; Thoufound'st — and I forgive thee — here thou art — A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. " But thou, thovigh capable of sternest deed, Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave ; And he, wJiose power restores thee, hath decreed Thou should'st elude the malice of the grave : ' Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair As when their breath enriched Tliessa- lian air. " No Spectre greets me, — no vain Shadow this ; Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side ! Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss To me, this day, a second time thy bride ! " Jove frowned in heaven : the conscious Parcge threw Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. " This visage tells thee that my doom is past : Nor should the change be mourned, even if the joys Of sense were able to return as fast And surely as they vanish. Earth de- stroys Those raptures dul}^ — Erebus disdains ; Calm pleasures there abide — majestic pains. " Be taught. O faithful Consort, to con- trol Rebellious passion : for the Gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul ; A fervent, not ungovernable, love. Thy transports moderate ; and meekly mourn When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — "' " Ah, wherefore ?— Did not Hercules by force Wi-est from the guardian Monster of the tomb Alcestis, a reanimated corse, Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom ? Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years. And ^son stood a j^outh 'mid youthful peers. •' The Gods to us are merciful — and they Yet further may relent : for mightier far Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star. Is love, though oft to agony distrest. And though his favorite seat be feeble woman's breast. " But if thou goest, I follow — " " Peace ! " he said ; — She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered ; The ghastly color from his lips had fled ; In his deportment, shape, .and mien, ap- peared Elysian beauty, melancholy grace. Brought from a i^ensive though a happy place. He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure ; No fears to beat away — no strife to heal — The past unsighed for, and the future sure ; Spake of heroic arts in graver mood Revived, with finer harmony pursued ; Of all that is most beauteous — imaged there In happier beauty ; more pellucid streams. An ampler etiier, a diviner air. And fields invested with purpureal gleams ; Climes whicli the sun, who sheds the brightest day Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earned That privilege by virtue. " 111," said he, " The end of man's existence I discerned. Who from ignoble games and revelry WORDSWORTH 53 Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight. While tears were thy best pastime, day and night ; " And while my youthful peers before mj^ eyes (Each hero following his peculiar bent) Prepared themselves for glorious enter- prise By martial sports, — or, seated in the tent. Chieftains and kings in council were de- tained ; What time the fleet at Aulis lay en- chained. "The wished-for wind was given: — I then revolved The oracle, upon the silent sea ; And, if no worthier led the way, re- solved That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, — Mine the first blood that tinged the Tro- jan sand. "Yet bitter, oft-times bitter was the pang When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife ! On thee too fondly did my memory hang. And on tiie joys we shared in mortal life,— The paths which we had trod — these fountains, flowers, My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. " But should suspense permit the Foe to cry, ' Behold they tremble ! — haughty their array. Yet of their number no one dares to die ? ' In soul I swept the indignity away : Old frailties then recurred :^but lofty thought. In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. " And Thou, though strong in love, ai't all too weak In reason, in self-government too slow ; I counsel thee by fortitude to seek Our blest re-union in the shades below. The invisible world with thee hath sym- pathized ; Be thy affections raised and solemnized. "Learn, by a mortal yearning, to as- cend — Seeking a higher object. Love was given. Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end ; For this the passion to excess was driven — That self might be annulled : her bond- age prove The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes reap- pears ! Round the dear Shade slie would have clung — 't is vain ; The hours are past — too brief had they been years ; And him no mortal effort can detain : Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day. He tlirough the portal takes his silent way, And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse she lay. Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved, Slie perished ; and, as for a wilful crime, By the just Gods whom no weak pity moved, Was doomed to wear out her appointed time. Apart froin happy Ghosts, that gather flowers Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. — -Yet teai's to human suffering are due ; And mortal hopes defeated and o'er- thrown Are mourned by man, and not by xuan alone. As fondly lie believes. — Upon the side Of Hellespont (such faith was enter- tained) A knot of spiry trees for ages grew From out the tomb of him for whom she died ; And ever, when such stature they had gained That Ilium's walls were subject to their view. The trees' tall summits withered at the siglit : A constant interchange of grovvtli and blight ! I8I4. 1815. 54 BRITISH POETS YARROW VISITED SEPTEMBER, 1814 As mentioned in my verses on the death of the Ettrick Shepherd, my first visit to Yarrow was in his company. We had lodged the night be- fore at Traquhair, where Hogg liad joined us ... I seldom read or thinlc of tills poem without regretting that my dear Sister was not of the party, as she would have had so much delight in recalling the time when, travelling together in Scotland, we declined going in search of this celebrated stream, not altogether, I will frankly confess, for the reasons assigned in the poem on the occasion. ( Wordsivorth.) And istliis — Yarrow V — TJiis the Stream Of which my fancy cherished, So faithfully, a waking dream ? An image that hath perished ! O that some Minstrel's harp were near, To utter notes of gladness, And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness ! Yet why? — a silvery current flows With uncontrolled meanderings ; Nor have these eyes by greener hills Been soothed, in all my wanderings. And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake Is visibly delighted ; For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted. A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, Save where that pearly whiteness Is round the rising sun diffused, A tender hazy brightness ; Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes All profitless dejection ; Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection. Where was it that the famous Flower Of Yarrow Vale l;iy bleeding ? His bed perchance was yon smooth mound On which the herd is feeding : And haply from tliis crystal pool, Now peaceful as the morning, The Water-wraith ascended thrice — And gave his doleful warning. Delicious is the Lay that sings The haunts of hapjiy Lovers, The path that leads them to the grove, The leafy grove that covers : And Pity sanctifies the Verse That paints, by strength of sorrow, The imconquerable strength of love ; Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! But thou, that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation : Meek loveliness is round thee spread, A softness still and holy ; The grace of forest charms decayed, And pastoral melancholy. Tliat region left, the vale unfolds Rich groves of lofty stature, With Yarrow winding through the pomp Of cultivated nature ; And, rising from those lofty groves, Behold a Ruin hoary ! The shattered front of Newark's Towers, Renowned in Border story. Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom. For sportive youth to stray in ; For manhood to enjoy his strength ; And age to wear away in ! Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, A covert for protection Of tender thoughts, that nestle there — The brood of chaste affection. How sweet, on this autumnal day, The wild-wood fruits to gather. And on mj True-love's forehead plant A crest of blooming heather ! And what if I en wreathed my own ! 'Twere no offence to reason ; The sober Hills tlius deck their brows To meet the wintry season. I see — but not by sight alone, Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; A ray of fancy still survives — Her sunshine plays upon thee ! Thy ever-j^outhful waters keep A course of lively pleasure ; And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, Accordant to the measure. The vapors linger round the Heights, They melt, and soon must vanish ; One liour is theirs, nor more is mine — Sad thouglit, which I would banish, But tiiat I know, where'er I go. Thy genuine image, Yarrow ! Will dwell with me — to lieighten joy. And cheer my mind in sorrow. ISI4. 1830. WORDSWORTH 55 TO B. R. HAYDON B. R. Haydon, the painter, was for many years a friend of Wordsworth. On November 27, 1815, Haydon wrote : "' I have benefited and have been supported in the troubles of life by your poetry. . . 1 will bear want, pain, misery, and blindness ; but I will never yield one step I have gained on the road I am determined to travel over." Wordsworth's answer to this letter was the following sonnet. High is our calling, Friend ! — Creative Art (Whether the instrument of words she use, ■ Or pencil jDregnant with ethereal hues.) Demands the service of a mind and heart, Thougli sensitive, yet, in their weakest part, Heroically fashioned — to infuse Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse, While the whole world seems adverse to desert. And, oh ! when Nature sinks, as oft she may, Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress, Still to be strenuous for the bright re- ward. And in the soul admit of no decay, Brook no continuance of weak-minded- ness — • Great is the glorv, for the strife is hard ! 1815. 1816. NOVEMBER 1 How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright The eflfluehce from yon distant mount- ain's head. Which, strewn with snow smooth as the sky can shed, Shineslike another sun— on mortal sight Uprisen, as if to clieck approaching Night, And all her twinkling stars. Who now ■would tread, If so he might, yon mountain's glittering head — Terrestrial, but a surface, by the flight Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wmg, Unswept, unstained ? Nor shall the aerial Powers Dissolve that beauty, destined to endure, White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure, Through all vicissitudes, till genial Spring Has filled the laughing vales with wel- come flowers. 1S15. 1816. SURPRISED BY JOY — IMPATIENT AS THE WIND This was in fact suggested by my daughter Catherine long after her death. (Words-worth.) Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind I turned to share the transport — Oh ! with whom But Tliee, deep buried in the silent tomb. That spot which no vicissitude can find ? Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind — But how could I forget thee ? Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss ? — That thought's return Was the worst pang that soitow ever bore, Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn. Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more ; That neither present time, nor years un- born Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. 1815. 1815. HAST THOU SEEN, WITH FLASH INCESSANT Hast thou seen, with flash incessant. Bubbles gliding under ice, Bodied forth and evanescent, No one knows by what device ? Such are thoughts !— A wind-swept meadow Mimicking a troubled sea. Such is life ; and death a shadow From the rock eternity ! 1818. 1820. COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF EXTRAORDINARY SPLENDOR AND BEAUTY 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 qovg S6 BRITISH POETS With modulated echoes rang, While choh-s 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 god- like wish, or hope divine. Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe That this magnificence is wholly thine ! — From worlds not 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 ! And, if there be whom broken ties Afflict, or injuries assail. Yon hazy ridges to their eyes Present a glorious scale. 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 wdiat 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 calm- ness 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. 1818. 1820. SEPTEMBER, 1819 Departing summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed. The gentlest look of spring ; That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling. No faint and hesitating trill, Such tribute as to winter chill The lonely redbreast pays ! Clear, loud, and lively is the din. From social warblers gathering in Their harvest of sweet lays. Nor doth the example fail to cheer Me, conscious that my leaf is sere. And yellow on the bough : — Fall, rosy garlands, from my head ! Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed Around a younger brow ! WORDSWORTH 57 Yet will I temperately rejoice ; Wide is the range, and free the choice Of undiscordant themes ; Which, haply, kindred souls may prize Not less than vernal ecstasies, And passion's feverish dreams. For deathless powers to verse belong. And they like Demi-gods are strong On whom the Muses smile ; But some their function have dis- claimed, Best pleased with what is aptliest framed To enervate and defile. Not such the initiatory strains Committed to the silent plains In Britain's earliest dawn : Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale, While all-too-daringly the veil Of nature was withdrawn ! Nor such the spirit-stirring note When the live chords Alcasus smote, Inflamed by sense of wrong ; Woe ! woe to Tyrants ! from the lyre Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire Of fierce vindictive song. And not unliallowed was the page By winged Love inscribed, to assuage The pangs of vain pursuit ; Love listening while the Lesbian Maid With finest touch of passion swayed Her own ^olian lute. 3'e, who patiently explore The wreck of Herculanean lore, What rapture ! could ye seize Some Tlieban fragment, or unroll One precious, tender-hearted, scroll Of pui-e Simonides. That were, indeed, a genuine birth Of poesy ; a bursting forth ■ Of genius from the dust : What Horace gloried to behold, Wliat Maro loved, shall we enfold ? Can haughty Time be just ! 1819. 1820. AFTER-THOUGHT 1 THOUGHT of Thee, my partner and my guide. As being past away. — Vain sympathies ! For, backward, Duddon, as I cast my eyes, I see what was, and is, and will abide ; Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide ; The Form remains, the Function never dies ; While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise. We Men, who in our morn of youth de- fied The elements, must vanish ; — be it so ! Enougli, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour ; And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know. 1820. 1820, MUTABILITY From low to high doth dissolution climb, And sink from high to low, along a scale Of awful notes, whose concord sliall not fail; A musical but melancholy chime. Which they can hear who meddle not with crime. Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care. Truth fails not ; but her outward forms that bear The longest date do melt like frosty rime. That in the morning whitened hill and plain And is no more ; drop like the tower sublime Of yesterday, which royally did wear His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain Some casual shout that broke the silent air. Or the unimaginable touch of Time. 1821. 1822. INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE Tax not the royal Saint with vain ex- pense, With ill-matched aims the Arcliitect who planned — Albeit laboring for a scanty band Of white-robed Scholars only — this im- mense 58 BRITISH POETS And glorious Work of fine intelligence ! Give all thou canst ; high Heaven re- jects the lore Of nicely-calculated less or more ; So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense These lofty pillars, spread that brandl- ing roof Self-poised, and scooped into ten thou- sand cells, Where light and shade repose, where music dwells Lingering— and wandering on as loth to die ; Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality. 1821. 1822. MEMORY A PEN^to register ; a key — That winds through secret wards ; Are well assigned to Memory By allegoric Bards. As aptly, also, might be given A Pencil to her hand ; That, softening objects, sometimes even Outstrips the heart's demand ; That smooths foregone distress, the lines Of lingering care subdues, Long-vanished happiness refines, And clothes in brighter hues ; Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works Those Spectres to dilate That startle Conscience, as she lurks Witliin her lonely seat. Oil ! that our lives, which flee so fast, In purity were such, Tliat not an image of the past Sliould fear that pencil's touch ! Retirement then might hourly look Upon a soothing scene. Age steal to his allotted nook Contented and serene ; With heart as calm as lakes that sleep. In frosty moonlight glistening ; Or mountain rivers, where they creep Along a channel smooth and deep, To their own far-off murmurs listening. 1823. 1827. I TO A SKY-LARK Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound ? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will. Those quivering wings composed, that music still I Leave to tlie nightingale her sha'ly wood ; A privacy of glorious light is thine ; Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more di- vine ; Type of the wise who soar, bub never roam ; True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home ! 1825, 1827. SCORN NOT THE SONNET Composed, almost extempore, in a short walk on the western side of Rydal Lake. ( Wordsworth) Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned. Mindless of its just honors ; with this key Shakspeare unlocked his heart ; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief ; The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow : a glow-worm lamp. It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery land To struggle tlirougJi dark ways ; and, when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains— alas, too few ! 1827. 1827, THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK Written at Rydal Mount. The Rock stands on the right hand a little way leading up the middle road from Rydal to Grasmere. We have been in the habit of calling it the glow-worm rock from the number of glow-worms we have often seen hanging on it as described. The tvif t of primrose has, I fear, been washed away by the heavy rains. (Wordsworth) See Dorothy W^ordsworth's Journal, April 24th, 180x1. A Rock there is whose homely front The passing traveller slights ; Yet there the glow-worms hang their lamps, Like stars, at various heights : And one coy Primrose to that Rock The vernal breeze invites. What hideous warfare hath been waged, What kingdoms overthrown, Since first I spied that Primrose-tuft And marked it for my own ; A lasting link in Nature's chain From highest heaven let down ! The flowers, still faithful to the stems. Their fellowship renew ; The stems are faithful to the root, That worketh out of view ; And to the rock the root adheres In every fibre true. Close clings to earth the living rock, Though threatening still to fall ; The earth is constant to her sphere ; And God upholds tliem all : So blooms this lonely Plant, nor dreads Her annual funeral. Here closed the meditative strain ; But air breathed soft that day, The hoary mountain-heights were cheered. The sunny vale looked gay ; And to the Primrose of the Rock I gave this after-lay. I sang— Let myriads of bright flowers, Like Thee, in field and grove Revive unenvied -—mightier far, Than tremblings that reprove Our vernal tendencies to hope, Is God's redeeming love ; That love which changed— for wan dis- ease, For sorrow that had bent O'er hopeless dust, for withered age— Their moral element. And turned the thistles of a curse To types beneficent. Sin-blighted though we are, we too. The reasoning Sons of Men, From one oblivious winter called Shall rise, and breatlie again ; And in eternal summer lose Our threescore years and ten. To humbleness of heart descends This prescience from on high, The faith that elevates the just, Before and when they die ; And makes each soul a separate heaven. A court for Deity. 1831. 1835. YARROW REVISITED The following Stanzas are a memorial of a day passed with Sir Walter Scott and other Friends visiting the Banks of the Yarrow under his guid- ance, immediately before his departure from Abbotsford, for Naples. The title Yan-oiv Revisited will stand in no need of explanation for Readers acquainted with the Author's previous poems suggested by that cele- brated Stream. {Wordsivorth.) The gallant Youth, who may have gained, Or seeks, a " winsome Marrow," Was but an Infant in the lap When first I looked on Yarrow ; Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate Long left without a warder, I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee, Great Minstrel of the Border ! Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day. Their dignity installing In gentle bosoms, Mdiile sere leaves Were on the bough, or falling ; But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed — The forest to embolden ; Reddened the fiery hues, and shot Transparence through the golden. For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on In foamy agitation ; And slept in many a crystal pool For quiet contemplation : No public and no private care The freeborn mind enthralHng, We made a day of happy hours, Our happy days recalling. Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of vouth, With freaks of graceful folly,— Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, Her Night not melancholy ; Past, present, futiu'e, all appeared In harmony united, 6o BRITISH P0P:TS Like guests that meet, and some from far, By cordial love invited. And if, as Yarrow, through the woods And down the meadow ranging. Did meet us with unaltered face, Though we were changed and chang- ing ; If, theii, some natural shadows spread Our inward prospect over, The soul's deep valley was not slow Its brightness to recover. Eternal blessings on the Muse, And her divine employment ! The blameless Muse, who trains lier Sons For liope and calm enjoyment ; Albeit sickness, lingering yet. Has o'er tlieir pillow brooded ; And Care waylays their steps — a Sprite Not easily eluded. For thee, O Scott ! compelled to cliange Green Eiklon-liill and Cheviot For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes ; And leave thy Tweed and Tiviot For mild Sorrento's breezy waves ; May classic Fancy, linking With native Fancy her fresh aid , Preserve thy heart from sinking ! Oh ! while they minister to tliee, Each vying with the other, Ma3^ Health return to mellow Age With Strength, her venturous brother ; And Tiber, and each brook and rill Renowned in song and story. With uniinagined beauty shine, Nor lose one ray of glory ! For Thou, upon a hundred streams. By tales of love and sorrow, Of faithful love, undaunted truth. Hast shed the power of Yarrow ; And streams unknown, hills yet unseen. Wherever they invite Thee, At parent Nature's grateful call, Witli gladness must requite Tliee. A gracious welcome shall be thine, Sucli looks of love and honor As tliy own Yarrow gave to me Wlien first I gazed upon her ; Beheld what I had feared to see, Unwilling to surrender Dreams treasured up from early days. The holy and the tender. And what, for tliis frail world, were all That mortals do or suffer, Did no responsive harp, no pen, Memorial tribute offer ? Yea. what were mighty Nature's self? Her features, could they win us, Unhelped by the poetic voice That hourly speaks within us? Nor deem that localized Romance Plays false with our affections ; Unsanctifies our tears — made sport For fanciful dejections : All, no ! the visions of tlie past Sustain the heart in feeling Life as she is — our changeful Life, With friends and kindred dealing. Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day In Yarrow's groves were centred ; Who through the silent portal arch Of mouldering Newark entered ; And clomb tlie winding stair that once Too timidly M'as mounted By the " last Minstrel," (not the last !) Ere he his Tale recounted. Flow on for ever. Yarrow Stream ! Fulfil thy pensive duty, Well pleased that future Bards should chant For simple hearts thy beauty ; To dream-li,L^lit dear while yet unseen, Dear to the common sunshine. And dearer still, as now I feel, To memory's shadowy moonshine ! 18S1 i835. THE TROSACHS As recorded in my sister's Journal, I had first seen the Ti'osaclis in lier and Coleridge's com- pany. The sentiment that runs through this Sonnet was natural to the season in which I again saw this beautiful spot ; but this and some other sonnets that follow were colored by the remembrance of my recent visit to Sir Walter Scott, and the melancholy errand on which he was going. ( Wordsivorth. ) There's not a nook within this solemn Pass, But were an apt confessional for One Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone. That Life is but a tale of iiiorning grass Withered at eve. From scenes of art wliich cliase That thouglit away, turn, and with watciiful eyes Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass WORDSWORTH 6i Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, If from a golden perch of aspen spray (October's workuiansliip to rival May) The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay. Lulling the vear, with all its cares, to rest ! 1S31. 1835. IF THOU INDEED DERIVE THY LIGHT FROM HEAVEN [p thou indeed derive tliy light from Heaven, Tlien, to the nreasure of that heaven- born liglit, Shine, Poet ! in tliy plac^e, and be content: The stars pre-eminent in magnitude, And they tliat from the zenith dart their beams, (Visible though they be to half the earth. Though half a sphere be conscious of their brightness) Are yet of no diviner origin. No purer essence, than the one that burns, Like an untended watch-fire on the ridge Of some dark mountain ; or than those which seem Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter lamps, Among the In-ancdies of the leafless trees. All are the undying offspring of one Sire : Then, to the measure of the light voucli- safed. Shine, Poet ! in thy place, and be con- tent. 183-2. 1836. IF THIS GREAT WORLD OF JOY AND PAIN If this great world of joy and pain Revolve in one sure track ; If freedom, set, will rise again, And virtue, flown, come back ; Woe to the purblind crevv who fill The heart with eacli day's care ; Nor gain, from past or future, skill To bear, and to forbear ! 1833. 1835. < " T PI ERE ! " SAID A STRIPLING, POINTING WITH MEET PRIDE "There!" said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed, " Is Mosgiel Farm ; and that's the very field Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy." Far and wide A plain below stretched seaward, while, descried Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran rose ; And, by tliat simple notice, the repose Of earth, sky, sea and air, Avas vivified. Beneatli " tlie random hield of clod or stone " Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have i)assed away ; less happy than the One That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove The tender cliarm of poetry and love. 1833. 1835. MOST SWEET IT IS WITH UN- UPLIFTED EYES Most sweet it is with unuplifled ej'^es To pace tlie ground, if patli he there or none. While a fair region round tlie traveller lies Whicli he forbears again to look upon ; Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene. The work of Fancy, or some happy tone Of meditation, slipping in between The beauty coming and tlie beauty gone. If Thought and Love desert us, from tliat day Let us break off all commerce with the Muse : With Tliought and Love companions of our way, Whate'er the senses take or may refuse, Tlie Mind's internal heaven shall shed her clews Of inspiration on the humblest lay. 1833. 1835. EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH OF JAMES HOGGi When first, descending from the moor- lands, I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide 1 Walter Scott died Sept. 21, 1833 S. T. Coleridge " July 25, 1834 Charles Lamb " Bee. 27, 1834 Geo. Crabbe " Feb. 3, 1833 Felicia Hemans " May 16, 1834 Along a bare and open valley, The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide. When last along its banks I wandered Through groves that had begun to shed Their golden leaves upon the pathways, My steps the Border-minstrel led. The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer, 'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies ; And death upon the braes of Yarrow, Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes : Nor has the rolling year twice measured. From sign to sign, its steadfast course, Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source ; The rapt One, of the godlike forehead. The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth : And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle. Has vanished from his lonely hearth. Like clouds that rake the mountain- summits. Or waves that own no cvirbing hand, How fast lias brother followed bx'other From sunshine to the sunless land ! Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber Were earlier raised, remain to Jiear A timid voice, that asks in whispers, " Who next will drop and disappear? " Our haughty life is crowned with dark- ness, Like London with its own black wreath. On which with thee, O Crabbe ! forth- looking. I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath. As if but yesterday departed, Thou too art gone before ; but why. O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered, Should frail survivors heave a sigh ? Mourn rather for that holy Spirit, Sweet as the s]3ring, as ocean deep ; For Her who, ere her summer faded. Has sunk into a breathless sleep. No more of old romantic sorrows. For slaughtered Youth or love-lorn Maid! With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten. And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet dead. November, 1S35. 1836. A POET !— HE HATH PUT PUS HEART TO SCHOOL A Poet!— He hath put his heart to scliool. Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff Which Art hath lodged within his hand — must laugh By precept only, and shed tears by rule. Thy Art be Nature ; tlie live current quaff, And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, . In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool Have killed him, Scorn should write liis epitaph. How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold ? Because the lovely little flower is free Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold ; And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree Comes not by casting in a formal mould, But from its own divine vitality. 184'2. 1842. SO FAIR, SO SWEET, WITHAL SO SENSITIVE So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive, Would that tlie little Flowers were born to live. Conscious of half the pleasure which they give ; That to til is mountain-daisy's self were known The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown On the smooth surface of this naked stone ! And what if hence a bold desire should mount High as the Sun, that he could take account Of all that issues from his glorious fount ! So might he ken how by his sovereign aid Tiiese delicate companionsliips are made ; And how he rules the pomp of light and shade ; WORDSWORTH 63 And were the Sister-power that shines by night So privileged, what a countenance of delight Would through the clouds break forth on human sight ! Fond fancies ! wheresoe'er shall turn thine eye On earth, air, ocean, or tlie starry sky, Converse witli Nature in pure sympa- thy ; All vain desires, all lawless wislies quelled. Be Thou to love and praise alike im- pelled Whatever boon is granted or withheld. 1SJ^5. 1845. THE UNREMITTING VOICE OF NIGHTLY STREAMS The unremitting voice of nightly streams That wastes so oft, we think, its tune- ful powers, If neither soothing to the worm that gleams Through dewy grass, nor small birds hushed in bowers. Nor unto silent leaves and drowsy flowers, — That voice of unpretending harmony (For Avho wliat is sliall measure by what seems To be, or not to be. Or tax high Heaven with prodigality ?) Wants not a healing influence that can creep Into the human breast, and mix with sleep To regulate the motion of our dreams For kindly issues — as through every clime Was felt near murmuring brooks in earliest time ; As at this day, the rudest swains who dwell Where torrents roar, or hear the tink- ling knell Of water-breaks, with grateful heart could tell ISJ^G. 1850. SONNET TO AN OCTOGENARIAN Affections lose their object ; Time brings forth No successors ; and, lodged in memory, If love exist no longer, it must die, — Wanting accustomed food, must pass fi-om earth. Or never hope to reach a second birth. This sad belief, the happiest that is left To thousands, share not Thou ; howe'er bereft. Scorned, or neglected, fear not such a dearth. Though poor and destitute of friends thou art. Perhaps the sole survivor of thy race. One to whom Heaven assigns that mournful part The utmost solitude of age to face. Still shall be left some corner of the heart Where Love for living Thing can find a place. 1H(^- 1850. COLERIDGE LIST OF REFERENCES Editions There is no "standard " edition of Coleridge's Poetical Works, though that edited by James Dykes Campbell nearly fills the place of one. The best editions are : the Pickering Edition, London, 1877, 4 volumes ire- issued by The Macniillan Co., with additions, in 1880 ; the Aldine Edition, 2 volumes, 1885; the Riverside Edition (Houghton, Mifflin & Co.) ; and the * Globe Edition, edited by James Dykes Campbell, 1 volume, 1893, (The Macmillan Co.). Biography GiLLMAN (James), The Life of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Vol I, 1838 (not completed). Brandl (Alois), Samuel Taylor Coleridge und die eng- lische Romantik, Berlin, 1886. (English edition, by Lady Eastlake, as- sisted by the author, 1887). Traill (H. D.), Coleridge, (English Men of Letters Series), 1884. C'aine (T. Hall), Coleridge (Great Writers Series), 1887. * Cajipbell (James Dykes), Samuel Taylor Coleridge, a Narrative of the Events of his Life, 1894. (See also Knight's Life of Wordsworth.) Personal Reminiscences and Early Criticism Coleridge (S. T.), Biographia Literaria. Table Talk. Letters, edited by Ernest PLartley Coleridge. Anima Poetse, Selections from the unpub- lished Note-Books of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, edited by Ernest Hartley Coleridge. Letters, Conversations, and Recollections of S. T. Coleridge, edited by Thomas Allsop. Memoir and Letters of Sara Coleridge, edited by her daughter. Cottle (Joseph), Early Recollections of S. T. Coleridge. Talfourd (T. N.), Final Memorials of Lamb. Robin- son (H. C), Diary. HAZLiTT(William), My First Acquaintance with Poets. Hazlitt (William), Spirit of the Age. Hazlitt (William), Lectures on the English Poets ; Lecture 8. De Quincey (Masson's Edition), Vol. 5, Coleridge and Opium-Eating. Mitford (M. R.), Recollections of a Literary Life. Wilson (John), Essays. Jeffrey (Lord Francis), Critical Essays : Coleridge's Literary Life. * Carlyle, The Life of John Sterling, Chap. 5. Lamb (Charles), Works : * Christ's Hospital Five and Thirty Years Ago ; Recollections of Christ's Hospital ; On the Death of Coleridge. * Words- worth (Dorothy), Recollections of a Tour in Scotland. Journal 64 COLERIDGE 65 Later Criticism Mill (J. S.), Dissertations and Discussions. Stephen (Leslie), Hours in a Library, Vol. III. * Pater (Walter), Appreciations. * Lowell (J. R.), Prose Works. * Swinburn^e (A. C), Essays and Studies. * Gar- NETT (R.), Essays of an Ex-librarian : The Poetry of Coleridge. Robert- son (John M.), New Essays Towards a Critical Method. Winter (W.), Shakespeare's England : At the Grave of Coleridge. Rossetti (W. M.), Lives of Famous Poets. Dowden (Edward), New Studies in Literature : Coleridge as a Poet. Dowden (Edward), French Revolution and Eng- lish Literature : Essay IV. Beers, English Romanticism in the Nine- teenth Century. Woodberry (G. E.), Makers of Literature. Shairp (J. C), Studies in Poetry and Philosophy. Calvert (G. H.), Biographic Aesthetic Studies : Coleridge, Shelley, Goethe. Mitchell (D. G.), Eng- lish Lands, Letters and Kings. Saintsbury (G.), Essays in English Literature : Coleridge and Southey. Birrell (Augustine), Obiter Dicta. Watson (William), Excursions in Criticism. Bayne (Peter), Essays, II. Bell (C. D.), Some of our English Poets. Brooke (Stopford A.), Theology in the English Poets. Brooks (S. W.), English Poetry and Poets. Chancellor (E. B.), Literary Types. Chor- ley (Henry F.), Authors of England. Dawson (G.), Biographical Lec- tures. Daavson (W. J.), Makers of Modern English. Deshler (C. D.) Afternoons with the. Poets. Devey (.1.), Comparative Estimate of Mod- ern English Poets. Dixon (W. M.), English Poetry : Blake to Brown- ing. Frothingham (O. B.), Transcendentalism in New England. Hall (S. C), Book of Memories. Hancock (A. E.), The French Revolution and the English Poets. Johnson (C. F.), Three Americans and Three Englishmen. MacDonald (G.), England's Antiphon. O'Hagan (T.), Oc- casional Papers. Ossoli (M. F.), Art, Literature and the Drama. Reed (H.), Lectures on British Poets : II. Shairp (J. C), Studies in Poetry. Sharp (R. F.), Architects of English Literature. Shedd (W. G. F.), Lit- erary Essays. Swanwick (A.), Poets the Interpreters of Their Age. Thomson (K. B.), Recollections of Literary Characters. Tuckerman (H. T.), Thoughts on the Poets. Wotton (Mabel E.), Word Portraits. Memorial Verses, etc. Shelley, To Coleridge. * Rossetti (D, G.), Five English Poets : Samuel Taylor Coleridge. De Vere (Aubrey), Coleridge. Browning (E. B.), A Vision of Poets. Watts-Dunton (T.), Coleridge (in Stedman's Victorian Anthology.) Watson (William), Lines in a Fly-Leaf of Chris- tabel. Hellman (G. S.), Coleridge (in Stedman's American Anthology). Bibliography Shepherd (R. H.), Bibliography of Coleridge ; revised by W. F. Pri- deaux. Haney (J. L.), A Bibliography of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 5 COLERIDGE LIFE As late I journey'd o'er the extensive plain Where native Otter sports his scanty stream , Musing in torpid woe a sister's pain. The glorious prospect woke nie from the dream. At every step it widen'd to my sight, Wood, Meadow, verdant Hill, and dreary Steep, Following in quick succession of delight. Till all — at once — did my eye ravish'd sweep ! May this (1 cried) my course througli Life portray ! New scenes of wisdom may each step display, And knowledge open as my days ad- vance ! Till what time Death shall pour the un- darken'd ray, My eye shall dart thro' infinite ex- panse. And tliought suspended lie in rapture's blissful trance. Septeyiiber, 17S9. 1834. i LINES ON AN AUTUMNAL EVENING O THOU wild Fancy, check thy wing ! No niore Those tliin white flakes, those purple clouds explore ! Nor there with happy spirits speed thy flight ' The dates for Coleridge's poems are made up from the Shepherd-Prideaux and the Haney bibhosraphies, and from the excellent notes to Campbell's edition of the Poetical Works. 66 Bathed in ricii amber-glowing floods of light ; Nor in yon gleam, where slow descends the da}', With western peasant hail the morning ray ! Ah ! rather bid the perished pleasm-es move, A shadowy train, across the soul of Love ! O'er disappointment's wintry desert fling Each flower tliat wreathed tlie dewy locks of Spring, Wlien blushing, like a bride, from Hope's trim bower She leapt, awakened by the pattering shower. Now sheds tlie sinking Sun a deeper gleam , Aid, lovely Sorceress I aid tliy Poet's dream ! With faer}^ wand O bid the Maid arise, Cliaste Joyance dancing in lier bright- blue ej'es ; As erst when from the Muses' calm abode I came, witli Learning's meed not un- bestowed : When as she twined a laurel round my brow. And met my kiss, and lialf returned my vow. O'er all m}' frame shot rapid my thrilled heart. And every nerve confessed the electric dart. dear Deceit ! I see the Maiden rise, Cliaste Joyance dancing in her bright- blue eyes ! When first the lark liigli-soaring swells his tiiroat. Mocks tlie tired eye, and scatters the loud note, 1 trace lier footsteps on tlie accustomed lawn, COLERIDGE 67 I mark her glancing mid the gleams of dawn. When the bent flower beneath the night- dew weeps And on the lake the silver lustre sleeps, Amid the paly radiance soft and sad, She meets my lonely path in moonbeams clad. With her along the streamlet's brink I rove ; With lier I list tlie warblings of the grove ; And seems in each low wind her voice to float Lone whispering Pity in each soothing note ! Spirits of Love ! ye heard her name ! Obey The powerful spell, and to my haunt repair. Whether on clustering i^inions ye are there. Where rich snows blossom on the Myrtle-trees, Or with fond languishment around my fair Sigh in the loose luxuriance of her hair ; O heed the spell, and hither wing your way. Like far-off music, voyaging the breeze ! Spirits ! to you the infant Maid was given Foraied by tlie wondrous Alchemy of Heaven ! No fairer Maid does Love's wide empire know, No fairer Maid e'er heaved tlie bosom's snow. A thousand Loves around her forehead %; . . , A thousand Loves sit meltmg m lier eye ; Love lights her smile — in Joy's red nectar dips His myrtle flower, and plants it on lier lips. She speaks ! and hark that passion- warbled song — Still, Fancy ! still that voice, those notes, prolong. As sweet as when that voice with rap- turous falls Shall wake the softened echoes of Heaven's Halls ! O (have I sigh'd) were mine the wiz- ard's rod, Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful God ! 1 A flower-entangled Arbor I would seem To .shield my Love from Noontide's sultry beam : Or bloom a Myrtle, from whose odorous bovighs My Love might weave gay garlands for her brows. When Twilight stole across the fading- vale, To fan my Love I'd be the Evening Gale ; Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling vest. And flutter my faint pinions on her breast ! On Serapli wing I'd float a Dream by night. To soothe my Love with shadows of delight : — Or soar aloft to be the Spangled Skies, And gaze upon her with a thousand eyes ! As when the Savage, who his drowsy frame Had basked beneath the Sun's unclouded flame, Awakes amid the troubles of the air, Tlie skiey deluge, and white ligiitning's glare — Aghast he scours before the tempest's sweep. And sad recalls the sunny hour of sleep : — So tossed by storms along Life's wilder- ing way. Mine eye reverted views that cloudless day. When by my native brook I wont to rove. While Hope with kisses nursed the In- fant Love. Dear native brook ! like Peace, so placidly Smoothing through fertile flelds thy current meek ! Dear native brook! where first young Poesy Stared wildly-eager in her noontide dream ! Where blameless pleasures dimple Quiet's cheek. 1 I entreat the Public's pardon for having; care- lessly suffered to be printed such intolerable stuff as tliis and the thirteen following: lines. They have not the merit even of orig:inality : as every thought is to be found in the Greek Epigrams. (From Coleridge's note in the Poems, 1796.) 68 BRITISH POETS As water-lilies ripple thy slow stream ! Dear native haunts ! where Virtue still is gay, Where Friendship's fixed star sheds a mellowed ray, Where Love a crown of thornless Roses wears. Where soften'd Sorrow smiles within lier tears ; And Memory, with a Vestal's chaste employ. Unceasing feeds the lambent flame of joy! No more your sky-larks melting from tlie sight Shall thrill the attuned heart-string with delight — No more shall deck your pensive Pleas- ures sweet With wreaths of sober hue my evening seat. Yet dear to Fancy's eye your varied scene Of w^ood, hill, dale, and sparkling brook between ! Yet sweet to Fancy's ear tlie warbled song. That soars on Morning's wing your vales among. Scenes of my Hope ! the acliinge ye ye leave Like yon bright hues tliat paint the clouds of eve ! Tearful and saddening with the saddened blaze Mine eye the gleam pursues with wistful gaze : Sees shades on shades with deeper tint impend, Till chill and damp the moonless niglit descend. 1793. 1796. LEWTI OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHANT At midnight by the stream T roved, To forget the form I loved. Image of Lewti ! from my mind Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. The Moon was high, the moonlight gleam And the shadow of a star Heaved upon Tamaha's stream ; But the rock shone brighter far, Tlie rock half sheltered from my view By pendent boughs of tressy yew. — So shines my Lewti's forehead fair, Gleaming through her sable hair, Image of Lewti ! from my mind Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. I saw a cloud of palest hue, Onward to the moon it passed ; Still brighter and more briglit it grew. With floating colors not a few. Till it reach'd the moon at last : Then tlie cloud was wholly bright. With a ricli and amber light ! And so with many a hope I seek And with such joy I find my Lewti ; And even so my pale wan cheek Drinks in as deep a flusli of beauty ! Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind, If Lewti never will be kind. The little cloud — it floats away. Away, it goes ; away so soon ? Alas ! it has no power to stay : Its hues are dim, its hues are gray Away it passes from the moon ! How mournfully it seems to fly. Ever fading more and more. To joyless regions of the sky — And now 'tis whiter than before ! As white as my poor cheek will be. When, Lewti ! on my couch I lie, A dying man for love of tliee. Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind — And yet, thou didst not look unkind. . I saw a vapor in the sky. Thin, and wliite, and very high ; I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud : Perhaps the bi'eezes that can fly Now below and now above. Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud Of Lady fair — that died for love. For maids, as well as youths, have perished From fruitless love too fondly cherished. Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind — For Lewti never will be kind. Hush ! my heedless feet from under Slip tlie crumbling banks for ever: Like echoes to a distant thunder. They plunge into the gentle river. The river-swans have heard my tread, And startle from their reedy bed. O beauteous birds ! methinks ye measure Your movements to some heavenly tune ! COLERIDGE 69 beauteovis birds ! 'tis such a pleasure To see you move beneath the moon, 1 would it were your true delight To sleep by day and wake all night. I know the place where Lewti lies When silent night has closed her eyes : It is a breezy jasmine-bower, The nightingale sings o'er her head : Voice of the Niglit ! had I the power That leafy labyrinth to thread, And creep, like thee, with soundless tread, I then niiglit view her bosom white Heaving lovely to my sight. As these two swans together heave On the gently-swelling wave. Oh ! that she saw me in a dream, And dreamt that I had died for care ; All pale and wasted I would seem Yet fair withal, as spirits are ! I'd die indeed, if I might see Her bosom heave, and heave for me ! Soothe, gentle image ! soothe my mind ! To-morrow Lewti may be kind. nOJi.. April 13, 1798. LA FAYETTE As when far off the warbled strains are heard That soar on Morning's wing the vales among ; Within his cage the imprisoned matin bird Swells the full chorus with a generous song : He bathes no pinion in the dewy light. No Father's joy, no Lover's bliss he shares, Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sight — His fellows' freedom soothes the cap- tive's cares ! Thou, Fayette ! who didst wake with startling voice Life's better sun from that long win- try night, Tims in thy Country's triumphs shalt rejoice And mock with raptures high the dun- geon's might : For lo ! the morning struggles into day, And Slavery's spectres shriek and van- ish from the rav ! ndlj., December 15, 1794. REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF RETIREMENT Sermoni propriora. — hor. Low was our pretty Cot : our tallest rose Peeped at tlie chamber- window. We could hear At silent noon, and eve, and early morn. The sea's faint murmur. In the open air Our myrtles blossom'd ; and across the porch Thick jasmines twined : the little land- scape round Was green and woody, and refreshed the eye. It was a spot which you might aptly call TJie Valley of Seclusion ! Once I saw (Hallowing ] I is Sabbath-day by quietness) A wealthy son of commerce saunter by, Bristowa's citizen : methought, it calmed His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse With wiser feelings : for he paused, and looked With -a pleased sadness, and gazed all around, Then eyed our Cottage, and gazed round again. And sighed, and said, it v/as a Blessed Place. And we loere blessed. Oft with patient ear Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note (Viewless, or haply for a moment seen Gleaming on sunny wings) in whispered tones I've said to my beloved, "Such, sweet girl ! The inobtrusive song of Happiness, Unearthly nainstrelsy ! then only heard When the soul seeks to hear ; when all is hushed. And the heart listens ! " But the time, when first From that low dell, steep up the stony mount I climbed with perilous toil and reached the top. Oh ! what a goodly scene ! Here the bleak mount. The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep ; Gray clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields ; And river, now with bushy rocks o'er- brovved, 70 BRITISH POETS Now winding bright and full, witli naked banks : And seats, and lawns, the abbey and the wood, And cots, and hamlets, and faint city- spire ; The Channel there, the Islands and white sails, Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills and shoreless Ocean — It seem'd like Omnipresence ! God, me- thought. Had built liim there a Temple : tlie wliole World Seemed imaged in its vast circumfer- ence : No ivisli profaned my overwhelmed heart. Blest hovir ! It was a luxury, — to be ! Ah ! quiet dell ! dear cot, and mount sublime ! I was constrained to quit you. Was it right. While my unnumbered bretliren toiled and bled. That I should dream away the entrusted hours On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart Witli feelings all too delicate for use? Sweet is the tear that from some How- ard's eye Drops on tiie cheek of one he lifts from earth : And he that works me good with un- moved face. Does it but lialf : he chills me while he aids. My benefactor, not my brother man ! Yet even this, this cold benehcence Praise, praise it, O 013^ Soul ! oft as thou scaun'st The sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe ! Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the wretched. Nursing in some delicious solitude Their slothful loves and dainty sym- pathies ! I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand. Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight Of science, freedom, and the truth in Christ. Yet oft when after honorable toil Kests the tired mind, and waking loves to dream. My spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot ! Thy jasmine and thy window-peeping rose, And myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air. And I shall sigh fond wishes — sweet abode ! Ah ! — liad none greater ! And that all had such ! It might be so — but the time is not yet. Speed it, O Father ! Let thy Kingdom come ! 1705. October, 1796. TIME REAL AND IMAGINARY AN ALLEGORY On the wide level of a mountain's head, (I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place) Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails out- spi'ead. Two lovely children run an endless race, A sister and a brother ! This far outstript tlie other ; Yet ever runs she with reverted face, And looks and listens for the boy be- hind : For he, alas ! is blind ! O'er rough and smooth with even step he passed. And knows not whether he be first or last. n. . . 1817. THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON ADDRESSED TO CHARLES LAMB, OF THE INDIA HOUSE, LONDON In the June of 1797 some long-expected friends paid a visit to the autlior's cottage ; and on the morning of tlieir arrival, lie met with an acci- dent, which disabled him from walliing during tlie whole time of their stay. One evening, wlien they had left him for a few hours, he composed the following lines in the garden - bower. (Coleridge.) Well, thej^ are gone, and here must 1 remain. This lime-tree bower my prison ! I have lost Beauties and feelings, such as would have been Most sweet to my remembrance even when age 'Included by Coleridge among his "Juvenile Poems." There is no other evidence to indicate at what dateit was written. See, however, a man- uscript note of 1811 on the same subject, given in Anima Poetae at the beginning of Chapter VIII. COLERIDGE 71 Had dimmed mine eyes to blindness ! They, meanwhile, Friends, whom I never more may meet again, On springy heath, along the hill-top edge. Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance, To that still roaring dell, of which I told : The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep. And only speckled by the mid-day sun ; Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rook Flings arching like a bridge ; — that branchless ash, Unsunned and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still. Fanned by the water-fall ! and there my friends Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds, That all at once (a most fantastic sight!) Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge Of the blue clay-stone. Now, my friends emerge Beneath the wide wide Heaven— and view again The many-steepled tract magnificent Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea, With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles Of purple shadow ! Yes ! they wander on In gladness all ; but thou, methinks, most glad. My gentle-hearted Charles ! for thou hast pined And hungered after Nature, many a year, In the great City pent, winning thy way With sad yet patient soul, througli evil and pain And strange calamity ! AI1 ! slowly sink Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun! Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb, Ye purple heath-flowers ! richlier burn, ye clouds ! Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves ! And kindle, thou blue Ocean ! So my friend Struck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood. Silent with swimming sense ; yea, gazing round On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem Less gross than bodily ; and of such hues As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makes Spirits perceive his presence. A delight Comes siidden on my heart, and I am glad As I myself were there ! Nor in this bower. This little lime-tree bovver, have I not marked Much that has soothed me. Pale beneath the blaze Hung the transparent foliage ; and I watched Some broad and sunny leaf, and loved to see The shadow of the leaf and stem above. Dappling its sunshine ! And that wal- nut-tree Was richly tinged, and a deep radiance lay Full on the ancient ivy, which usurps Those fronting elms, and now, with blackest mass Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue Through the late twilight : and though now the bat Wheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters. Yet still the solitary humble-bee Sings in the bean-flower ! Henceforth I shall know That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure ; No plot so narrow, be but Nature there. No waste so vacant, but may well employ Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart Awake to Love and Beauty ! and some- times 'Tis well to be bereft of promised good. That we may lift the soul, and contem- plate With lively joy the joys we cannot share. My gentle-hearted Charles ! when the last rook 72 BRITISH POETS Beat its straight path along the dusky air Homewards, I blest it ! deeming, its black wing (Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light) Had cross'd the mighty orb's dilated glory. While thou stood'st gazing ; or when all was still. Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a charm For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom No sound is dissonant which tells of Life. 1797. 1800. KUBLA KHAN In the summer of the year 1797, the Author, then in ill health, had retired to a lonely farm- house between Porlock and Linton, on the Ex- moor confines of Somerset and Devonshire. In consequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne had been prescribed, from the effects of which he fell asleep in his chair at the moment that he was reading the following sentence, or words of the same substance, in Purchas's " Pilgrimage" : " Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a stately garden thereunto. And thus ten miles of fertile ground were inclosed with a wall." The Author continued for about three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, during which time he has the most vivid confidence, that he could not have composed less than from two to three hundred lines ; if thatindeed can be called composition in which all the images rose up before him as things, with a parallel production of the corre- spondent expressions, without any sensation or consciousness of effort. On awaking he ap- peared to himself to have a distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At this moment he was un- fortunately called out by a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his no small surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollec- tion of the general purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed away, like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone has been cast, but, alas I without the after restoration of the latter. Then all the charm Is broken — all that phantom-world so fair Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread, And each mis-shapes the other. Stay awhile. Poor youth I who scarcely dar'st lift up thine eyes-r- The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon The visions will return ! And lo, he stays, And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms Come trembling back, unite, and now once more The pool becomes a mirror. (From The Picture ; or, the Lover's Resolu- tion) Yet from the still surviving recollections in his mind, the Author has frequently purposed to finish for himself what had been originally, as it were, given to him. Aipio^ aScov ao-