6B50 -flOa_ V. 4 rlk CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY THE WORDSWORTH COLLECTION FOUNDED BY CYNTHIA MORGAN ST. JOHN THE GIFT OF VICTOR EMANUEL OF THE CLASS OF 1^19 '^'^ Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924103995977 THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH IN TEN VOLUMES VOLUME IV Daffodils THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF Willim l^ortjstoortj) IV 1801-1805 BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY MDCCCCX COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED r THIS EDITION IS LIMITED TO FIVE HUNDRED SETS OF WHICH THIS IS NO t/.^/ CONTENTS The Sparrow's Nest Page 3 "Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side" . . 5 The Prioress's Tale (from Chaucer) ... 6 The Cuckoo and the Nightingale (from Chaucer) 19 Troilus and Cresida (from Chaucer) ... 36 The Sailor's Mother 44 Alice Fell; or. Poverty 46 Beggars 50 To A Butterfly (first poem) .... 53 The Emigrant Mother 54 "My heart leaps up when I behold" . . 59 "Among all lovely things my Love had been" 60 Written in March, while resting on the Bridge AT THE FOOT OF BrOTHEr's WaTER ... 62 The Redbreast chasing the Butterfly . . 64 [ v] CONTENTS To A Butterfly (second poem) Foresight To the Small Celandine (first poem) . To THE SAME FlOWER (sECOND POEm) Resolution and Independence *'I GRIEVED FOR BuONAPARTE, WITH A VAIN" A Farewell "The Sun has long been set" Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 3, 1802 Composed by the Sea-side, near Calais, August 1802 Calais, August 1802 Composed near Calais, on the Road leading to Ardres, August 7, 1802 .... Calais, August 15, 1802 . . "It is a beauteous evening, calm and free" On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic The King of Sweden to toussaint l'ouverture .... Composed in the Valley near Dover, on the day of landing [ vi] 66 67 69 73 76 84 85 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 CONTENTS September 1, 1802 • . 99 Near Dover, September 1802 .... 100 Written in London, September 1802 . . . 101 London, 1802 103 " Great men have been among us; hands that penned" 104 "It is not to be thought of that the Flood" 105 *'WhEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY WHAT HAS TAMED " 106 Composed after a Journey across the Hamble- TON Hills, Yorkshire 107 Stanzas written in my Pocket-copy of Thomson's "Castle of In^dolence" 109 To H. C. Six years old 113 To THE Daisy (first poem) 115 To THE SAME FlOWER (sECOND POEM) . . . 119 To THE Daisy (third poem) 122 The Green Linnet 124 Yew-trees 126 "Who fancied what a pretty sight" . . . 129 « It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown" 130 [ vii] CONTENTS Memorials op a Tour in Scotland, 1803 — 1. Departure from the vale of Grasmere, August 1803 131 2. At the Grave of Burns, 1803. Seven years AFTER HIS death 133 3. Thoughts suggested the Day following, on THE Banks of Nith, near the Poet's Re- sidence 137 4. To the Sons of Burns, after visiting the Grave of their Father 140 5. To a Highland Girl 143 6. Glen Almain; or. The Narrow Glen . . 147 7. Stepping Westward 149 8. The Solitary Reaper . . . , . 151 9. Address to Kilchurn Castle, upon Loch Awe 153 10. Rob Roy's Grave 156 11. Sonnet. Composed at Castle . . 162 12. Yarrow Unvisited 163 13. The Matron of Jedborough and her Hus- band 166 [ viii ] CONTENTS 14. "Fly, some kind Harbingeb, to Grasmere- dale!" 170 15. The Blind Highland Boy . . . .171 October 1803 183 "There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear" 184 October 1803 185 "England! the time is come when thou should'st wean" 186 October 1803 ... .... 187 To THE Men of Kent. October 1803 . . . 188 In the Pass of Killicranky, an invasion being expected, October 1803 189 Anticipation. October 1803 190 Lines on the expected Invasion, 1803 . . . 191 The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale . . . .192 To the Cuckoo . 198 "She was a Phantom of delight" . . . 200 "i wandered lonely as a cloud " . . . 202 The Affliction of Margaret .... 204 The Forsaken 208 [ix] CONTENTS Repentance. A Pastoral Ballad .... 210 The Seven Sisters; or, The Solitude op Binnorie 212 Address to my Infant Daughter, Dora, on being reminded that she was a Month old that Day, September 16 216 The Kitten and Falling Leaves .... 220 To the Spade of a Friend (an Agriculturist). Composed while we were labouring to- gether IN HIS Pleasure-ground . . . 226 The Small Celandine (third poem) . . . 229 At Applethwaite, near Keswick, 1804 . .231 To the Supreme Being. From the Italian of Michael Angelo ..'.... 232 Ode to Duty 233 To a Sky-lark 236 Fidelity 238 Incident characteristic of a Favourite Dog . 242 Tribute to the Memory of the same Dog . . 245 "When, TO the attractions of the busy world" 247 Elegiac Verses in memory of my Brother, John [ X] CONTENTS Wordsworth, Coisoiander of the E. I. Com- pany's SHIP THE Earl of Abergavenny, in which HE PERISHED BY CALAMITOUS SHIPWRECK, FEB- RUARY 6, 1805. Composed near the Mountain TRACK that leads FROM GrASMERE THROUGH Grisdale Hawes, where it descends towards Paterdale 252 To THE Daisy (fourth poem) 256 Elegiac Stanzas, suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle, in a Storm, painted by Sir George Beaumont 260 Louisa. After accompanying her on a Mountain Excursion 264 To A Young Lady who had been reproached for taking long Walks in the Country . . 265 Vaudracour and Julia 267 The Cottager to her Infant. By my Sister . 280 The Waggoner 281 French Revolution, as it appeared to Enthusi- asts at its Commencement . . . .317 NOTES ON THE ILLUSTRATIONS Daffodils Frontispiece "A host of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze." (Page 202.) The photograph shows the daffodils growing on the margin of Ullswater, — probably the same view (although taken a century later) which first suggested the poem to Wordsworth. The Sparrow's Nest Pagb 4 "Behold, within the leafy shade, Those bright blue eggs together laid!" The Small Celandine 70 "There's a flower that shall be mine, 'T is the Uttle Celandine." Ploughing on the Uplands 78 "Following his plough, along the mountain-side." It is a common sight in early spring to see the farmer pushing his plough through the scanty soil of the hillside, his figure standing out against the sky-line. Wordsworth's Well 86 "Bright gowan, and marsh marigold, farewell! Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought. And placed together near our rocky Well." [ xiii ] NOTES ON THE ILLUSTRATIONS The "well" is a spring in the garden of Dove Cot- tage. Damsons in Blossom . , . . , .124 " 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." The Hill Farm 210 "There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their bowers, Unfettered as bees that in gardens abide; We could do what we liked with the land, it waS ours; And for us the brook murmured that ran by its side." The Cottage at Applethwaite .... 230 "Beaumont! it was thy wish that I should rear A seemly cottage in this sunny Dell." The Applethwaite property was presented to Wordsworth by his friend Sir George Beaumont, who hoped that he might live there and thus be near Coleridge, then living at Greta Hall, near Keswick. Wordsworth gave the place to his daughter. The Gough Monument 238 The monument erected over the remains of Charles Gough is in reality a memorial to the fidelity of his dog. Wordsworth and Sir W^alter Scott both heard of the incident at the same time and each wrote a poem on the subject. [ xiv ] NOTES ON THE ILLUSTRATIONS Brother John's Grove 246 . . . "Upon a hill At a short distance from my cottage, stands A stately fir-grove, whither I was wont To hasten, for I found, beneath the roof Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor." The Waggoner 282 "'T is Benjamin, the Waggoner; Who long hath trod this toilsome way. Companion of the night and day." POEMS 1801-1805 POEMS 1801-1805 THE SPARROW'S NEST 1801 1807 Written in the Orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. At the end of the garden of my father's house at Cockermouth was a high terrace that commanded a fine view of the river Derwent and Cockermouth Castle. This was our favourite play-ground. The terrace-wall, a low one, was covered with closely-clipt privet and roses, which gave an almost impervious shelter to birds that built their nests there. The latter of these stanzas alludes to one of those nests. Behold, within the leafy shade. Those bright blue eggs together laid ! On me the chance-discovered sight Gleamed like a vision of delight. I started — seeming to espy The home and sheltered bed. The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by My Father's house, in wet or dry My sister Emmeline and I Together visited. She looked at it and seemed to fear it; Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it : [3] THE SPARROW'S NEST Such heart was in her, being then A Httle 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 joy. [4] The Sparrow's Nest PELION AND OSS A FLOURISH SIDE BY SIDE" 1801 1815 Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side, Together in immortal books enrolled: His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold; And that inspiring Hill, which "did divide Into two ample horns his forehead wide," Shines with poetic radiance as of old; While not an English Mountain we behold By the celestial Muses glorified. Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds: What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee, Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty Our British Hill is nobler far; he shrouds His double front among Atlantic clouds. And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly. [5] THE PRIORESS'S TALE FROM CHAUCER 1801 1820 " Call up him who left half told The story of Cambuscan bold." In the following Poem no further deviation from the original has been made than was necessary for the fluent reading and instant understanding of the Author : so much, however, is the language altered since Chaucer's time, especially in pronuncia- tion, that much was to be removed, and its place supplied with as little incongruity as possible. The ancient accent has been retained in a few conjunctions, as also and alway, from a con- viction that such sprinklings of antiquity would be admitted, by persons of taste, to have a graceful accordance with the subject. The fierce bigotry of the Prioress forms a fine back- ground for her tender-hearted sympathies with the Mother and Child; and the mode in which the story is told amply atones for the extravagance of the miracle. "O Lord, our Lord! how wondrously," (quoth she,) "Thy name in this large world is spread abroad! For not alone by men of dignity Thy worship is performed and precious laud; But by the mouths of children, gracious God ! Thy goodness is set forth; they when they lie Upon the breast thy name do glorify. [6] THE PRIORESS'S TALE II " Wherefore in praise, the worthiest that I may, Jesu ! of thee, and the white Lily-flower Which did thee bear, and is a Maid for aye, To tell a story I will use my power; Not that I may increase her honour's dower, For she herself is honour, and the root Pf goodness, next her Son, our soul's best boot. Ill "O Mother Maid! O Maid and Mother free! O bush unburnt ! burning in Moses' sight ! That down didst ravish from the Deity, Through humbleness, the spirit that did alight Upon thy heart, whence, through that glory's might, Conceived was the Father's sapience, Help me to tell it in thy reverence ! IV "Lady! thy goodness, thy magnificence, Thy virtue, and thy great humility, Surpass all science and all utterance; For sometimes, Lady ! ere men pray to thee Thou goest before in thy benignity. The light to us vouchsafing of thy prayer. To be our guide unto thy Son so dear. [ 7 ] THE PRIORESS'S TALE V '*My knowledge is so weak, O blissful Queen! To tell abroad thy mighty worthiness, That I the weight of it may not sustain; But as a child of twelvemonths old or less, That laboureth his language to express, Even so fare I; and therefore, I thee pray. Guide thou my song which I of thee shall say. VI "There was in Asia, in a mighty town, 'Mong Christian folk, a street where Jews might be, Assigned to them and given them for their own By a great Lord, for gain and usury. Hateful to Christ and to his company; And through this street who list might ride and wend; Free was it, and unbarred at either end. VII "A little school of Christian people stood Down at the farther end, in which there were A nest of children come of Christian blood. That learned in that school from year to year Such sort of doctrine as men used there. That is to say, to sing and read also. As little children in their childhood do. [8] THE PRIORESS'S TALE VIII "Among these children was a Widow's son, A little scholar, scarcely seven years old, Who day by day unto this school hath gone, And eke, when he the image did behold Of Jesu's Mother, as he had been told. This Child was wont to kneel adown and say Ave Marie y as he goeth by the way. IX "This Widow thus her little Son hath taught Our blissful Lady, Jesu's Mother dear, To worship aye, and he forgat it not; For simple infant hath a ready ear. Sweet is the holiness of youth : and hence. Calling to mind this matter when I may, Saint Nicholas in my presence standeth aye. For he so young to Christ did reverence. X "This little Child, while in the school he sate His Primer conning with an earnest cheer. The whilst the rest their anthem-book repeat The Alma Redemptoris did he hear; And as he durst he drew him near and near, [9] THE PRIORESS'S TALE And hearkened to the words and to the note, Till the first verse he learned it all by rote. XI "This Latin knew he nothing what it said. For he too tender was of age to know; But to his comrade he repaired, and prayed That he the meaning of this song would show. And unto him declare why men sing so; This oftentimes, that he might be at ease. This child did him beseech on his bare knees. XII "His Schoolfellow, who elder was than he, Answered him thus: — *This song, I have heard say, Was fashioned for our blissful Lady free; Her to salute, and also her to pray To be our help upon our dying day : If there is more in this, I know it not ; Song do I learn, — small grammar I have got.' XIII "*And is this song fashioned in reverence Of Jesu's Mother?' said this Innocent; *Now, certes, I will use my diligence [ 10] THE PRIORESS'S TALE To con it all ere Christmas-tide be spent; Although I for my Primer shall be shent. And shall be beaten three times in an hour. Our Lady I will praise with all my power.' XIV "His Schoolfellow, whom he had so besought. As they went homeward taught him privily, And then he sang it well and fearlessly, From word to word according to the note : Twice in a day it passed through his throat; Homeward and school ward whensoe'er he went. On Jesu's Mother fixed was his intent. XV "Through all the Jewry (this before said I) This little Child, as he came to and fro. Full merrily then would he sing and cry, O Alma Redemptoris ! high and low: The sweetness of Christ's Mother pierced so His heart, that her to praise, to her to pray, He cannot stop his singing by the way. XVI "The Serpent, Satan, our first foe, that hath His wasp's nest in Jew's heart, upswelled — *0 woe, [ 11 ] THE PRIORESS'S TALE Hebrew people ! ' said he in his wrath, *Is it an honest thing? Shall this be so? That such a Boy where'er he lists shall go In your despite, and sing his hymns and saws, Which is against the reverence of our laws!' XVII "From that day forward have the Jews conspired Out of the world this Innocent to chase; And to this end a Homicide they hired. That in an alley had a privy place. And, as the Child 'gan to the school to pace, This cruel Jew him seized, and held him fast And cut his throat, and in a pit him cast. XVIII "I say that him into a pit they threw, A loathsome pit, whence noisome scents exhale; O cursed folk ! away, ye Herods new ! What may your ill intentions you avail? Murder will out; certes it will not fail; Know, that the honour of high God may spread, The blood cries out on your accursed deed. XIX "O Martyr 'stablished in virginity! Now may'st thou sing for aye before the throne, [ 12] THE PRIORESS'S TALE Following the Lamb celestial," quoth she, "Of which the great Evangelist, Saint John, In Patmos wrote, who saith of them that go Before the Lamb singing continually, That never fleshly woman they did know. XX "Now this poor widow waiteth all that night After her little Child, and he came not; For which, by earliest glimpse of morning light. With face all pale with dread and busy thought. She at the School and elsewhere him hath sought Until thus far she learned, that he had been In the Jews' street, and there he last was seen. XXI "With Mother's pity in her breast enclosed She goeth, as she were half out of her mind. To every place wherein she hath supposed By likelihood her little Son to find; And ever on Christ's Mother meek and kind She cried, till to the Jewry she was brought. And him among the accursed Jews she sought . XXII "She asketh, and she piteously doth pray To every Jew that dwelleth in that place [ 13] THE PRIORESS'S TALE To tell her if her child had passed that way; They all said — Nay; but Jesu of his grace Gave to her thought, that in a little space She for her Son in that same spot did cry Where he was cast into a pit hard by. XXIII "O thou great God that dost perform thy laud By mouths of Innocents, lo! here thy might; This gem of chastity, this emerald. And eke of martyrdom this ruby bright. There, where with mangled throat he lay upright, The Alma Redemptoris 'gan to sing. So loud, that with his voice the place did ring. XXIV "The Christian folk that through the Jewry went Come to the spot in wonder at the thing; And hastily they for the Provost sent ; Immediately he came, not tarrying. And praiseth Christ that is our heavenly King, And eke his Mother, honour of Mankind: Which done he bade that they the Jews should bind. XXV "This Child with piteous lamentation then Was taken up, singing his song alway; [ 14] THE PRIORESS'S TALE And with procession great and pomp of men To the next Abbey him they bare away; His Mother swooning by the body lay : And scarcely could the people that were near Remove this second Rachel from the bier. XXVI "Torment and shameful death to every one This Provost doth for those bad Jews prepare That of this murder wist, and that anon: Such wickedness his judgments cannot spare; Who will do evil, evil shall he bear; Them therefore with wild horses did he draw And after that he hung them by the law. XXVII "Upon his bier this Innocent doth lie Before the altar while the Mass doth last : The Abbot with his convent's company Then sped themselves to bury him full fast; And, when they holy water on him cast. Yet spake this Child when sprinkled was the water, And sang, O Alma Redemptoris Mater I XXVIII *This Abbot, for he was a holy man, As all Monks are, or surely ought to be, [ 15 ] THE PRIORESS'S TALE In supplication to the Child began Thus saying, * O dear Child ! I summon thee In virtue of the holy Trinity Tell me the cause why thou dost sing this hymn Since that thy throat is cut, as it doth seem.' XXIX "*My throat is cut unto the bone, I trow,' Said this young Child, ' and by the law of kind I should have died, yea many hours ago; But Jesus Christ, as in the books ye find, Will that his glory last, and be in mind; And, for the worship of his Mother dear, Yet may I sing Alma I loud and clear. XXX "*This well of mercy, Jesu's Mother sweet, After my knowledge I have loved alway; And in the hour when I my death did meet To me she came, and thus to me did say, "Thou in thy dying sing this holy lay," As ye have heard; and soon as I had sung Met bought she laid a grain upon my tongue. XXXI Wherefore I sing, nor can from song refrain. In honour of that blissful Maiden free, [ 16] THE PRIORESS'S TALE Till from my tongue off -taken is the grain; And after that thus said she unto me; "My little Child, then will I come for thee Soon as the grain from off thy tongue they take: Be not dismayed, I will not thee forsake!'" XXXII "This holy Monk, this Abbot — him mean I, Touched then his tongue, and took away the grain; And he gave up the ghost full peacefully; And, when the Abbot had this wonder seen. His salt tears trickled down like showers of rain; And on his face he dropped upon the ground. And still he lay as if he had been bound. XXXIII "Eke the whole Convent on the pavement lay. Weeping and praising Jesu's Mother dear; And after that they rose, and took their way. And lifted up this Martyr from the bier, And in a tomb of precious marble clear Enclosed his uncorrupted body sweet. — Where'er he be, God grant us him to meet ! XXXIV "Young Hew of Lincoln! in like sort laid low By cursed Jews — thing well and widely known, [ 17] THE PRIORESS'S TALE For it was done a little while ago — Pray also thou for us, while here we tarry Weak sinful folk, that God, with pitying eye, In mercy would his mercy multiply On us, for reverence of his Mother Mary!" [ 18] THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE FROM CHAUCER 1801 1842 I The God of Love — ah, henedicite I How mighty and how great a Lord is he! For he of low hearts can make high, of high He can make low, and unto death bring nigh; And hard hearts he can make them kind and free. II Within a little time, as hath been found, He can make sick folk whole and fresh and sound: Them who are whole in body and in mind, He can make sick, — bind can he and unbind All that he will have bound3 or have unbound. Ill To tell his might my wit may not suflBce; Foolish men he can make them out of wise; — For he may do all that he will devise; Loose livers he can make abate their vice, And proud hearts can make tremble in a trice. [ 19 ] THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE IV In brief, the whole of what he will, he may; Against him dare not any wight say nay; To humble or afflict whome'er he will. To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill; But most his might he sheds on the eve of May. V For every true heart, gentle heart and free, That with him is, or thinketh so to be, Now against May shall have some stirring — whether To joy, or be it to some mourning; never At other time, methinks, in like degree. VI For now when they may hear the small birds' song, And see the budding leaves the branches throng. This unto their rememberance doth bring All kinds of pleasure mixed with sorrowing; And longing of sweet thoughts that ever long. VII And of that longing heaviness doth come, Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and home; Sick are they all for lack of their desire; And thus in May their hearts are set on fire, So that they burn forth in great martyrdom. [ 20] THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE VIII In sooth, I speak from feeling, what though now Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow; Yet have I felt of sickness through the May, Both hot and cold, and heart -aches every day, — How hard, alas ! to bear, I only know. IX Such shaking doth the fever in me keep Through all this May that I have little sleep; And also 't is not likely unto me. That any li\ang heart should sleepy be In which Love's dart its fiery point doth steep. X But tossing lately on a sleepless bed, I of a token thought which Lovers heed; How among them it was a common tale. That it was good to hear the Nightingale, Ere the vile Cuckoo's note be uttered. XI And then I thought anon as it was day, I gladly would go somewhere to essay If I perchance a Nightingale might hear, For yet had I heard none, of all that year. And it was then the third night of the May. [21 ] THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE XII And soon as I a glimpse of day espied, No longer would I in my bed abide, But straightway to a wood that was hard by. Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly. And held the pathway down by a brookside; XIII Till to a lawn I came all white and green, I in so fair a one had never been. The ground was green, with daisy powdered over; Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover. All green and white; and nothing else was seen. XIV There sate I down among the fair fresh flowers. And saw the birds come tripping from their bowers, Where they had rested them all night ; and they, Who were so joyful at the light of day. Began to honour May with all their powers. XV Well did they know that service all by rote. And there was many and many a lovely note, Some, singing loud, as if they had complained; Some with their notes another manner feigned; And some did sing all out with the full throat. [ 22 ] THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE XVI They pruned themselves, and made them- selves right gay. Dancing and leaping light upon the spray; And ever two and two together were, The same as they had chosen for the year, Upon Saint Valentine's returning day. XVII Meanwhile the stream, whose bank I sate upon. Was making such a noise as it ran on Accordant to the sweet Birds' harmony; Methought that it was the best melody Which ever to man's ear a passage won. XVIII And for delight, but how I never wot, I in a slumber and a swoon was caught,' Not all asleep and yet not waking wholly; And as I lay, the Cuckoo, bird unholy. Broke silence, or I heard him in my thought. XIX And that was right upon a tree fast by, And who was then ill satisfied but I? Now, God, quoth I, that died upon the rood, [ 23 ] THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE From thee and thy base throat, keep all that's good, Full little joy have I now of thy cry. XX And, as I with the Cuckoo thus 'gan chide, In the next bush that was me fast beside, I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing. That her clear voice made a loud rioting, Echoing thorough all the green wood wide. XXI Ah! good sweet Nightingale! for my heart's cheer, Hence hast thou stayed a little while too long; For we have had the sorry Cuckoo here. And she hath been before thee w^ith her song; Evil light on her! she hath done me wrong. XXII But hear you now a wondrous thing, I pray; As long as in that swooning-fit I lay, Methought I wist right well what these birds meant. And had good knowing both of their intent. And of their speech, and all that they would say. XXIII The Nightingale thus in my hearing spake: — Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or brake, [ 24 ] THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE And, prithee, let us that can sing dwell here; For every wight eschews thy song to hear, Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make. XXIV ^ What! quoth she then, what is 't that ails thee now? It seems to me I sing as well as thou; For mine 's a song that is both true and plain, — Although I cannot quaver so in vain As thou dost in thy throat, I wot not how. XXV All men may understanding have of me. But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee; For thou hast many a foolish and quaint cry : — Thou say'st Osee, Osee, then how may I Have knowledge, I thee pray, what this may be? XXVI Ah, fool! quoth she, wist thou not what it is? Oft as I say Osee, Osee, I wis. Then mean I, that I should be wonderous fain That shamefully they one and all were slain. Whoever against Love mean aught amiss. XXVII And also would I that they all were dead, Who do not think in love their life to lead; [ 25 ] THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE For who is loth the God of Love to obey. Is only fit to die, I dare well say. And for that cause Osee I cry; take heed! XXVIII Ay, quoth the Cuckoo, that is a quaint law. That all must love or die; but I withdraw. And take my leave of all such company, For mine intent it neither is to die. Nor ever while I live Love's yoke to draw. XXIX For lovers of all folk that be alive, The most disquiet have and least do thrive; Most feeling have of sorrow, woe and care, And the least welfare cometh to their share; What need is there against the truth to strive? XXX What ! quoth she, thou art all out of thy mind, That in thy churlishness a cause canst find To speak of Love's true Servants in this mood; For in this world no service is so good To every wight that gentle is of kind. XXXI For thereof comes all goodness and all worth; All gentiless and honour thence come forth; [ 26 ] THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE Thence worship comes, content and true heart's pleasure, And full-assured trust, joy without measure, And jollity, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth; XXXII And bounty, lowliness, and courtesy, And seemliness, and faithful company, And dread of shame that will not do amiss; For he that faithfully Love's servant is. Rather than be disgraced, would chuse to die. XXXIII And that the very truth it is which I Now say — in such belief I'll live and die; And Cuckoo, do thou so, by my advice. Then, quoth she, let me never hope for bliss. If with that counsel I do e'er comply. XXXIV Good Nightingale! thou speakest wondrous fair. Yet for all that, the truth is found elsewhere; For Love in young folk is but rage, I wis : And Love in old folk a great dotage is; Who most it useth, him 't will most impair. XXXV For thereof come all contraries to gladness ! Thence sickness comes, and overwhelming sadness, [ 27]- THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE Mistrust and jealousy, despite, debate, Dishonour, shame, envy importunate, Pride, anger, mischief, poverty, and madness. XXXVI Loving is aye an oflBce of despair, And one thing is therein which is not fair; For whoso gets of love a Httle bhss. Unless it alway stay with him, I wis He may full soon go with an old man's hair. XXXVII And, therefore, Nightingale ! do thou keep nigh, For trust me well, in spite of thy quaint cry, If long time from thy mate thou be, or far. Thou 'It be as others that forsaken are; Then shalt thou raise a clamour as do I. XXXVIII Fie, quoth she, on thy name, Bird ill beseen ! The God of Love afflict thee with all teen, For thou art worse than mad a thousand fold; For many a one hath virtues manifold, Who had been nought, if Love had never been. XXXIX For evermore his servants Love amendeth, And he from every blemish them defendeth; [ 28 ] THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE And maketh them to burn, as in a fire, In loyalty, and worshipful desire, And, when it likes him, joy enough them sendeth. XL Thou Nightingale ! the Cuckoo said, be still, For Love no reason hath but his own will; — For to th' untrue he oft gives ease and joy; True lovers doth so bitterly annoy, He lets them perish through that grievous ill. XLI With such a master would I never be ; ^ For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not see, And knows not when he hurts and when he heals; Within this court full seldom Truth avails, So diverse in his wilfulness is he. XLII Then of the Nightingale did I take note, How from her inmost heart, a sigh she brought. And said, Alas ! that ever I was born. Not one word have I now, I am so forlorn, — And with that word, she into tears burst out. XLIII Alas, alas! my very heart will break, Quoth she, to hear this churlish bird thus speak [ 29 ] THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE Of Love, and of his holy services; Now, God of Love; thou help me in some wise, That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may wreak. XLIV And so methought I started up anon, And to the brook I ran and got a stone, Which at the Cuckoo hardily I cast. And he for dread did fly away full fast; And glad, in sooth, was I when he was gone. XLV And as he flew, the Cuckoo, ever and aye. Kept crying "Farewell! — farewell. Popinjay!" As if in scornful mockery of me; And on I hunted him from tree to tree, Till he was far, all out of sight, away. XLVI Then straightway came the Nightingale to me, And said. Forsooth, my friend, do I thank thee, That thou wert near to rescue me; and now. Unto the God of Love I make a vow. That all this May I will thy songstress be. XLVII Well satisfied, I thanked her, and she said. By this mishap no longer be dismayed, [30 ] THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE Though thou the Cuckoo heard, ere thou heard'st me; Yet if I live it shall amended be. When next May comes, if I am not afraid. XLVIII And one thing will I counsel thee also, The Cuckoo trust not thou, nor his Love's saw; All that she said is an outrageous lie. Nay, nothing shall me bring thereto, quoth I, For Love, and it hath done me mighty woe. XLIX Yea, hath it? use, quoth she, this medicine; This May -time, every day before thou dine. Go look on the fresh daisy; then say I, Although for pain thou may'st be like to die, Thou wilt be eased, and less wilt droop and pine. L And mind always that thou be good and true. And I will sing one song, of many new. For love of thee, as loud as I may cry; And then did she begin this song full high, "Beshrew all them that are in love untrue." LI And soon as she had sung it to the end, Now farewell, quoth she, for I hence must wend; [ 31 ] THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE And, God of Love, that can right well and may, Send unto thee as mickle joy this day, As ever he to Lover yet did send. LII Thus takes the Nightingale her leave of me; I pray to God with her always to be. And joy of love to send her evermore; And shield us from the Cuckoo and her lore, For there is not so false a bird as she. LIII Forth then she flew, the gentle Nightingale, To all the Birds that lodged within that dale. And gathered each and all into one place; And them besought to hear her doleful case And thus it was that she began her tale. LIV The Cuckoo — 't is not well that I should hide How she and I did each the other chide. And without ceasing, since it was daylight; And now I pray you all to do me right Of that false Bird whom Love can not abide. LV Then spake one Bird, and full assent all gave; This matter asketh counsel good as grave, [ 32 ] THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE For birds we are — all here together brought ; And, in good sooth, the Cuckoo here is not; And therefore we a Parliament will have. LVI And thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord, And other Peers whose names are on record; A summons to the Cuckoo shall be sent. And judgment there be given; or that intent Failing, we finally shall make accord. LVII And all this shall be done, without a nay. The morrow after Saint Valentine's day, Under a maple that is well beseen. Before the chamber-window of the Queen, At Woodstock, on the meadow green and gay. LVIII She thanked them; and then her leave she took. And flew into a haT\i:horn by that brook; And there she sate and sung — upon that tree — "For term of life Love shall have hold of me" — So loudly, that I with that song awoke. [ 33 ] THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE Unlearned Book and rude, as well I know, For beauty thou hast none, nor eloquence, Who did on thee the hardiness bestow To appear before my Lady? but a sense Thou surely hast of her benevolence, Whereof her hourly bearing proof doth give; For of all good she is the best alive. Alas, poor Book ! for thy unworthiness. To show to her some pleasant meanings writ In winning words, since through her gentiless, Thee she accepts as for her service fit ! Oh ! it repents me I have neither wit Nor leisure unto thee more worth to give; For of all good she is the best alive. Beseech her meekly with all lowliness. Though I be far from her I reverence. To think upon my truth and stedfastness. And to abridge my sorrow's violence, Caused by the wish, as knows your sapience. She of her liking proof to me would give; For of all good she is the best alive. [34] THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE l'envoy Pleasure's Aurora, Day of gladsomeness ! Lima by night, with heavenly influence Illumined! root of beauty and goodnesse, Write, and allay, by your beneficence, My sighs breathed forth in silence, — comfort give ! Since of all good, you are the best alive. EXPLICIT [35 ] TROILUS AND CRESIDA FROM CHAUCER 1801 1842 Next morning Troilus began to clear His eyes from sleep, at the first break of day, And unto Pandarus, his own Brother dear, For love of God, full piteously did say, We must the Palace see of Cresida; For since we yet may have no other feast, Let us behold her Palace at the least ! And therewithal to cover his intent A cause he found into the Town to go. And they right forth to Cresid's Palace went; But, Lord, this simple Troilus was woe. Him thought his sorrowful heart would break in two; For when he saw her doors fast bolted all, Well nigh for sorrow down he 'gan to fall. Therewith when this true Lover 'gan behold, How shut was every window of the place. Like frost he thought his heart was icy cold; For which, with changed, pale, and deadly face, [ 36 ] TROILUS AND CRESIDA Without word uttered, forth he 'gan to pace; And on his purpose bent so fast to ride, That no wight his continuance espied. Then said he thus, — O Palace desolate ! house of houses, once so richlj^ dight ! Palace empty and disconsolate! Thou lamp of which extinguished is the light; Palace whilom day that now art night. That ought'st to fall and I to die; since she Is gone who held us both in sovereignty. 0, of all houses once the crowned boast ! Palace illumined with the sun of bliss; ring of which the ruby now is lost, cause of woe, that cause has been of bliss : Yet, since I may no better, would I kiss Thy cold doors; but I dare not for this rout; Farewell, thou shrine of which the Saint is out. Therewith he cast on Pandarus an eye, With changed face, and piteous to behold; And when he might his time aright espy, Aye as he rode, to Pandarus he told Both his new sorrow and his joys of old, So piteously, and with so dead a hue. That every wight might on his sorrow rue. [37] TROILUS AND CRESIDA Forth from the spot he rideth up and down, And everything to his rememberance Came as he rode by places of the town Where he had felt such perfect pleasure once. Lo, yonder saw I mine own Lady dance. And in that Temple she with her bright eyes. My Lady dear, first bound me captive- wise. And yonder with joy-smitten heart have I Heard my own Cresid's laugh; and once at play I yonder saw her eke full blissfully; And yonder once she unto me 'gan say — Now, my sweet Troilus, love me well, I pray! And there so graciously did me behold. That hers unto the death my heart I hold. And at the corner of that self-same house Heard I my most beloved Lady dear. So womanly, with voice melodious Singing so well, so goodly, and so clear. That in my soul methinks I yet do hear The blissful sound; and in that very place My Lady first me took unto her grace. O blissful God of Love ! then thus he cried. When I the process have in memory, [ 38 ] TROILUS AND CRESIDA How thou hast wearied me on every side, Men thence a book might make, a history; What need to seek a conquest over me, Since I am wholly at thy will? what joy Hast thou thy own liege subjects to destroy? Dread Lord! so fearful when provoked, thine ire Well hast thou wreaked on me by pain and grief. Now mercy. Lord ! thou know'st well I desire Thy grace above all pleasures first and chief; And live and die I will in thy belief; For which I ask for guerdon but one boon, That Cresida again thou send me soon. Constrain her heart as quickly to return. As thou dost mine with longing her to see. Then know I well that she would not sojourn. Now, blissful Lord, so cruel do not be Unto the blood of Troy, I pray of thee. As Juno was unto the Theban blood. From whence to Thebes came griefs in multitude. And after this he to the gate did go, Whence Cresid rode, as if in haste she was; And up and down there went, and to and fro, And to himself full oft he said, alas ! [ 39 ] TROILUS AND CRESIDA From hence my hope, and solace forth did pass. would the bhssful God now for his joy, 1 might her see again coming to Troy ! And up to yonder hill was I her guide; Alas, and there I took of her my leave; Yonder I saw her to her Father ride, For very grief of which my heart shall cleave; — And hither home I came when it was eve; And here I dwell an outcast from all joy, And shall, unless I see her soon in Troy. And of himself did he imagine oft. That he was blighted, pale, and waxen less Than he was wont; and that in whispers soft Men said, what may it be, can no one guess Why Troilus hath all this heaviness .^^ All which he of himself conceited wholly Out of his weakness and his melancholy. Another time he took into his head. That every wight, who in the way passed by, Had of him ruth, and fancied that they said, I am right sorry Troilus will die : And thus a day or two drove wearily; As ye have heard; such life 'gan he to lead As one that standeth betwixt hope and dread. [ 40 ] TROILUS AND CRESII)A For which it pleased him in his songs to show The occasion of his woe, as best he might; And made a fitting song, of words but few. Somewhat his woeful heart to make more light; And when he was removed from all men's sight, With a soft night voice, he of his Lady dear, That absent was, 'gan sing as ye may hear. star, of which I lost have all the light, With a sore heart well ought I to bewail. That ever dark in torment, night by night. Toward my death with wind I steer and sail; For which upon the tenth night if thou fail With thy bright beams to guide me but one hour, My ship and me Charybdis will devour. As soon as he this song had thus sung through. He fell again into his sorrows old; And every night, as was his wont to do, Troilus stood the bright moon to behold; And all this trouble to the moon he told, And said; I wis, when thou art horn'd anew, 1 shall be glad if all the world be true. Thy horns were old as now upon that morrow, When hence did journey my bright Lady dear, [41] TROILUS AND CRESIDA That cause is of my torment and my sorrow; For which, oh, gentle Luna, bright and clear; For love of God, run fast above thy sphere; For when thy horns begin once more to spring. Then shall she come, that with her bliss may bring. The day is more, and longer every night Than they were wont to be — for he thought so; And that the sun did take his course not right, By longer way than he was wont to go; And said, I am in constant dread I trow, That Phaeton his son is yet alive. His too fond father's car amiss to drive. Upon the walls fast also would he walk, To the end that he the Grecian host might see; And ever thus he to himself would talk : — Lo! yonder is my own bright Lady free; Or yonder is it that the tents must be; And thence does come this air which is so sweet, That in my soul I feel the joy of it. And certainly this wind, that more and more By moments thus increaseth in my face. Is of my Lady's sighs heavy and sore; I prove it thus; for in no other space [42] TROILUS AND CRESIDA Of all this town, save only in this place, Feel I a wind, that soundeth so like pain; It saith, Alas, why severed are we twain? A weary while in pain he tosseth thus. Till fully past and gone was the ninth night; And ever at his side stood Pandarus, Who busily made use of all his might To comfort him, and make his heart more light; Giving him always hope, that she the morrow Of the tenth day will come, and end his sorrow. [43 ] THE SAILOR'S MOTHER 1802 1807 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. I met this woman near the Wishing-gate, on the high-road that then led from Gras- mere to Ambleside. Her appearance was exactly as here de- scribed, and such was her account, nearly to the letter. One morning (raw it was and wet — A foggy day in winter time) A Woman on the road I met, Not old, though something past her prime: Majestic in her person, tall and straight; And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait. The ancient spirit is not dead; Old times, thought I, are breathing there; Proud was I that my country bred Such strength, a dignity so fair: She begged an alms, like one in poor estate; I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate. When from these lofty thoughts I woke, "What is it," said I, "that you bear. Beneath the covert of your Cloak, [ 44 ] THE SAILOR'S MOTHER Protected from this cold damp air?" She answered, soon as she the question heard, "A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird." And, thus continuing, she said, " I had a Son, who many a day Sailed on the seas, but he is dead; In Denmark he was cast away : And I have travelled weary miles to see If aught which he had owned might still remain for me. "The bird and cage they both were his: 'T was my Son's bird; and neat and trim He kept it : many voyages The singing-bird had gone with him; When last he sailed, he left the bird behind; From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind. "He to a fellow-lodger's care Had left it, to be watched and fed, And pipe its song in safety; — there I found it when my Son was dead; And now, God help me for my little wit f I bear it with me. Sir; — he took so much delight in it." [45 ] ALICE FELL OR, POVERTY 1802 1807 Written to gratify Mr. Graham of Glasgow, brother of the Author of "The Sabbath." He was a zealous coadjutor of Mr. Clarkson, and a man of ardent humanity. The incident had happened to himself, and he urged me to put it into verse, for humanity's sake. The humbleness, meanness if you like, of the subject, together with the homely mode of treating it, brought upon me a world of ridicule by the small critics, so that in policy I excluded it from many editions of my Poems, till it was restored at the request of some of my friends, in par- ticular my son-in-law, Edward Quillinan. The post-boy drove with fierce career. For threatening clouds the moon had drowned; When, as we hurried on, my ear Was smitten with a startling sound. As if the wind blew many ways, I heard the sound, — and more and more. It seemed to follow with the chaise, And still I heard it as before. At length I to the boy called out; He stopped his horses at the word, [ 46 ] ALICE FELL But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout, Nor aught else like it, could be heard. The boy then smacked his whip, and fast The horses scampered through the rain; But, hearing soon upon the blast The cry, I bade him halt again. Forthwith alighting on the ground, "Whence comes," said I, "this piteous moan? " And there a little Girl I found. Sitting behind the chaise, alone. "My cloak ! " no other word she spake. But loud and bitterly she wept. As if her innocent heart would break; And down from off her seat she leapt. "What ails you, child.? " — she sobbed "Look here!" I saw it in the wheel entangled, A weather-beaten rag as e'er From any garden scare-crow dangled. There, twisted between nave and spoke, It hung, nor could at once be freed; But our joint pains unloosed the cloak, A miserable rag indeed ! [ 47] ALICE FELL "And whither are you going, child, To-night along these lonesome ways? " "To Durham," answered she, half wild — "Then come with me into the chaise." Insensible to all relief Sat the poor girl, and forth did send Sob after sob, as if her grief Could never, never have an end. " My child, in Durham do you dwell? " She checked herself in her distress, And said, "My name is Alice Fell; I 'm fatherless and motherless. "And I to Durham, Sir, belong." Again, as if the thought would choke Her very heart, her grief grew strong; And all was for her tattered cloak ! The chaise drove on; our journey's end Was nigh; and, sitting by my side, As if she had lost her only friend She wept, nor would be pacified. Up to the tavern -door we post; Of Alice and her grief I told ; [ 48 ] ALICE FELL And I gave money to the host. To buy a new cloak for the old. 'And let it be of diiflBl grey. As warm a cloak as man can sell ! " Proud creature was she the next day. The little orphan, Alice Fell! [ 49 ] BEGGARS 1802 1807 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Met, and described to me by my Sister, near the quarry at the head of Rydal Lake, a place still a chosen resort of vagrants travelling with their families." She had a tall man's height or more; Her face from summer's noontide heat No bonnet shaded, but she wore A mantle, to her very feet Descending with a graceful flow, And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow. Her skin was of Egyptian brown: Haughty, as if her eye had seen Its own light to a distance thrown, She towered, fit person for a Queen To lead those ancient Amazonian files; Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian isles. Advancing, forth she stretched her hand And begged an alms with doleful plea That ceased not; on our English land Such woes, I knew, could never be; [50 ] BEGGARS And yet a boon I gave her, for the creature Was beautiful to see — a weed of glorious feature. I left her, and pursued my way; And soon before me did espy A pair of little Boys at play, Chasing a crimson butterfly; The taller followed with his hat in hand. Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land. The other wore a rimless crown With leaves of laurel stuck about; And, while both followed up and down, Each whooping with a merry shout, In their fraternal features I could trace Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant's face. Yet they, so blithe of heart, seemed fit For finest tasks of earth or air : Wings let them have, and they might flit Precursors to Aurora's car. Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween. To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level green. They dart across my path — but lo, Each ready with a plaintive whine ! [ 51 ] BEGGARS Said I, "not half an hour ago Your Mother has had alms of mine." "That cannot be,'* one answered — "she is dead:" — I looked reproof — they saw — but neither hung his head. "She has been dead, Sir, many a day." — "Hush, boys! you're telhng me a lie; It was your Mother, as I say!" And, in the twinkling of an eye, "Come! Come!" cried one, and without more ado, Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew! [52] TO A BUTTERFLY 1802 1807 Written in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. My sister and I were parted immediately after the death of our mother, jvho died in 1778, both being very young. Stay near me — do not take thy flight! A little longer stay in sight! Much converse do I find in thee, Historian of my infancy! Float near me; do not yet depart! Dead times revive in thee : Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art! A solemn image to my heart, My father's family ! Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days. The time, when, in our childish plays. My sister Emmeline and I Together chased the butterfly! A very hunter did I rush Upon the prey : — with leaps and springs I followed on from brake to bush; But she, God love her, feared to brush The dust from off its wings. [53] THE EMIGRANT MOTHER 1802 1807 Suggested by what I have noticed in more than one French fugitive during the time of the French Revolution. If I am not mistaken, the Hues were composed at Sockburn, when I was on a visit to Mrs. Wordsworth and her brother. Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned In which a Lady driven from France did dwell; The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned, In friendship she to me would often tell. This Lady, dwelling upon British ground, Where she was childless, daily would repair To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found. For sake of a young Child whose home was there. Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace This Child, I chanted to myself a lay. Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to trace Such things as she unto the Babe might say: And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed, My song the workings of her heart expressed. I "Dear Babe, thou daughter of another. One moment let me be thy mother! [ 54 ] THE EMIGRANT MOTHER An infant's face and looks are thine, And sure a mother's heart is mine: Thy own dear mother's far away, At labour in the harvest field: Thy little sister is at play; — What warmth, what comfort would it yield To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be One little hour a child to me! II "Across the waters I am come. And I have left a babe at home: A long, long way of land and sea! Come to me — I'm no enemy : I am the same who at thy side Sate yesterday, and made a nest For thee, sweet Baby ! — thou hast tried, Thou know'st the pillow of my breast; Good, good art thou : — alas ! to me Far more than I can be to thee. Ill "Here, Httle Darling, dost thou lie; An infant thou, a mother I! Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears; Mine art thou — spite of these my tears. [ 55 ] THE EMIGRANT MOTHER Alas ! before I left the spot, My baby and its dwelling-place; The nurse said to me, * Tears should not Be shed upon an infant's face, It was unlucky' — no, no, no; No truth is in them who say so! IV "My own dear Little-one will sigh. Sweet Babe! and they will let him die. *He pines,' they'll say, *it is his doom, And you may see his hour is come.' Oh! had he but thy cheerful smiles. Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay. Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles, And countenance like a summer's day. They would have hopes of him; — and then I should behold his face again! V " 'T is gone — like dreams that we forget ; There was a smile or two — yet — yet I can remember them, I see The smiles, worth all the world to me. Dear Baby ! I must lay thee down ; Thou troublest me with strange alarms; [56] THE EMIGRANT MOTHER Smiles hast thou, bright ones of thy own; I cannot keep thee in my arms; For they confound me; — where — where is That last, that sweetest smile of his? VI "Oh! how I love thee! — we will stay Together here this one half day. My sister's child, who bears my name, From France to sheltering England came; She with her mother crossed the sea; The babe and mother near me dwell: Yet does my yearning heart to thee Turn rather, though I love her well: Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here! Never was any child more dear! VII " — I cannot help it; ill intent I've none, my pretty Innocent! I weep — I know they do thee wrong, These tears — and my poor idle tongue. Oh, what a kiss was that! my cheek How cold it is ! but thou art good ; Thine eyes are on me — they would speak, I think, to help me if they could. [57] THE EMIGRANT MOTHER Blessings upon that soft, warm face. My heart again is in its place ! VIII ''While thou art mine, my little Love, This cannot be a sorrowful grove; Contentment, hope, and mother's glee, I seem to find them all in thee: Here's grass to play with, here are flowers; I'll call thee by my darling's name; Thou hast, I think, a look of ours, Thy features seem to me the same; His little sister thou shalt be; And, when once more my home I see, I'll tell him many tales of Thee." [58 ] MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD" 1802 1807 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. My heart 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 my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. [59] AMONG ALL LOVELY THINGS MY LOVE HAD BEEN" 1802 1807 Among all lovely things my Love had been; Had noted well the stars, all flowers that grew About her home; but she had never seen A glow-worm, never one, and this I knew. While riding near her home one stormy night A single glow-worm did I chance to espy; I gave a fervent welcome to the sight. And from my horse I leapt; great joy had I. Upon a leaf the glow-worm did I lay. To bear it with me through the stormy night: And, as before, it shone without dismay; Albeit putting forth a fainter light. When to the dwelling of my Love I came, I went into the orchard quietly; And left the glow-worm, blessing it by name, Laid safely by itself, beneath a tree. [60] AMONG ALL LOVELY THINGS The whole next day, I hoped, and hoped with fear; At night the glow-worm shone beneath the tree; I led my Lucy to the spot, "Look here," Oh! joy it was for her, and joy for me! [ 61 ] WRITTEN IN MARCH while resting on the bridge at the foot of brother's water 1802 1807 Extempore. This little poem was a favourite with Joanna Vaillie. The Cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter. 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 The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon : There's joy in the mountains; [ 62 ] WRITTEN IN MARCH There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone! [63 ] THE REDBREAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY 1802 1807 «»• Observed, as described, in the then beautiful orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. Art thou the bird whom Man loves best, The pious bird with the scarlet breast. Our little English Robin; The bird that comes about our doors When Autumn-winds are sobbing? Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors? Their Thomas in Finland, And Russia far inland? The bird, that by some name or other All men who know thee call their brother, The darling of children and men? Could Father Adam ^ open his eyes And see this sight beneath the skies, He 'd wish to close them again. — If the butterfly knew but his friend. Hither his flight he would bend; And find his way to me, Under the branches of the tree: [ 64 ] REDBREAST AND BUTTERFLY In and out, he darts about; Can this be the bird, to man so good, That, after their bewildering, Covered with leaves the little children. So painfully in the wood? What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue A beautiful creature. That is gentle by nature? Beneath the summer sky From flower to flower let him fly; *T is all that he wishes to do. The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness. He is the friend of our summer gladness: What hinders, then, that ye should be Playmates in the sunny weather. And fly about in the air together! His beautiful wings in crimson are drest, A crimson as bright as thine own: Would'st thou be happy in thy nest, O pious Bird ! whom man loves best, Love him, or leave him alone ! [ 65] TO A BUTTERFLY 1802 1807 Written in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. I Ve watched you now a full half-hour. Self-poised upon that yellow flower; And, little Butterfly! indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless ! — not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again! This plot of orchard-ground is ours; My trees they are, my sister's flowers; Here rest your wings when they are weary; Here lodge as in a sanctuary! Come often to us, fear no wrong; Sit near us on the bough! We '11 talk of sunshine and of song, And summer days, when we were young; Sweet childish days, that were as long As twenty days are now. [ 66 ] FORESIGHT 1802 1807 Also composed In the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. That is work of waste and ruin — Do as Charles and I are doing! Strawberry-blossoms, one and all, We must spare them — here are many: Look at it — the flower is small. Small and low, though fair as any: Do not touch it! summers two I am older, Anne, than you. Pull the primrose, sister Anne! Pull as many as you can. — Here are daisies, take your fill; Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower: Of the lofty daffodil Make your bed, or make your bower; Fill your lap, and fill your bosom; Only spare the strawberry-blossom! Primroses, the Spring may love them — Summer knows but little of them: [ 67] FORESIGHT Violets, a barren kind. Withered on the ground must lie; Daisies leave no fruit behind When the pretty flowerets die; Pluck them, and another year As many will be blowing here. God has given a kindlier power To the favoured strawberry-flower. Hither soon as spring is fled You and Charles and I will walk; Lurking berries, ripe and red, Then will hang on every stalk. Each within its leafy bower; And for that promise spare the flower! [68 I TO THE SMALL CELANDINE 1802 1807 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. It is remarkable that this flower, coming out so early in the spring as it does, and so bright and beautiful, 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. Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises; Long as there 's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory; Long as there are violets, They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'T is the little Celandine.3 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 the day I found thee out, [ 69 ] TO THE SMALL CELANDINE Little Flower ! — I '11 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 'T was a face I did not know; Thou 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 they all are wanton wooers; But the thrifty cottager, [ 70] The Small Celandine %i^\vb^^»V30 \V»m?* ^^T TO THE SMALL CELANDINE Who stirs little out of doors, Joys to spy thee near her home; Spring is coming, Thou art come ! Comfort have thou of thy merit! Kindly, unassuming Spirit! Careless of thy neighbourhood, Thou dost show thy pleasant face On the moor, and in the wood. In the lane; — there's not a place, Howsoever mean it be, But 't is 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, [ 71 ] TO THE SMALL CELANDINE 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! [ 72 ] TO THE SAME FLOWER 1802 1807 Pleasures newly found are sweet When they He 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 the man might be, Who the first with pointed rays (Workman worthy to be sainted) Set the sign-board in a blaze. When the rising sun he painted Took the 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 [ 73 ] TO THE SAME FLOWER All about with full-blown flowers, Thick as sheep in shepherd'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 thy arch and wily ways. And thy store of other praise. Blithe of heart, from week to week Thou dost play 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 peculiar spell. By what charm of sight or smell, Does the dim-eyed curious Bee, [ 74 ] TO THE SAME FLOWER Labouring for her waxen cells, Fondly settle upon Thee Prized above all buds and bells Opening daily at thy side, By the season multiplied? Thou art 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. [75] RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE 1802 1807 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. This old Man I met a few hundred yards from my cottage; and the account of him is taken from his own mouth. I was in the state of feeling de- scribed in the beginning of the poem, while crossing over Barton Fell from Mr. Clarkson's, at the foot of Ulls water, towards Askham. The image of the hare I then observed on the ridge of the Fell. There was a roaring in the wind all night; The rain came heavily and fell in floods; But now the sun is rising calm and bright; The birds are singing in the distant woods; Over his 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. II All things that love the sun are out of doors; The sky 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 [76 ] RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun. Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. Ill 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 employ: My old remembrances went from me wholly; And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy. IV But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might Of joy in minds that can no further go, As high 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 thick upon me came; Dim sadness — and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name. V I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky; And I bethought me of the playful hare: Even such a happy Child of earth am I; Even as these blissful creatures do I fare; [ 77 ] RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE Far from the world I walk, and from all care; But there may come another day to me — Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. VI 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 unsought To genial faith, still rich in genial good; But how can He expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all? VII I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride; Of Him who walked in glory and in joy Following his plough, along the mountain-side: By our own spirits are we deified : We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness. VIII Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, A leading from above, a something given, Yet it befell, that, in this lonely place. When I with these untoward thoughts had striven, [78 ] Ploughing on the Uplands RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven I saw a Man before me unawares: The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs. IX 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 with sense : Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself; X Such seemed 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 by him in times long past, A more than human weight upon his frame had cast. XI Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, Upon a long grey stafiF of shaven wood: And, still as I drew near with gentle pace, [79] RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE Upon the margin of that moorish flood Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood, That heareth not the loud winds when they call And moveth all together, if it move at all. XII At length, himself unsettling, he the pond Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look Upon the muddy water, which he conned, As if he had been reading in a book : And 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.' XIII A gentle answer did the old Man make. In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew: And him with further words I thus bespake, *What occupation do you there pursue? This is a lonesome place for one like you.'* Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise Broke from the sable orbs of his yet- vivid eyes, XIV His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, But each in solemn order followed each. With something of a lofty utterance drest — [80] RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE 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. XV 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. XVI 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 I divide; And the whole body of the Man did seem Like one whom I had met with in a dream; Or like a man from some far region sent, To give me human strength, by apt admonishment. XVII My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills; And hope that is unwilling to be fed; Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills; [81 ] RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE And mighty Poets in their misery dead. — Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, My question eagerly did I renew, "How is it that you live, and what is it you do?" XVIII He with a smile did then his words repeat; And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide He travelled; stirring thus above 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." XIX 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 discourse renewed. XX And soon with this he other matter blended, Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind. But stately in the main; and when he ended, [ 82 ] RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE I could have laughed myself to scorn to find In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. "God," said I, "be my help and stay secure; V\\ think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!*' [ 83 ] "I GRIEVED FOR BUONAPARTf)" 1802 1807 In the cottage, Town-end, Grasmere, one afternoon in 1801, my Sister read to me the Sonnets of Milton. I had long been well acquainted with them, but I was particularly struck on that occasion with the dignified simplicity and majestic har- mony that runs through most of them, — in character so totally different from the Italian, and still more so from Shak- speare'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 ej^ept an irregular 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 particularise. 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? 'T is 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 womanhood. 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 By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk True Power doth grow on; and her rights are these. [ 84] A FAREWELL 1802 1815 Composed just before my sister and I went to fetch Mrs. Wordsworth from Gallow-hill, near Scarborough. Farewell, thou little Nook of mountain-ground, Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair Of that magnificent temple which doth bound One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare; Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair, The loveliest spot that man hath ever found, Farewell ! — we leave thee to Heaven's peaceful care, Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost surround. Our boat is safely anchored by the shore. And there will safely ride when we are gone; The flowering shrubs that deck our humble door Will prosper, though untended and alone: Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none: These narrow bounds contain our private store Of things earth makes, and sun doth shine upon; Here are they in our sight — we have no more. Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell! For two months now in vain we shall be sought: [85 ] A FAREWELL We leave you here in solitude to dwell With these our latest gifts of tender thought; Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat, Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell! Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought, And placed together near our rocky Well. We go for One to whom ye will be dear; And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed, Our own contrivance, Building without peer! — A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred, Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered. With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer. Will come to you; to you herself will wed; And love the blessed life that we lead here. Dear Spot! which we have watched with tender heed, Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown Among the distant mountains, flower and weed, Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own. Making all kindness registered and known; Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed, Fair in thyself and beautiful alone, i Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need. And O most constant, yet most fickle Place, Thou hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show [ 86 ] Wordsworth's Well A FAREWELL To them who look not daily on thy face; Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know, And say'st, when we forsake thee, "Let them go!" Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow, And travel with the year at a soft pace. Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by, And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best; Joy will be flown in its mortality; Something must stay to tell us of the rest. Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast Glittered at evening like a starry sky; | And in this bush our sparrow built her nest. Of which I sang one song that will not die. happy Garden ! whose seclusion deep Hath been so friendly to industrious hours; And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers. And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers; Two burning months let summer overleap, And, coming back with Her who will be ours, Into thy bosom we again shall creep. [ 87 ] "THE SUN HAS LONG BEEN SET" 1802 1807 Reprinted at the request of my Sister, in whose presence the lines were thrown off. This Impromptu appeared, many years ago, among the Author's poems, from which, in subsequent editions, it was excluded. The sun has long been set, The stars are out by twos and threes, The little birds are piping yet Among the bushes and trees; There's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes, And a far-off wind that rushes, And a sound of water that gushes. And the cuckoo's sovereign cry Fills all the hollow of the sky. Who would "go parading" In London, "and masquerading," On such a night of June With that beautiful soft half-moon. And all these innocent blisses? On such a night as this is! [ 88 ] COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE SEPTEMBER 3, 1802 1802 1807 Written on the roof of a coach, on my way to France. 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 temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glide th at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still ! [89] COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS AUGUST 1802 1802 1807 Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the 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 think, Should'st be my Country's emblem; and should'st wink, Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest In thy fresh beauty. There ! that dusky spot Beneath thee, that is England; there she lies. Blessings be on you both ! one hope, one lot. One life, one glory ! — I, with many a fear For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs. Among men who do not love her, hnger here. [ 90 ] CALAIS AUGUST 1802 1802 1807 Is it a reed that 's shaken by the wind, Or what is it that ye go forth to see? Lords, lawyers, statesmen, squires of low degree, Men known, and men unknown, sick, lame, and blind, Post forward all, like creatures of one kind. With first-fruit offerings crowd to bend the knee In France, before the new-born Majesty. 'T is ever thus. Ye men of prostrate mind, A seemly reverence may be paid to power; But that's a loyal virtue, never sown In haste, nor springing with a transient shower: When truth, when sense, when liberty were flown, What hardship had it been to wait an hour? Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery prone! [91 ] COMPOSED NEAR CALAIS, ON THE ROAD LEADING TO ARDRES AUGUST 7, 1802 1802 1807 Jones ! ^ as from Calais southward you and I Went pacing side by side, this public Way Streamed with the pomp of a too-credulous day,^ When faith was pledged to new-born Liberty : A homeless sound of joy was in the sky: From hour to hour the antiquated Earth Beat like the heart of Man: songs, garlands, mirth, Banners, and happy faces, far and nigh! And now, sole register that these things were, Two solitary greetings have I heard, ^^Good-morrow, Citizen! " a hollow word. As if a dead man spake it ! Yet despair Touches me not, though pensive as a bird Whose vernal coverts winter hath laid bare. [92] CALAIS AUGUST 15, 1802 1802 1807 Festivals have I seen that were not names: This is young Buonaparte's natal day. And his is henceforth an estabHshed sway — Consul for life. With worship France proclaims Her approbation, and with pomps and games. Heaven grant that other Cities may be gay! Calais is not: and I have bent my way To the sea-coast, noting that each man frames His business as he likes. Far other show My youth here witnessed, in a prouder time; The senselessness of joy was then sublime! Happy is he, who, caring not for Pope, Consul, or King, can sound himself to know The destiny of Man, and live in hope. [ 93 ] "IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND FREE" 1802 1807 This was composed on the beach near Calais, in the autumn of 1802. 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 his eternal motion make A sound like thunder — everlastingly. Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And worship 'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. [ 94 ] ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC 1802 1807 Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee; And was the safeguard of the west: the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 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 w^hat if she had seen those glories fade. Those titles vanish, and that strength decay; Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid When 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. [95 ] THE KING OF SWEDEN « 1802 1807 The Voice of song from distant lands shall call To that great King; shall hail the crowned Youth Who, taking counsel of unbending Truth, By one example hath set forth to all How they with dignity may stand; or fall, If fall they must. Now, whither doth it tend? And what to him and his shall be the end? That thought is one which neither can appal Nor cheer him; for the illustrious Swede hath done The thing which ought to be; is raised above All consequences: work he hath begun Of fortitude, and piety, and love. Which all his glorious ancestors approve: The heroes bless him, him their rightful son. [96] TO TOUSSAINT L'OIJVERTURE 1802 1807 ToussAiNT, the most unhappy man of men! Whether the whistHng Rustic tend his plough Within thy hearing, or thy head be now Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den ; — O miserable Chieftain! where and when Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow: Though 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 w^ind That will forget thee; thou hast great allies; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind. [97 1 COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY NEAR DOVER ON THE DAY OF LANDING 1802 1807 Here, on our native soil, we breathe once more. The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, that sound Of bells; those boys who in yon meadow-ground In white-sleeved shirts are playing; and the roar Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore; — All, all are English. Oft have I looked round With joy in Kent's green vales; but never found Myself so satisfied in heart before. Europe is yet in bonds; but let that pass. Thought for another moment. Thou art free. My Country ! and 't is joy enough and pride For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the grass Of England once again, and hear and see. With such a dear Companion at my side. [98] SEPTEMBER 1, 1802 1802 1807 Among the capricious acts of tyranny that disgraced those times, was the chasing of all Negroes from France by decree of the government: we had a Fellow-passenger who was one of the expelled. We had a female Passenger who came From Calais with us, spotless in array, — A white-robed Negro, like a lady gay. Yet downcast as a woman fearing blame; Meek, destitute, as seemed, of hope or aim She sate, from notice turning not away. But on all proffered intercourse did lay A weight of languid speech, or to the same No sign of answer made by word or face: Yet still her eyes retained their tropic fire, That, burning independent of the mind, Joined with the lustre of her rich attire To mock the Outcast. — O ye Heavens, be kind ! And feel, thou Earth, for this afflicted Race ! [99] NEAR DOVER SEPTEMBER 1802 1802 1807 Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood; And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear, The coast of France — the coast of France how near ! Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood. I 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 mightiness for evil and for good! 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 nothing ! One decree Spake laws to them, and said that by the soul Only, the Nations shall be great and free. [ 100 ] IN LONDON SEPTEMBER 1802 1802 1807 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 think that in this and the succeeding Sonnets I have exaggerated the mischief engendered and fostered among us by undisturbed wealth. It would not be easy to conceive with what a depth of feeling I entered into the struggle carried on by the Spaniards for their 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 morning, to meet the car- rier 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. Friend ! I know not which way I must look For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, To think that now our life is only drest For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, 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 : [ 101 ] IN LONDON No grandeur now in nature or in book Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense. This is idolatry; and these we adore: Plain living and high thinking are no more : The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence. And pure religion breathing household laws. [ 102 ] LONDON, 1802 1802 1807 Milton! thou should'st 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 lowhest duties on herself did lay. [ 103 ] "GREAT MEN HAVE BEEN AMONG US" 1802 1807 Great men have been among us; hands that penned And tongues that uttered wisdom — better none : The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend. These moralists could act and comprehend: They knew how genuine glory was put on; Taught us how rightfully a nation shone In splendour: what strength was, that would not bend But in magnanimous meekness. France, 't is strange, Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. Perpetual emptiness ! unceasing change ! No single volume paramount, no code, No master spirit, no determined road; But equally a want of books and men ! [ 104 ] "IT IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT OF" 1802 1807 It is not to be thought of that the Flood Of British freedom, which, to the open sea Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity Hath flowed, "with pomp of waters, unwithstood," 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 Should perish; and to evil and to good Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung Armoury 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 held. — In everything we are sprung Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold. [ 105 ] "WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY" 1802 1807 When I have borne in memory what has tamed Great Nations, how ennobhng 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 those unfilial fears I am ashamed. For dearly must we prize thee; we who find In thee a bulwark for the cause of men : And I by my affection was 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! [106 ] COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY ACROSS THE HAMBLETON HILLS, YORKSHIRE 1802 1807 Composed October 4th, 1802, after a journey over the Ham- bleton Hills, on a day memorable to me — the day of my marriage. The horizon commanded by those hills is most mag- nificent. — The next day, while we were travelling in a post- chaise up Wensleydale, we were stopt by one of the horses proving restive, and were obliged to wait two hours in a severe storm before the post-boy could fetch from the inn another to supply its place. The spot was in front of Bolton Hall, where Mary Queen of Scots was kept prisoner soon after her unfor- tunate landing at Workington. The place then belonged to the Scroopes, and memorials of her are yet preserved there. To beguile the time I composed a Sonnet. The subject was our own confinement contrasted with hers; but it was not thought worthy of being preserved. Dark and more dark the shades of evening fell; The wished-for point was reached — but at an hour When little could be gained from that rich dower Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell. Yet did the glowing west with marvellous power Salute us; there stood Indian citadel. Temple of Greece, and minster with its tower Substantially expressed — a place for bell Or clock to toll from ! Many a tempting isle, [ 107] THE HAMBLETON HILLS With groves that never were imagined, lay 'Mid seas how steadfast ! objects all for the eye Of silent rapture; but we felt the while We should forget them; they are of the sky, And from our earthly memory fade away. [ 108] STANZAS WRITTEN IN MY POCKET-COPY OF THOMSON'S "CASTLE OF INDOLENCE " 1802 1815 Composed in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere, Coleridge living with us much at the time: his son Hartley has said, that his father's character and habits are here preserved in a livelier way than in anything that has been written about him. Within our happy Castle there dwelt One Whom without blame I may not overlook; For never sun or living creature shone Who more devout enjoyment with us took: Here on his hours he hung as on a book. On his own time here would he float away, As doth a fly upon a summer brook; But go to-morrow, or belike to-day, Seek for him, — he is fled; and whither none can say. Thus often would he leave our peaceful home, And find elsewhere his business or delight; Out of our Valley's limits did he roam: Full many a time, upon a stormy night, His voice came to us from the neighbouring height : Oft could we see him driving full in view [ 109 ] STANZAS At mid-day when the sun was shining bright; What ill was on him, what he had to do, A mighty wonder bred among our quiet crew. Ah ! piteous sight it was to see this Man When he came back to us, a withered flower, — Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan. Down would he sit; and without strength or power Look at the common grass from hour to hour : And oftentimes, how long I fear to say. Where apple-trees in blossom made a bower, Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay; And, like a naked Indian, slept himself away. Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was Whenever from our Valley he withdrew; For happier soul no living creature has Than he had, being here the long day through. Some thought he was a lover, and did woo : Some thought far worse of him, and judged him wrong; But verse was what he had been wedded to; And his own mind did like a tempest strong Come to him thus, and drove the weary Wight along. With him there often walked in friendly guise, Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree, A noticeable Man with large gray eyes, [ 110 ] STANZAS And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly As if a blooming face it ought to be; Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear, Deprest by weight of musing Phantasy; Profound his forehead was, though not severe; Yet some did think that he had little business here. Sweet heaven forfend! his was a lawful right; Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy; His limbs would toss about him with delight Like branches when strong winds the trees annoy. Nor lacked his calmer hours device or toy To banish listlessness and irksome care; He would have taught you how you might employ Yourself; and many did to him repair, — And certes not in vain; he had inventions rare. Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried: Long blades of grass, plucked round him as he lay, Made, to his ear attentively applied, A pipe on which the wind would deftly play; Glasses he had, that little things display, The beetle panoplied in gems and gold, A mailed angel on a battle-day; The mysteries that cups of flowers enfold, And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold. [ 111 ] STANZAS He would entice that other Man to hear His music, and to view his imagery : And, sooth, these two were each to the other dear: No HveHer love in such a place could be: There did they dwell — from earthly labour free. As happy spirits as were ever seen; If but a bird, to keep them company. Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween, As pleased as if the same had been a Maiden-queen. [ 112 1 TO H. C. SIX YEARS OLD 1802 1807 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; 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 heaven 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 hospitality ; And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest But when she sate within the touch of thee. too industrious folly ! vain and causeless melancholy! [ 113 ] TO H. C. Nature will either end thee quite; Or, lengthening out thy 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 injuries 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. [ 114 ] TO THE DAISYS 1802 1807 This and the two following were composed in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere, where the bird was often seen as here described. *'Her^ divine skill taught me this. That from every thing I saw I could some instruction draw. And raise pleasure to the height Through the meanest object's sight. By the murmur of a spring. Or the least bough's rustelling; By a daisy whose leaves spread Shut when Titan goes to bed; Or a shady bush or tree; She could more infuse in me Than all Nature's beauties can In some other wiser man." G. Wither. 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 grey hairs; [ 115 ] TO THE DAISY Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, That she may sun thee; Whole Summer-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 thou be set at nought: And oft alone in nooks remote We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, W'hen such are wanted. Be violets in their secret mews The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose; Proud be the rose, with rains and dews Her head impearling, Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, Yet hast not gone without thy fame; Thou 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, [ 116 ] TO THE DAISY Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie Near the 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, Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, Have I derived from thy sweet power Some apprehension; Some steady love; some brief delight; Some memory that had taken flight; Some chime of fancy wrong or right; Or stray invention. If stately passions in me burn. And one chance look to Thee should turn, I drink out of an humbler urn A lowlier pleasure; The homely sympathy that heeds The common life, our nature breeds; A wisdom fitted to the needs Of hearts at leisure. Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, When thou art up, alert and gay, [ 117] TO THE DAISY Then, 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 thou art met. To thee am owing; An instinct call it, a blind sense; A happy, genial influence. Coming one knows not how, nor whence. Nor whither going. Child of the Year! that round dost run Thy 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 favourite.^ [ 118] TO THE SAME FLOWER 1802 1807 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 that 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 degrees, Thoughts of thy raising: And many a fond and idle name I give to thee, for praise or blame. As is the humour of the game. While I am gazing. A nun demure of lowly port; Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, In thy simplicity the sport Of all temptations; [ 119 ] TO THE SAME FLOWER 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, with one eye Staring to threaten and defy. That thought comes 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 pretty star; Not quite so fair as many are In heaven above thee! Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Self -poised in air thou seem'st to rest; — May peace come never to his nest. Who shall reprove thee! Bright Flower! for by that name at last, When all my reveries are past, I call thee, and to that cleave fast. Sweet silent creature! [ 120 ] TO THE SAME FLOWER That breath'st with me in sun and air, Do thou, as thou art wont, repair My heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature! [ m ] TO THE DAISY 1802 1807 This and the other Poems addressed to the same flower were composed at Town-end, Grasmere, during the earlier part of my residence there. I have been censured for the last line but one — "thy function apostolical " — as being little less than profane. How could it be thought so.^^ The word is adopted with reference to its derivation, implying something sent on a mission; and assuredly this little flower, especially when the subject of verse, may be regarded, in its humble degree, as ad- ministering both to moral and to spiritual purposes. Bright Flower! whose home is everywhere, Bold in maternal Nature's care, And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow; Methinks 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 unblest, Does little on his memory rest, Or on his reason. And Thou would*st teach him how to find [ 122 ] TO THE DAISY A shelter under every wind, A hope for times that are unkind And every season? Thou 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 Thy function apostolical In peace fulfilling. [ 123 ] THE GREEN LINNET 1803 1807 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! Thou, Jiinnet ! in thy green array. Presiding Spirit here to-day. Dost lead the revels of the May; And this is thy dominion. While birds, and butterflies, and flowers, Make all one band of paramours. Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, Art sole in thy employment: [ 124 ] Damsons in Blossom o?,5st>DU THE GREEN LINNET A life, a Presence like the Air, Scattering thy gladness without care, Too blest with any one to pair; Thyself thy own enjoyment. Amid yon tuft of hazel trees. That twinkle to the gusty breeze, Behold him perched in ecstasies, Yet seeming still to hover; There! where the 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 with disdain The voiceless Form he chose to feign. While fluttering in the bushes. [ 125 ] YEW-TREES 10 1803 1815 Written at Grasmere. These yew-trees are still standing, but the spread of that at Lorton is much diminished by mutila- tion. I will here mention that a little way up the hill, on the road leading from Rosthwaite to Stonethwaite (in Borrow- dale), lay the trunk of a yew-tree, which appeared as you ap- proached, so vast was its diameter, like the entrance of a cave, and not a small one. Calculating upon what I have ob- served of the slow growth of this tree in rocky situations, and of its durability, I have often thought that the one I am de- scribing must have been as old as the Christian era. The tree lay in the line of a fence. Great masses of its ruins were strewn about, and some had been rolled down the hillside and lay near the road at the bottom. As you approached the tree, you were struck with the number of shrubs and young plants, ashes, etc., which had found a bed upon the decayed trunk and grew to no inconsiderable height, forming, as it were, a part of the hedgerow. In no part of England, or of Europe, have I ever seen a yew-tree at all approaching this in magnitude, as it must have stood. By the bye, Hutton, the old Guide, of Kes- wick, had been so impressed with the remains of this tree, that he used gravely to tell strangers that there could be no doubt of its having been in existence before the flood. There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, Which to this day stands single, in the midst Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore; Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands [ 126 ] YEW-TREES Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. Of vast circumference and gloom profound 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 pillared shade, Upon 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 purpose, decked With unrejoicing berries — ghostly Shapes May meet at noontide; Fear and trembling Hope, Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton And Time the Shadow; — there to celebrate, As in a natural temple scattered o'er [ 127 ] YEW-TREES With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, United worship; or in mute repose To He, and listen to the mountain flood Murmuring from Glaramara*s inmost caves. [ 128 ] WHO FANCIED WHAT A PRETTY SIGHT" 1803 1807 Who fancied what a pretty sight This Rock would be if edged around With living snow-drops? circlet bright! How glorious to this orchard-ground! Who loved the little Rock, and set Upon its head this coronet? Was it the humour of a child? Or rather of some gentle maid, Whose brows, the day that she was styled The shepherd-queen, were thus arrayed? Of man mature, or matron sage? Or old man toying with his age? I asked — 't was whispered ; The device To each and all might well belong : It is the Spirit of Paradise That prompts such work, a Spirit strong. That gives to all the self -same bent Where life is wise and innocent. [ 1^9 ] "IT IS NO SPIRIT WHO FROM HEAVEN HATH FLOWN" 1803 1807 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. I remember the instant my sister, S. H., called me to the window of our Cottage, say- ing, *'Look how beautiful is yon star! It has the sky all to itself." I composed the verses immediately. It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown, And is descending on his embassy; Nor Traveller gone from earth the heavens to espy! 'T is Hesperus — there he stands with glittering crown, First admonition that the sun is down! For yet it is broad daylight: clouds pass by; A few are near him still — and now the sky. He hath it to himself — 't is all his own. O most ambitious Star ! an inquest wrought Within me when I recognised thy light; A moment I was startled at the sight: And, while I gazed, there came to me a thought That I might step beyond my natural race As thou seem'st now to do; might one day trace Some ground not mine; and, strong her strength above, My Soul, an Apparition in the place. Tread there with steps that no one shall reprove! [ 130 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 1803 Mr. Coleridge, my Sister, and myself started together from Town-end to make a tour in Scotland. Poor Coleridge was at that time in bad spirits, and somewhat too much in love with his own dejection; and he departed from us, as is recorded in my Sister's Journal, soon after we left Loch Lomond. The verses that stand foremost among these Memorials were not actually written for the occasion, but transplanted from my "Epistle to Sir George Beaumont." DEPARTURE FROM THE VALE OF GRASMERE AUGUST 1803 1803 1827 The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian plains Might sometimes covet dissoluble chains; Even for the tenants of the zone that lies Beyond the stars, celestial Paradise, Methinks 't would heighten joy, to overleap At will the crystal battlements, and peep [ 131 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND Into some other region, though less fair. To see how things are made and managed there. Change for the worse might please, incursion bold Into the tracts of darkness and of cold; O'er Limbo lake with aery flight to steer. And on the verge of Chaos hang in fear. Such animation often do I find, Power in my breast, wings growing in my mind. Then, when some rock or hill is overpast. Perchance without one look behind me cast. Some barrier with which Nature, from the birth Of things, has fenced this fairest spot on earth. O pleasant transit, Grasmere ! to resign Such happy fields, abodes so calm as thine; Not like an outcast with himself at strife; The slave of business, time, or care for life. But moved by choice; or, if constrained in part, Yet still with Nature's freedom at the heart; — To cull contentment upon wildest shores, And luxuries extract from bleakest moors; With prompt embrace all beauty to enfold. And having rights in all that we behold. — Then why these lingering steps? — A bright adieu, For a brief absence, proves that love is true; Ne'er can the way be irksome or forlorn That winds into itself for sweet return. [ 132 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND II AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS 1803 SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH 1803 1845 For illustration, see my Sister's Journal. It may be proper to add that the second of these pieces, though felt at the time, was not composed till many years after. I SHIVER, Spirit fierce and bold, At thought of what I now behold: As vapours breathed from dungeons cold, Strike pleasure dead, So sadness comes from out the 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; [ 133 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND With chastened feehngs 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.f* — 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, — [ 134 ] AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS Huge CriflPers hoary top ascends By Skiddaw seen, — Neighbours 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 why 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,) [ 135 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND Lies gathered to his Father's side. Soul-moving sight! Yet one to which is not denied Some sad delight: For he is safe, a quiet bed Hath early found among the dead. Harboured 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 halloweth the place Where Man is laid Receive thy Spirit in the embrace For which it prayed! Sighing I turned away; but ere Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear, o Music that sorrow comes not near, A ritual hymn, Chaunted in love that casts out fear By Seraphim. [ 136 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND III THOUGHTS SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING, ON THE BANKS OF NITH, NEAR THE POEt's RESIDENCE ^^ 1803 1845 Too frail to keep the lofty vow That must have followed when his brow Was wreathed — "The Vision" tells us how — With holly spray. He faltered, drifted to and fro, And passed away. Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng Our minds when, lingering all too long, Over the grave of Burns we hung In social grief — Indulged as if it were a wrong To seek relief. But, leaving each unquiet theme Where gentlest judgments may misdeem, And prompt to welcome every gleam Of good and fair, Let us beside this limpid Stream Breathe hopeful air. [ 137 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight; Think rather of those moments bright When to the consciousness of right His course was true, When Wisdom prospered in his sight And virtue grew. Yes, freely let our hearts expand. Freely as in youth's season bland. When side by side, his Book in hand, We wont to stray. Our pleasure varying at command Of each sweet Lay. How oft inspired must he have trod These pathways, yon far-stretching road! There lurks his home; in that Abode, With mirth elate. Or in his nobly-pensive mood, The Rustic sate. Proud thoughts that Image overawes. Before it humbly let us pause, And ask of Nature, from what cause And by what rules She trained her Burns to win applause That shames the Schools. [ 138 ] THOUGHTS Through busiest street and loneUest glen Are felt the flashes of his pen; He rules 'mid winter snows, and when Bees fill their hives; Deep in the general heart of men His power survives. What need of fields in some far clime Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime. And all that fetched the flowing rhyme From genuine springs. Shall dwell together till old Time Folds up his wings? Sweet Mercy ! to the gates of Heaven This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven. Effaced for ever. But why to Him confine the prayer. When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear On the frail heart the purest share With all that live? -- The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive! [ 139 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND TV TO THE SONS OF BURNS AFTER VISITING THE GRAVE OF THEIR FATHER 1803 1807 "The Poet's grave is in a corner of the church-yard. We looked at it with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other his own verses — *"Is there a man whose judgment clear,' etc." Extract from the Journal of my Felloto- Traveller. 'Mid crowded obelisks and urns I sought the untimely grave of Burns; Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns With sorrow true; And more would grieve, but that it turns Trembling to you ! Through twilight shades of good and ill Ye now are panting up life's hill, And more than common strength and skill Must ye display; If ye would give the better will Its lawful sway. Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear Intemperance with less harm, beware! [ 140 ] TO THE SONS OF BURNS But if the Poet's wit ye share, Like him can speed The social hour — of tenfold care There will be need; For honest men delight will take To spare your failings for his sake, Will flatter you, — and fool and rake Your steps pursue; And of your Father's name will make A snare for you. Far from their noisy haunts retire. And add your voices to the quire That sanctify the cottage fire With service meet; There seek the genius of your Sire, His spirit greet; Or where, 'mid "lonely heights and hows," He paid to Nature tuneful vows; Or wiped his honourable brows Bedewed with toil, While reapers strove, or busy ploughs Upturned the soil; [ 141 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND His judgment with bcDignant ray Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way; But ne'er to a seductive lay Let faith be given; Nor deem that "light which leads astray, Is light from Heaven." Let no mean hope your souls enslave; Be independent, generous, brave; Your Father such example gave. And such revere; But be admonished by his grave, And think, and fear! [ 142 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND V TO A HIGHLAND GIRL AT INVERSNEYDE, UrON LOCH LOMOND 1803 1807 This delightful creature and her demeanour are particularly described in my Sister's Journal. The sort of prophecy with which the verses conclude has, through God's goodness, been realized; and now, approaching the close of my 73d year, I have a most vivid remembrance of her and the beautiful ob- jects with which she was surrounded. She is alluded to in the Poem of *'The Three Cottage Girls" among my Continental Memorials. In illustration of this class of poems I have scarcely anything to say beyond what is anticipated in my Sister's faithful and admirable Journal. 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 grey 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 truth together do ye seem [ 143 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND Like something fashioned in a dream; Such Forms as from their covert i3eep I When earthly cares are laid asleep! But, O fair Creature! in the light Of common days, so heavenly bright, I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart; God shield thee to thy latest years! Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers; And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 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 home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence. Here scattered, like a random seed, Remote from men, Thou dost not need The embarrassed look of shy distress. And maidenly shamef acedness : Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a Mountaineer: A face with gladness overspread! Soft smiles, by human kindness bred! And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; [ 144 ] TO A HIGHLAND GIRL With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that He beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech: A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife That 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. What hand but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful? O happy pleasure ! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell; Adopt your homely ways, and dress, A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess 1 But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality: Thou art 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 neighbourhood. 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. [ 145 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND Joy have I had; and going hence I bear away my recompence. In spots like these it is we prize Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes: Then, why should I be loth 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! [ 146 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND VI GLEN-ALMAIN OR, THE NARROW GLEN 1803 1807 In this still place, remote from men, Sleeps Ossian, in the narrow glen; In this still place, where murmurs on But one meek streamlet, only one: He sang of battles, and the breath Of stormy war, and violent death; And should, methinks, when all was past. Have rightfully been laid at last Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent As by a spirit turbulent; Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild, And everything unreconciled; In some complaining, dim retreat, For fear and melancholy meet; But this is calm; there cannot be A more entire tranquillity. jDoes then the Bard sleep here indeed? Or is it but a groundless creed? What matters it? — I blame them not [147] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot Was moved; and in such way expressed Their notion of its perfect rest. A convent, even a hermit's cell, Would break the silence of this Dell: It is not quiet, is not ease; But something deeper far than these: The separation that is here Is of the grave; and of austere Yet happy feelings of the dead: And, therefore, was it rightly said That Ossian, last of all his race! Lies buried in this lonely place. [ 148 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND VII STEPPING WESTWARD 1803 1807 While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch Ketterine, one fine evening after sunset, in our road to a Hut where, in the course of our Tour, we had been hos- pitably 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 westward?" " What, you are stepping westward F " — " Yea/^ — 'T would 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 dark 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; [ 149 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 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 enwrought A human sweetness with the thought Of travelling through the world that lay Before me in my endless way. [ 150 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND VIII THE SOLITARY REAPER 1803 1807 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 chaunt 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. Will no one tell me what she sings? — Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, [ 151 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 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 sickle 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. [ 152 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND IX ADDRESS TO KILCHURN CASTLE, UPON LOCH AWE 1803 1827 The first three lines were thrown off at the moment I first caught sight of the Ruin from a small eminence by the way- side; the rest was added many years after. "From the top of the hill a most impressive scene opened upon our view, — a ruined Castle on an Island (for an Island the flood had made it) at some distance from the shore, backed by a Cove of the Mountain Cruachan, down which came a foaming stream. The Castle occupied every foot of the Island that was visible to us, appearing to rise out of the water, — mists rested upon the mountain-side, with spots of sunshine; there was a mild desolation in the low grounds, a solemn grandeur in the mountains, and the Castle was wild, yet stately — not dismantled of turrets — nor the walls broken down, though obviously a ruin." — Extract from the Journal of my Companion. Child of loud-throated War ! the mountain Stream Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest Is come, and thou art silent in thy age; Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds are caught Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs. Oh ! there is life that breathes not ; Powers there are That touch each other to the quick in modes Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive, [ 153 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND No soul to dream of. What art Thou, from care Cast off — abandoned by thy rugged Sire, Nor by soft Peace adopted; though, in place And in dimension, such that thou might 'st seem But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord, Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills Might crush, nor know that it had suffered harm;) Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims To reverence, suspends his own; submitting All that the God of Nature hath conferred. All that he holds in common with the stars, To the memorial majesty of Time Impersonated in thy calm decay ! Take, then, thy seat. Vicegerent unreproved! Now, while a farewell gleam of evening light Is fondl}^ lingering on thy shattered front, Do thou, in turn, be paramount ; and rule Over the pomp and beauty of a scene Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and woods, unite To pay thee homage; and with these are joined. In willing admiration and respect. Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be called Youthful as Spring. — Shade of departed Power, Skeleton of unfleshed humanity, The chronicle were welcome that should call Into the compass of distinct regard [ 154 ] ADDRESS TO KILCHURN CASTLE The toils and struggles of thy infant years ! Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice; Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye, Frozen by distance; so, majestic Pile, To the perception of this Age, appear Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subdued And quieted in character — the strife, The pride, the fury uncontrollable, Lost on the aerial heights of the Crusades i^^ [ 155 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND X ROB ROY'S GRAVE 1803 1807 I have since been told that I was misinformed as to the burial-place of Rob Roy. If so, I may plead in excuse that I wrote on apparently good authority, namely, that of a well- educated Lady who lived at the head of the Lake, within a mile or less of the point indicated as containing the remains of One so famous in the neighbourhood. The history of Rob Roy is suflaciently known; his grave is near the head of Loch Ketterine, in one of those small pinfold- like Burial-grounds, of neglected and desolate appearance, which the traveller meets with in the Highlands of Scotland. A FAMOUS man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy! And Scotland has a thief as good, An outlaw of as daring mood;. She has her brave Rob Roy! Then clear the weeds from ofT his Grave, And let us chant a passing stave, In honour of that Hero brave ! Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart And wondrous length and strength of arm: Nor craved he more to quell his foes, Or keep his friends from harm. [ 156 ] ROB ROY'S GRAVE Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave; Forgive me if the phrase be strong; — A Poet worthy of Rob Roy Must scorn a timid song. Say, then, that he was wise as brave; As wise in thought as bold in deed : For in the principles of things He sought his moral creed. Said generous Rob, "What need of books? Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind; And worse, against ourselves. "We have a passion — make a law, Too false to guide us or control ! And for the law itself we fight In bitterness of soul. "And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose Distinctions that are plain and few: These find I graven on my heart : That tells me what to do. "The creatures see of flood and field, And those that travel on the wind ! With them no strife can last; they live In peace, and peace of mind. [ 157 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND '"For why? — because the good old rule Sufficeth them, the simple plan, That they should take, who have the power. And they should keep who can. "A lesson that is quickly learned, A signal this which all can see! Thus nothing here provokes the strong To wanton cruelty. "All freakishness of mind is checked; He tamed, who foolishly aspires; While to the measure of his might Each fashions his desires. "All kinds, and creatures, stand and fall By strength of prowess or of wit: 'T is God's appointment who must sway, And who is to submit. "Since, then, the rule of right is plain. And longest life is but a day; To have my ends, maintain my rights, I'll take the shortest way." And thus among these rocks he lived, Through summer heat and winter snow: The Eagle, he was lord above. And Rob was lord below. [ 158 ] ROB ROY'S GRAVE So it was — would, at least, have been But through untowardness of fate; For Polity was then too strong — He came an age too late; Or shall we say an age too soon? For, were the bold Man living now. How might he flourish in his pride. With buds on every bough ! Then rents and factors, rights of chase. Sheriffs, and lairds and their domains. Would all have seemed but paltry things, Not worth a moment's pains. Rob Roy had never lingered here, To these few meagre Vales confined; But thought how wide the world, the times How fairly to his mind! And to his Sword he would have said, "Do Thou my sovereign will enact From land to land through half the earth ! Judge thou of law and fact ! " 'T is fit that we should do our part. Becoming, that mankind should learn That we are not to be surpassed In fatherly concern. [ 159 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND "Of old things all are over old, Of good things none are good enough : — We '11 show that we can help to frame A world of other stuff. "I, too, will have my kings that take From me the sign of life and death : Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds, Obedient to my breath." And, if the word had been fulfilled. As might have been, then, thought of joy ! France would have had her present Boast, And we our own Rob Roy ! Oh! say not so; compare them not; I would not wrong thee. Champion brave ! Would wrong thee nowhere; least of all Here standing by thy grave. For Thou, although with some wild thoughts, Wild Chieftain of a savage Clan ! Hadst this to boast of; thou didst love The liberty of man. And, had it been thy lot to live^ With us who now behold the light. Thou would'st have nobly stirred thyself. And battled for the Right. [ 160 ] ROB ROY'S GRAVE For thou wert still the poor man's stay, The poor man's heart, the poor man's hand; And all the oppressed, who wanted strength, Had thine at their command. Bear witness many a pensive sigh Of thoughtful Herdsman when he strays Alone upon Loch Veol's heights. And by Loch Lomond's braes ! And, far and near, through vale and hill. Are faces that attest the same; The proud heart flashing through the eyes, At sound of Rob Roy's name. [ 161 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND XI SONNET COMPOSED AT CASTLE 1803 1807 The Castle here mentioned was Nidpath near Peebles. The person alluded to was the then Duke of Queensbury. The fact was told me by Walter Scott. Degenerate Douglas ! oh, the unworthy Lord ! Whom mere despite of heart could so far please, And love of havoc, (for with such disease Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth word To level with the dust a noble horde, A brotherhood of venerable Trees, Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these, Beggared and outraged ! — Many hearts deplored The fate of those old Trees; and oft with pain The traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed: For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays. And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed, And the green silent pastures, yet remain. [ 162 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND XII YARROW UNVISITED 1803 1807 See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton beginning "Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow! — " From Stirling castle we had seen The 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 ^'winsome Marrow,'' " Whatever betide, we '11 turn aside, And see the Braes of Yarrow." "Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, Who have been buying, selling, Go back to Yarrow, 't is 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. [ 163 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND "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 harrow: 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 sjjeak 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. [ 164 ] YARROW UNVISITED 'Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; The swan on still St. Mary'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 : We have a vision of our own; Ah! why should we undo it? The treasured dreams of times long past, We '11 keep them, winsome Marrow ! For when we 're there, although 't is fair, 'T will 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, 'T will soothe us in our sorrow, That earth has something yet to show. The bonny holms of Yarrow!" [ 165 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND XIII THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH AND HER HUSBAND 1803 1807 At Jedborough, my companion and I went into private lodgings for a few days; and the following Verses were called forth by the character and domestic situation of our Hostess. Age ! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers, And call a train of laughing Hours; And bid them dance, and bid them sing; And thou, too, mingle in the ring ! Take to thy heart a new delight; If not, make merry in despite That there is One who scorns thy power : — But dance! for under Jedborough Tower, A Matron dwells who, though she bears The weight of more than seventy years. Lives in the light of youthful glee. And she will dance and sing with thee. Nay! start not at that Figure — there! Him who is rooted to his chair! f Look at him — look again ! for he Hath long been of thy family. With legs that move not, if they can, [ 166 ] THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH And useless arms, a trunk of man, He sits, and with a vacant eye; A sight to make a stranger sigh! Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom: His world is in this single room: Is this a place for mirthful cheer? Can merry-making enter here? The joyous Woman is the Mate Of him in that forlorn estate! He breathes a subterraneous damp; But bright as Vesper shines her lamp: He is as mute as Jedborough Tower: She jocund as it was of yore. With all its bravery on; in times When all alive with merry chimes, Upon a sun-bright morn of May, It roused the Vale to holiday. I praise thee, Matron ! and thy due Is praise, heroic praise, and true! With admiration I behold Thy gladness unsubdued and bold; Thy looks, thy gestures, all present The picture of a life well spent : This do I see; and something more; A strength unthought of heretofore! Delighted am I for thy sake; [ 167] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND And yet a higher joy partake : Our Human-nature throws away Its second twilight, and looks gay; A land of promise and of pride Unfolding, wide as life is wide. Ah! see her helpless Charge! enclosed Within himself it seems, composed; To fear of loss, and hope of gain, The strife of happiness and pain, Utterly dead ! yet in the guise Of little infants, when their eyes Begin to follow to and fro The persons that before them go, He tracks her motions, quick or slow, Her buoyant spirit can prevail Where common cheerfulness would fail; She strikes upon him with the heat Of July suns; he feels it sweet; An animal delight though dim! 'T is all that now remains for him ! The more I looked, I wondered more — And, while I scanned them o*er and o'er, Some inward trouble suddenly Broke from the Matron's strong black eye — A remnant of uneasy light, A flash of something over-bright! [ 168 ] THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH Nor long this mystery did detain My thoughts; — she told in pensive strain That she had borne a heavy yoke, Been stricken by a twofold stroke; 111 health of body; and had pined Beneath worse ailments of the mind. So be it ! — but let praise ascend To Him who is our lord and friend! Who from disease and suffering Hath called for thee a second spring; Repaid thee for that sore distress e By no untimely joyousness; Which makes of thine a blissful state; And cheers thy melancholy Mate! I 169 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND XIV "FLY, SOME KIND HARBINGER, TO GRASMERE-DALE!" 1803 1815 This was actually composed the last day of our tour be- tween Dalston and Grasmere. Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale ! Say that we come, and come by this day's light; Fly upon swiftest wing round field and height, But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale; There let a mystery of joy prevail. The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite. And Rover whine, as at a second sight Of near-approaching good that shall not fail : And from that Infant's face let joy appear; Yea, let our Mary's one companion child — That hath her six weeks' solitude beguiled With intimations manifold and dear. While we have wandered over wood and wild — Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer. [ 170 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND XV THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY A TALE TOLD BY THE FIRE-SIDE, AFTER RETURNING TO THE VALE OF GRASMERE 1803 1807 The story was told me by George Mackereth, for many years parish-clerk of Grasmere. He had been an eye-witness of the occurrence. The vessel in reality was a washing-tub, which the little fellow had met with on the shore of the Loch.^^ Now we are tired of boisterous joy, Have romped enough, my little Boy ! Jane hangs her head upon my breast. And you shall briiig your stool and rest; This corner is your own. There! take your seat, and let me see That you can listen quietly: And, as I promised, I will tell That strange adventure which befell A poor blind Highland Boy. A Highland Boy ! — why call him so? Because, my Darlings, ye must know That, under hills which rise like towers, [ 171 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND Far higher hills than these of ours! He from his birth had lived. He ne'er had seen one earthly sight. The sun, the day; the stars, the night; Or tree, or butterfly, or flower, Or fish in stream, or bird in bower, Or woman, man, or child. And yet he neither drooped nor pined. Nor had a melancholy mind; For God took pity on the Boy, And was his friend; and gave him joy Of which we nothing know. His Mother, too, no doubt, above Her other children him did love: For, was she here, or was she there, She thought of him with constant care, And more than mother's love. And proud she was of heart, when, clad In crimson stockings, tartan plaid. And bonnet with a feather gay. To Kirk he on the Sabbath day Went hand in hand with her. [ 172 ] THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY A dog, too, had he; not for need. But one to play with and to feed; Which would have led him, if bereft Of company or friends, and left Without a better guide. And then the bagpipes he could blow — And thus from house to house would go; And all were pleased to hear and see, For none made sweeter melody Than did the poor blind Boy. Yet he had many a restless dream; Both when he heard the eagles scream, And when he heard the torrents roar, And heard the water beat the shore Near which their cottage stood. Beside a lake their cottage stood, Not small like ours, a peaceful flood; But one of mighty size, and strange; That, rough or smooth, is full of change. And stirring in its bed. For to this lake, by night and day. The great Sea-water finds its way [ 1*^3 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND Through long, long windings of the hills And drinks up all the pretty rills ^And rivers large and strong: Then hurries back the road it came — Returns, on errand still the same; This did it when the earth was new; And this for evermore will do As long as earth shall last. And, with the coming of the tide, Come boats and ships that safely ride Between the woods and lofty rocks; And to the shepherds with their flocks Bring tales of distant lands. And of those tales, whatever they were, The blind Boy always had his share; Whether of mighty towns, or vales With warmer suns and softer gales. Or wonders of the Deep. Yet more it pleased him, more it stirred, When from the water-side he heard The shouting, and the jolly cheers; The bustle of the mariners In stillness or in storm. [ 174 ] THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY But what do his desires avail? For He must never handle sail; Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float In sailor's ship, or fisher's boat. Upon the rocking waves. His Mother often thought, and said, What sin would be upon her head If she should suffer this: "My Son, Whate'er you do, leave this undone; The danger is so great." Thus lived he by Loch Leven's side Still sounding with the sounding tide, And heard the billows leap and dance. Without a shadow of mischance, •Till he was ten years old. When one day (and now mark me well. Ye soon shall know how this befell) He in a vessel of his own. On the swift flood is hurrying down, Down to the mighty Sea. In such a vessel never more May human creature leave the shore! If this or that way he should stir, [ 175 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND Woe to the poor blind Mariner! For death will be his doom. But say what bears him? — Ye have seen The Indian's bow, his arrows keen, Rare beasts, and birds with plumage bright ; Gifts which, for wonder or delight, Are brought in ships from far. Such gifts had those seafaring men Spread round that haven in the glen; Each hut, perchance, might have its own. And to the Boy they all were known — He knew and prized them all. The rarest was a Turtle-shell Which he, poor Child, had studied well; A shell of ample size, and light As the pearly car of Amphi trite, That sportive dolphins drew. And, as a Coracle that braves On Vaga's breast the fretful waves, This shell upon the deep would swim. And gaily lift its fearless brim Above the tossing surge. [ 176 ] THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY And this the little blind Boy knew: And he a story strange yet true Had heard, how in a shell like this An English Boy, O thought of bliss! Had stoutly launched from shore; Launched from the margin of a bay Among the Indian isles, where lay His father's ship, and had sailed far — To join that gallant ship of war, In his delightful shell. Our Highland Boy oft visited The house that held this prize; and, led By choice or chance, did thither come One day when no one was at home. And found the door unbarred. While there he sate, alone and blind. That story flashed upon his mind; — A bold thought roused him, and he took The shell from out its secret nook, And bore it on his head. He launched his vessel, — and in pride Of spirit, from Loch Leven's side, [ 177 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND Stepped into it — his thoughts all free As the light breezes that with glee Sang through the adventurer's hair. A while he stood upon his feet; He felt the motion — took his seat; Still better pleased as more and more The tide retreated from the shore, And sucked, and sucked him in. And there he is in face of Heaven. How rapidly the Child is driven! The fourth part of a mile, I ween, He thus had gone, ere he was seen By any human eye. But when he was first seen, oh me What shrieking and what misery! For many saw; among the rest His Mother, she who loved him best, She saw her poor blind Boy. But for the Child, the sightless Boy, It is the triumph of his joy ! The bravest traveller in balloon, Mounting as if to reach the moon, Was never half so blessed. [ 178 ] THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY And let him, let him go his way, Alone, and innocent, and gay! For, if good Angels love to wait On the forlorn unfortunate, This Child will take no harm. But now the passionate lament. Which from the crowd on shore was sent, The cries which broke from old and young In Gaelic, or the English tongue, Are stifled — all is still. And quickly with a silent crew A boat is ready to pursue; And from the shore their course they take, And swiftly down the running lake They follow the blind Boy. But soon they move with softer pace; So have ye seen the fowler chase On Grasmere's clear unruffled breast A youngling of the wild-duck's nest With deftly-lifted oar; Or as the wily sailors crept To seize (while on the Deep it slept) [ l'^9 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND The hapless creature which did dwell Erewhile within the dancing shell, They steal upon their prey. With sound the least that can be made. They follow, more and more afraid. More cautious as they draw more near; But in his darkness he can hear. And guesses their intent. ^^Lei-gha — Lei-gha'^ — he then cried out, ^^Lei-gha — Lei-gha'' — with eager shout; Thus did he cry, and thus did pray. And what he meant was, *'Keep away, And leave me to myself!'* Alas ! and when he felt their hands You've often heard of magic wands. That with a motion overthrow A palace of the proudest show. Or melt it into air: So all his dreams — that inward light With which his soul had shone so bright — All vanished; — 't was a heartfelt cross To him, a heavy, bitter loss, As he had ever known. [ 180 ] THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY But hark! a gratulating voice, With which the very hills rejoice: 'T is from the crowd, who tremblingly Have watched the event, and now can see That he is safe at last. And then, when he was brought to land, Full sure they were a happy band. Which, gathering round, did on the banks On that great Water give God thanks. And welcomed the poor Child. And in the general joy of heart The blind Boy's little dog took part; He leapt about, and oft did kiss His master's hands in sign of bliss, With sound like lamentation. But most of all, his Mother dear. She who had fainted with her fear, Rejoiced when waking she espies The Child; when she can trust her eyes, And touches the blind Boy. She led him home, and wept amain, When he was in the house again : Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes; [ 181 ] MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND She kissed him — how could she chastise? She was too happy far. Thus, after he had fondly braved The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved; And, though his fancies had been wild, Yet he was pleased and reconciled To live in peace on shore. And in the lonely Highland dell Still do they keep the Turtle-shell And long the story will repeat Of the blind Boy's adventurous feat. And how he was preserved. [ 182 ] OCTOBER 1803 1803 1807 One might believe that natural miseries Had blasted France, and made of it a land Unfit for men; and that in one great band Her sons were bursting forth, to dwell at ease. But 't is a chosen soil, where sun and breeze Shed gentle favours : rural works are there. And ordinary business without care; Spot rich in all things that can soothe and please! How piteous then that there should be such dearth Of knowledge; that whole myriads should unite To work against themselves such fell despite: Should come in phrensy and in drunken mirth, Impatient to put out the only light Of Liberty that yet remains on earth ! [ 183 ] <( THERE IS A BONDAGE WORSE, FAR WORSE, TO BEAR" 1803 1807 ^ There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear Than his who breathes, by roof, and floor, and wall. Pent in, a Tyrant's solitary Thrall : 'T is his who walks about in the open air. One of a Nation who, henceforth, must wear Their fetters in their souls. For who could be, Who, even the best, in such condition, free From self-reproach, reproach that he must share With Human-nature? Never be it ours To see the sun how brightly it will shine, And know that noble feelings, manly powers. Instead of gathering strength, must droop and pine; And earth with all her pleasant fruits and flowers Fade, and participate in man's decline. [ 184 ] OCTOBER 1803 1803 1807 These times strike monied worldlings with dismay Even rich men, brave by nature, taint the air With words of apprehension and despair: While tens of thousands, thinking on the affray, Men unto whom suflBcient for the day And minds not stinted or untilled are given, Sound, healthy, children of the God of heaven, Are cheerful as the rising sun in May. What do we gather hence but firmer faith That every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath; That virtue and the faculties within Are vital, — and that riches are akin To fear, to change, to cowardice, and death? [ 185 ] "ENGLAND! THE TIME IS COME WHEN THOU SHOULD'ST WEAN" 1803 1807 England! the time is come when thou should'st wean Thy heart from its emasculating food; The truth should now be better understood; Old things have been unsettled; we have seen Fair seed-time, better harvest might have been But for thy trespasses; and, at this day. If for Greece, Egypt, India, Africa, Aught good were destined, thou would 'st step between. England ! all nations in this charge agree : But worse, more ignorant in love and hate, Far — far more abject, is thine Enemy: Therefore the wise pray for thee, though the freight Of thy offences be a heavy weight: Oh grief that Earth's best hopes rest all with Thee! [ 186 ] OCTOBER 1803 1803 1807 When, looking on the present face of things, I see one Man, of men the meanest too ! Raised up to sway the world, to do, undo, With mighty Nations for his underlings, The great events with which old story rings Seem vain and hollow; I find nothing great: Nothing is left which I can venerate; So that a doubt almost within me springs Of Providence, such emptiness at length Seems at the heart of all things. But, great God! I measure back the steps which I have trod : And tremble, seeing whence proceeds the strength Of such poor Instruments, with thoughts sublime I tremble at the sorrow of the time. [ 187 ] TO THE MEN OF KENT OCTOBER 1803 1803 1807 Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent, Ye children of a Soil that doth advance Her haughty brow against the coast of France, Now is the time to prove your hardiment ! To France be words of invitation sent ! They from their fields can see the countenance Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering lance And hear you shouting forth your brave intent. Left single, in bold parley, ye, of yore. Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath; Confirmed the charters that were yours before ; - No parleying now! In Britain is one breath; We all are with you now from shore to shore : — Ye men of Kent, 't is victory or death! [ 188 ] IN THE PASS OF KILLICRANKY 1803 1807 An invasion being expected, October 1803. Six thousand veterans practised in war's game, Tried men, at Killicranky were arrayed Against an equal host that wore the plaid, Shepherds and herdsmen. — Like a whirlwind came The Highlanders, the slaughter spread like iSame; And Garry, thundering down his mountain-road, Was stopped, and could not breathe beneath the load Of the dead bodies. — 'T was a day of shame For them whom precept and the pedantry Of cold mechanic battle do enslave. O for a single hour of that Dundee, Who on that day the word of onset gave! Like conquest would the Men of England see; And her Foes find a like inglorious grave. [ 189 ] ANTICIPATION OCTOBER 1803 1803 1807 Shout, for a mighty Victory is won! On British ground the Invaders are laid low; The breath of Heaven has drifted them like snow, And left them lying in the silent sun. Never to rise again ! — the work is done. Come forth, ye old men, now in peaceful show And greet your sons! drums beat and trumpets blow! Make merry, wives, ye little children, stun Your grandame's ears with pleasure of your noise! Clap, infants, clap your hands ! Divine must be That triumph, when the very worst, the pain, And even the prospect of our brethren slain, Hath something in it which the heart enjoys : — In glory will they sleep and endless sanctity. [ 190 ] LINES ON THE EXPECTED INVASION 1803 1803 1845 Come ye — who, if (which Heaven avert !) the Land Were with herself at strife, would take your stand. Like gallant Falkland, by the Monarch's side, And, like Montrose, make Loyalty your pride — Come ye — who, not less zealous, might display Banners at enmity with regal sway, And, like the Pyms and Miltons of that day, Think that a State wouldiive in sounder health If Kingship bowed its head to Commonwealth — Ye too — whom no discreditable fear Would keep, perhaps with many a fruitless tear. Uncertain what to choose and how to steer — And ye — who might mistake for sober sense And wise reserve the plea of indolence — Come ye — whatever your creed — O waken all. Whatever your temper, at your Country's call; Resolving (this a free-born Nation can) To have one Soul, and perish to a man, Or save this honoured Land from every Lord But British reason and the British sword. [ 191 ] THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALEi^ 1803 1815 The character of this man was described to me, and the incident upon which the verses turn was told me, by Mr. Pool of Nether Stowey, with whom I became acquainted through our common friend, S. T. Coleridge. During my residence at Alfoxden I used to see much of him and had frequent occa- sions to admire the course of his daily life, especially his con- duct to his labourers and poor neighbours: their virtues he carefully encouraged, and weighed their faults in the scales of charity. If I seem in these verses to have treated the weak- nesses of the farmer, and his transgression, too tenderly, it may in part be ascribed to my having received the story from one so averse to all harsh judgment. After his death, was found in his escritoir a lock of grey hair carefully preserved, with a notice that it had been cut from the head of his faithful shepherd, who had served him for a length of years. I need scarcely add that he felt for all men as his brothers. He was much beloved by distinguished persons — Mr. Coleridge, Mr. Southey, Sir H. Davy, and many others; and in his own neighbourhood was highly valued as a magistrate, a man of business, and in every other social relation. The latter part of the poem, perhaps, requires some apology as being too much of an echo to the *' Reverie of Poor Susan." 'T is not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined. The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind, And the small critic wielding his delicate pen. That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old men. [ 192 ] THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town; His staff is a sceptre — his grey hairs a crown; And his bright eyes look brighter, set off by the streak Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on his cheek. 'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn, — 'mid the joy Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a boy, That countenance there fashioned, which, spite of a stain That his life hath received, to the last will remain. A Farmer he was; and his house far and near Was the boast of the country for excellent cheer: How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his mild ale ! Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin. His fields seemed to know what their Master was doing : And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, and lea, All caught the infection — as generous as he. Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl, — The fields better suited the ease of his soul : He strayed through the fields like an indolent wight. The quiet of Nature was Adam's delight. For Adam was simple in thought ; and the poor, Familiar with him, made an inn of his door: [ 193 ] THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE He gave them the best that he had; or, to say What less may mislead you, they took it away. Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm: The Genius of plenty preserved him from harm: At length, what to most is a season of sorrow, His means are run out, — he must beg, or must borrow. To the neighbours he went, — all were free with their money;. For his hive had so long been replenished with honey. That they dreamt not of dearth; — He continued his rounds. Knocked here — and knocked there, pounds still add- ing to pounds. He paid what he could with his ill-gotten pelf. And something, it might be, reserved for himself: Then (what is too true) without hinting a word. Turned his back on the country — and off like a bird. You lift up your eyes ! — but I guess that you frame A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame; In him it was scarcely a business of art. For this he did all in the ease of his heart. To London — a sad emigration I ween — With his grey hairs he went from the brook and the green; [ 194 ] THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE And there, with small wealth but his legs and his hands, As lonely he stood as a crow in the sands; All trades, as need was, did old Adam assume, — Served as stable-boy, errand-boy, porter, and groom; But Nature is gracious, necessity kind. And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in his mind, He seems ten birthdays younger, is green and is stout; Twice as fast as before does his blood run about; You would say that each hair of his beard was alive. And his fingers are busy as bees in a hive. For he's not like an Old Man that leisurely goes About work that he knows, in a track that he knows; But often his mind is compelled to demur. And you guess that the more then his body must stir. In the throng of the town like a stranger is he,^ Like one whose own country's far over the sea; And Nature, while through the great city he hies. Full ten times a day takes his heart by surprise. This gives him the fancy of one that is young, More of soul in his face than of words on his tongue; Like a maiden of twenty he trembles and sighs. And tears of fifteen will come into his eyes. [ 195 ] THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE What's a tempest to him, or the dry parching heats? Yet he watches the clouds that pass over the streets; With a look of such earnestness often will stand, You might think he'd twelve reapers at work in the Strand. Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits and her flowers. Old Adam will smile at the pains that have made Poor winter look fine in such strange masquerade. 'Mid coaches and chariots, a waggon of straw. Like a magnet, the heart of old Adam can draw; With a thousand soft pictures his memory mil teem. And his hearing is touched with the sounds of a dream. Up the Haymarket hill he oft whistles his way. Thrusts his hands in a waggon, and smells at the hay; He thinks of the fields he so often hath mown, And is happy as if the rich freight were his own. But chiefly to Smithfield he loves to repair, — If you pass by at morning, you '11 meet with him there. The breath of the cows you may see him inhale. And his heart all the while is in Tilsbury Vale. [ 196 ] THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE Now farewell, old Adam ! when low thou art laid, May one blade of grass spring up over thy head; And I hope that thy grave, wheresoever it be, Will hear the wind sigh through the leaves of a tree. [ 197 ] TO THE CUCKOO 1804 1807 Composed in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. 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 hill 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 [ 198 ] TO THE CUCKOO 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 thou 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! [ 199 ] "SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT" 1804 1807 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The germ of this poem was four lines composed as a part of the verses on the High- land Girl. Though beginning in this way, it was written from my heart, as is suflBciently obvious. She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; 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 household 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 [ 200 ] SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A Being breathing thoughtful 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 something of angelic light. [ 201 ] "I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD "i« 1804 1807 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The Daffodils grew and still grow on the margin of Ullswater, and probably may be seen to this day as beautiful in the month of March, nod- ding their golden heads beside the dancing and foaming waves. 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 : [ 202 ] I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD I gazed — and gazed — but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought : For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood. They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude ; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. [ 203 ] THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET 1804 1807 "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 enquire of him after her son. I 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? II 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? [ 204 ] THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET III He was among the prime in worth, An object beauteous to behold; Well 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. IV 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. V 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. [ 205 ] THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET VI My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, Hopeless of honour 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. VII Alas ! the fowls of heaven have wings, And blasts of heaven will aid their flight; They mount — how short a voyage brings The wanderers back to their delight ! Chains tie us down by land and sea; And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee. VIII 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. [ 206 ] THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET IX I look for ghosts; but none will force Their way to me : 't is 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. X My apprehensions come in crowds; I dread the rustling of the grass; The very shadows of the clouds Have power to shake me as they pass : I question things and do not find One that will answer to my mind; And all the world appears unkind. XI 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! [ 207 ] THE FORSAKEN 1804 1845 This was an overflow from the **Afl3iction of Margaret — ," and was excluded as superfluous there, but preserved in the faint hope that it may turn to account by restoring a shy lover to some forsaken damsel. My poetry has been com- plained of as deficient in interests of this sort, — a charge which the piece beginning, *'Lyre! though such power do in thy magic live," will scarcely tend to obviate. The natural imagery of these verses was supplied by frequent, I might say intense, observation of the Rydal torrent. What an ani- mating contrast is the ever-changing aspect of that, and in- deed of every one of our mountain brooks, to the monotonous tone and unmitigated fury of such streams among the Alps as are fed all the summer long by glaciers and melting snows. A traveller observing the exquisite purity of the great rivers, such as the Rhine at Geneva, and the Reuss at Lucerne, when they issue out of their respective lakes, might fancy for a mo- ment that some power in Nature produced this beautiful change, with a view to make amends for those Alpine sully- ings which the waters exhibit near their fountain heads; but, alas! how soon does that purity depart before the influx of tributary waters that have flowed through cultivated plains and the crowded abodes of men. The peace vrhicli others seek they find; The heaviest storms not longest last; Heaven grants even to the guiltiest mind An amnesty for what is past; [ 208 ] THE FORSAKEN When will my sentence be reversed? I only pray to know the worst ; And wish as if my heart would burst* weary struggle ! silent years Tell seemingly no doubtful tale; And yet they leave it short, and fears And hopes are strong and will prevail. My calmest faith escapes not pain; And, feeling that the hope is vain, 1 think that he will come again. [ 209 ] REPENTANCE A PASTORAL BALLAD 1804 1820 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Suggested by the con- versation of our next neighbour, Margaret Ashburner. The fields which with covetous spirit we sold. Those beautiful fields, the delight of the day. Would have brought us more good than a burthen of gold, Could we but have been as contented as they. When the troublesome Tempter beset us, said I, "Let him come, with his purse proudly grasped in his hand; But, Allan, be true to me, Allan, — we'll die Before he shall go with an inch of the land!'* There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their bowers; Unfettered as bees that in gardens abide; We could do what we liked with the land, it was ours; And for us the brook murmured that ran by its side. But now we are strangers, go early or late; And often, like one overburthened with sin, [ 210 ] The Hill Farm sm^'\ WiH ^.^T ^■■HyOKI?SW^R.TK RECORDS IT IM HIS UNES o'l*!''^ ' ■ ■ FIDELITY ' - - * ." ,,.>_Wh";cH conclude' as Follows, !!D Cf;y.' ..." '•' ..wft ■■'■COG H/iD BCEh THROUCHTHHiEkiaiVTH^SPaicM' ^ij^i'ilSfim THAT Sfll/MGEfLACE'' '" '^ noty./VOt/mSHEo'H£ftE THHOa&H Jt/C«'iO/VC T/MEi' ^^?.,^'''<'I*'S, IVffO CAUS THAT LOVE SUBLfME: S3WV^..C/JV^ TH^T STffXIVQTH OF FEELiniGjU^KV' f^JOXWC ALL iLU,-ijA!^ .estimate:" ": ■ ,- '.,',■ ' . ' -■ — -♦— — .' J, ittW MEMORY or THAT; LQVt&StREAfnTH OF FEEUINC'j , •, /^-THiS stone' if-.lJRECTED. " rS90, H.D.Rj '■■^ ^*ii«|l^-5! -*-iif. ».-ji'^^^ -ims/ji' FIDELITY The Dog is not of mountain breed; Its motions, too, are wild and shy; With something, as the Shepherd thinks, Unusual in its cry: Nor is there any one in sight All round, in hollow or on height; Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear; What is the creature doing here? It was a cove, a huge recess. That keeps, till June, December's snow; A lofty precipice in front, A silent tarn^^ below! Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, Remote from public road or dwelling, Pathway, or cultivated land; From trace of human foot or hand. There sometimes doth a leaping fish Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; The crags repeat the raven's croak, In symphony austere; Thither the rainbow comes — the cloud - And mists that spread the flying shroud; And sunbeams; and the sounding blast, That, if it could, would hurry past; But that enormous barrier holds it fast. [ 239 ] FIDELITY Not free from boding thoughts, a while The Shepherd stood; then makes his way O 'er rocks and stones, following the Dog As quickly as he may; Nor far had gone before he found A human skeleton on the ground; The appalled Discoverer with a sigh Looks round, to learn the history. From those abrupt and perilous rocks, The Man had fallen, that place of fear! At length upon the Shepherd's mind It breaks, and all is clear: He instantly recalled the name. And who he was, and whence he came; Remembered, too, the very day On which the Traveller passed this way. But here a wonder, for whose sake This lamentable tale I tell! A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well. The Dog which still was hovering nigh, Repeating the same timid cry. This Dog had been through three months' space A dweller in that savage place. [ 240 ] FIDELITY Yes, proof was plain that, since the day When this ill-fated Traveller died, The dog had watched about the spot, Or by his master's side: How nourished here through such long time He knows, who gave that love sublime; And gave that strength of feeling, great Above all human estimate! [ 241 ] INCIDENT CHARACTERISTIC OF A FAVOURITE DOG 1805 1807 This Dog I knew well. It belonged to Mrs. Wordsworth's brother, Mr. Thomas Hutchinson, who then lived at Sock- burn on the Tees, a beautiful retired situation where I used to visit him and his sisters before my marriage. My sister and I spent many months there after our return from Ger- many in 1799. On his morning rounds the Master Goes to learn how all things fare; Searches pasture after pasture, Sheep and cattle eyes with care; And, for silence or for talk. He hath comrades in his walk; Four dogs, each pair a different breed, Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed. See a hare before him started! — Off they fly in earnest chase; Every dog is eager-hearted. All the four are in the race: And the hare whom they pursue, Knows from instinct what to do; [ 242 ] INCIDENT Her hope is near: no turn she makes; But, like an arrow, t^ the river takes. Deep the river was, and crusted Thinly by a one night's frost; But the nimble Hare hath trusted To the ice, and safely crost; She hath crost, and without heed All are following at full speed, When, lo! the ice, so thinly spread. Breaks — and the greyhound, Dart, is over- head! Better fate have Prince and Swallow — See them cleaving to the sport! Music has no heart to follow. Little Music, she stops short. She hath neither wish nor heart. Hers is now another part: A loving creature she, and brave! And fondly strives her struggling friend to save. From the brink her paws she stretches, Very hands as you would say! And afflicting moans she fetches. As he breaks the ice away. [ 243 ] INCIDENT For herself she hath no fears, — Him alone she sees and hears, — Makes efforts with complainings; nor gives o'er Until her fellow sinks to re-appear no more. [ 244 ] TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG 1805 1807 Lie here, without a record of thy worth, Beneath a covering of the common earth! It is not from unwillingness to praise, Or want of love, that here no Stone we raise; More thou deserv'st; but this man gives to man, Brother to brother, this is all we can. Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee dear Shall find thee through all changes of the year: This Oak points out thy grave; the silent tree Will gladly stand a monument of thee. We grieved for thee, and wished thy end were past; And willingly have laid thee here at last: For thou hadst lived till everything that cheers In thee had yielded to the weight of years; Extreme old age had wasted thee away. And left thee but a glimmering of the day: Thy ears were deaf, and feeble were thy knees, — I saw thee stagger in the summer breeze. Too weak to stand against its sportive breath, And ready for the gentlest stroke of death. [ 245 ] TRIBUTE It came, and we were glad; yet tears were shed; Both man and woman wept when thou wert dead; Not only for a thousand thoughts that were, Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share; But for some precious boons vouchsafed to thee. Found scarcely anywhere in like degree! For love, that comes wherever life and sense Are given by God, in thee was most intense; A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind, A tender sympathy, which did thee bind Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind: Yea, for thy fellow brutes in thee we saw A soul of love, love's intellectual law : — Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame; Our tears from passion and from reason came. And, therefore, shalt thou be an honoured name! [ 246 ] Brother John's Grove "WHEN TO THE ATTRACTIONS OF THE BUSY WORLD" 1805 1815 The grove still exists, but the plantation has been walled in, and is not so accessible as when my brother John wore the path in the manner here described. The grove was a favourite haunt with us all while we lived at Town-end. When, to the attractions of the busy world Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen A habitation in this peaceful Vale, Sharp season followed a continual storm In deepest winter; and, from week to week, Pathway, and lane, and public road, were clogged With frequent showers of snow. Upon a hill At a short distance from my cottage, stands A stately Fir-grove, whither I was wont To hasten, for I found, beneath the roof Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor. Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow. And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth, The redbreast near me hopped; nor was I loth To sympathise with vulgar coppice birds That, for protection from the nipping blast, [ 247 ] WHEN TO THE ATTRACTIONS Hither repaired. — A single beech-tree grew Within this grove of firs! and, on the fork Of that one beech, appeared a thrush's nest; A last year's nest, conspicuously built At such small elevation from the ground As gave sure sign that they, who in that house Of Nature and of love had made their home Amid the fir-trees, all the summer long Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes, A few sheep, stragglers from some mountain-flock. Would watch my motions with suspicious stare, From the remotest outskirts of the grove, — Some nook where they had made their final stand. Huddling together from two fears — the fear Of me and of the storm. Full many an hour Here did I lose. But in this grove the trees Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven In such perplexed and intricate array; That vainly did I seek, beneath their stems A length of open space, where to and fro My feet might move without concern or care; And, baflSed thus, though earth from day to day Was fettered, and the air by storm disturbed, I ceased the shelter to frequent, — and prized, Less than I wished to prize, that calm recess. The snows dissolved, and genial Spring returned [ 248 ] OF THE BUSY WORLD To clothe the fields with verdure. Other haunts Meanwhile were mine; till, one bright April day, By chance retiring from the glare of noon To this forsaken covert, there I found A hoary pathway traced between the trees, And winding on with such an easy line Along a natural opening, that I stood Much wondering how I could have sought in vain For what was now so obvious. To abide, For an allotted interval of ease. Under my cottage-roof, had gladly come From the wild sea a cherished Visitant; And with the sight of this same path — begun. Begun and ended, in the shady grove. Pleasant conviction flashed upon my mind That, to this opportune recess allured. He had surveyed it with a finer eye, A heart more wakeful; and had worn the track By pacing here, unwearied and alone. In that habitual restlessness of foot That haunts the Sailor measuring o'er and o'er His short domain upon the vessel's deck. While she pursues her course through the dreary sea. When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant shore. And taken thy first leave of those green hills And rocks that were the play-ground of thy youth, [ 249 ] WHEN TO THE ATTRACTIONS Year followed year, my Brother! and we two, Conversing not, knew little in what mould Each other's mind was fashioned; and at length. When once again we met in Grasmere Vale, Between us there was little other bond Than common feelings of fraternal love. But thou, a Schoolboy, to the sea hadst carried Undying recollections! Nature there Was with thee; she, who loved us both, she still Was with thee; and even so didst thou become A silent Poet; from the solitude Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful heart Still couchant, an inevitable ear. And an eye practised like a blind man's touch. — Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone; Nor from this vestige of thy musing hours Could I withhold thy honoured name, — and now I love the fir-grove with a perfect love. Thither do I withdraw when cloudless suns Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and strong; And there I sit at evening, when the steep Of Silver-how, and Grasmere 's peaceful lake. And one green island, gleam between the stems Of the dark firs, a visionary scene! And, while I gaze upon the spectacle Of clouded splendour, on this dream-like sight [ 250 ] OF THE BUSY WORLD Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee, My Brother, and on all which thou hast lost. Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, while Thou, Muttering the verses which I muttered first Among the mountains, through the midnight watch Art pacing thoughtfully the vessel's deck In some far region, here, while o'er my head. At every impulse of the moving breeze, The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound, Alone I tread this path; — for aught I know. Timing my steps to thine; and, with a store Of undistinguishable sympathies. Mingling most earnest wishes for the day When we, and others whom we love, shall meet A second time, in Grasmere's happy Vale. [ 251 ] ELEGIAC VERSES IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER, JOHN WORDSWORTH COMMANDER OF THE E. I. COMPANY'S SHIP THE EARL OF ABERGAVENNY, IN WHICH HE PERISHED BY CA- LAMITOUS SHIPWRECK, FEBRUARY 6, 1805 1805 1845 Composed near the Mountain track that leads from Gras- mere through Grisdale Hawes, where it descends towards Paterdale. "Here did we stop; and here looked round. While each into himself descends." The point is two or three yards below the outlet of Grisdale tarn, on a foot-road by which a horse may pass to Paterdale — a ridge of Helvellyn on the left, and the summit of Fairfield on the right. I The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo! That instant, startled by the shock, The Buzzard mounted from the rock Deliberate and slow: Lord of the air, he took his flight; Oh! could he on that woeful night Have lent his wing, my Brother dear, For one poor moment's space to Thee, [ 252 ] ELEGIAC VERSES And all who struggled with the Sea, When safety was so near. II Thus in the weakness of my heart I spoke (but let that pang be still) When rising from the rock at will, I saw the Bird depart. And let me calmly bless the Power That meets me in this unknown Flower. Affecting type of him I mourn! With calmness suffer and believe. And grieve, and know that I must grieve. Not cheerless, though forlorn. Ill Here did we stop; and here looked round While each into himself descends, For that last thought of parting Friends That is not to be found. Hidden was Grasmere Vale from sight. Our home and his, his heart's delight, His quiet heart's selected home. But time before him melts away. And he hath feeling of a day Of blessedness to come. [ 253 .] ELEGIAC VERSES IV Full soon in sorrow did I weep, Taught that the mutual hope was dust, In sorrow, but for higher trust. How miserably deep! All vanished in a single word, A breath, a sound, and scarcely heard: Sea — Ship — drowned — Shipwreck — so it came. The meek, the brave, the good, was gone; He who had been our living John Was nothing but a name. V That was indeed a parting! oh. Glad am I, glad that it is past; For there were some on whom it cast Unutterable woe. But they as well as I have gains; — From many a humble source, to pains Like these, there comes a mild release; Even here I feel it, even this Plant Is in its beauty ministrant To comfort and to peace. VI He would have loved thy modest grace, Meek Flower !^^ To Him I would have said, [ 254 ] ELEGIAC VERSES "It grows upon its native bed Beside our Parting-place; There, cleaving to the ground, it lies With multitude of purple eyes. Spangling a cushion green like moss; But we will see it, joyful tide ! Some day, to see it in its pride. The mountain will we cross/' VII — Brother and Friend, if verse of mine Have power to make thy virtues known, Here let a monumental Stone Stand — sacred as a Shrine; And to the few who pass this way. Traveller or Shepherd, let it say. Long as these mighty rocks endure, — Oh do not Thou too fondly brood. Although deserving of all good. On any earthly hope, however pure ! [ ^55 ] TO THE DAISY 1805 1815 Sweet Flower! belike one day to have A place upon thy Poet's grave, I welcome thee once more; But He, who was on land, at sea, My Brother, too, in loving thee. Although he loved more silently. Sleeps by his native shore. Ah! hopeful, hopeful was the day When to that Ship he bent his way, To govern and to guide: His wish was gained: a little time Would bring him back in manhood's prime And free for life, these hills to climb; With all his wants supplied. And full of hope day followed day While that stout Ship at anchor lay Beside the shores of Wight; The May had then made all things green; And, floating there, in pomp serene, [ 25Q ] TO THE DAISY That Ship was goodly to be seen, His pride and his delight! Yet then, when called ashore, he sought The tender peace of rural thought: In more than happy mood To your abodes, bright daisy Flowers! He then would steal at leisure hours. And loved you glittering in your bowers A starry multitude. But hark the word! — the ship is gone; — Returns from her long course : — anon Sets sail : — in season due, Once more on English earth they stand: But, when a third time from the land They parted, sorrow was at hand For Him and for his crew. Ill-fated Vessel! — ghastly shock! — At length delivered from the rock, The deep she hath regained; And through the stormy night they steer; Labouring for life, in hope and fear. To reach a safer shore ! — how near, Yet not to be attained! [ 257 ] TO THE DAISY "Silence!" the brave Commander cried To that calm word a shriek replied, It was the last death-shriek. — A few (my soul oft sees that sight) Survive upon the tall mast's height; But one dear remnant of the night — For Him in vain I seek. Six weeks beneath the moving sea He lay in slumber quietly; Unforced by wind or wave To quit the Ship for which he died, (All claims of duty satisfied;) And there they found him at her side; And bore him to the grave. Vain service! yet not vainly done For this, if other end were none. That He, who had been cast Upon a way of life unmeet For such a gentle Soul and sweet. Should find an undisturbed retreat Near what he loved, at last — That neighbourhood of grove and field To Him a resting-place should yield, [ 258 ] TO THE DAISY A meek man and a brave! The birds shall sing and ocean make A mournful murmur for his sake; And Thou, sweet Flower, shall sleep and wake Upon his senseless grave. [ 259 ] ELEGIAC STANZAS SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE, IN A STORM, PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT 1805 1807 Sir George Beaumont painted two pictures of this subject, one of which he gave to Mrs. Wordsworth, saying she ought to have it; but Lady Beaumont interfered, and after Sir George's death she gave it to Sir Uvedale Price, in whose house at Fox- ley I have seen it. I WAS thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile! Four summer v^eeks 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, thy Image still was there; It trembled, but it never passed away. How perfect was the calm! it seemed no sleep; No mood, which season takes away, or brings: I could have fancied that the mighty Deep Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things. [ 260 ] ELEGIAC STANZAS Ah! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's hand, To express what then I saw; and add the gleam, The Hght 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 the 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 stedfast peace that might not be betrayed. So once it would have been, — 't is so no more; I have submitted to a new control : [ 261 ] ELEGIAC STANZAS A power is gone, which nothing can restore; A deep distress hath humanised my Soul. Not for a moment could I now behold A smiling sea, and be what I have been: The feeling of my loss will ne'er 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 whom I deplore, This work of thine I blame not, but commend; This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 't is a passionate Work! — yet wise and well. Well chosen is the spirit that is here; That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell, This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear! And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, 1 love to see the look with which it braves. Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time. The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind! [ 262 ] ELEGIAC STANZAS Such happiness, wherever it be known, Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely bhnd. 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. [ 263 ] LOUISA AFTER ACCOMPANYING HER ON A MOUNTAIN EXCURSION 1805 1807 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. I MET Louisa in the shade. And, having seen that lovely Maid, Why should I fear to say That, nymph-like, she is fleet and strong. And down the rocks can leap along Like rivulets in May? She loves her fire, her cottage-home; Yet o'er the moorland will she roam In weather rough and bleak; And, when against the wind she strains, Oh! might I kiss the mountain rains That sparkle on her cheek. Take all that's mine "beneath the moon," If I with her but half a noon May sit beneath the walls Of some old cave, or mossy nook, When up she winds along the brook To hunt the waterfalls. [ 264 ] TO A YOUNG LADY WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY 1805 1807 Composed at the same time and on the same view as *'I met Louisa in the shade" : indeed they were designed to make one piece. Dear Child of Nature, let them rail! — There is a nest in a green dale, A harbour and a hold; Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shall 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 grey hairs are nigh, [ 265 ] TO A YOUNG LADY A melancholy slave; But an old age serene and bright, And lovely as a Lapland night. Shall lead thee to thy grave. [ 2QQ ] VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA 1805 1820 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Faithfully narrated, though with the omission of many pathetic circumstances, from the mouth of a French lady, who had been an eye-and- ear-witness of all that was done and said. Many long years after, I was told that Dupligne was then a monk in the Con- vent of La Trappe. The following tale was written as an Episode, in a work from which its length may perhaps exclude it. The facts are true; no invention as to these has been exercised, as none was needed. HAPPY time of youthful lovers (thus My story may begin) balmy time, In which a love-knot on a lady's brow Is fairer than the fairest star in heaven! To such inheritance of blessed fancy (Fancy that sports more desperately with minds Than ever fortune hath been known to do) The high-born Vaudracour was brought, by years Whose progress had a little overstepped His stripling prime. A town of small repute. Among the vine-clad mountains of Auvergne, Was the Youth's birth-place. There he wooed a Maid Who heard the heart-felt music of his suit [ 267 ] VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA With answering vows. Plebeian was the stock, Plebeian, though ingenuous, the stock, From which her graces and her honours sprung: And hence the father of the enamoured Youth, With haughty indignation, spurned the thought Of such alliance. — From their cradles up. With but a step between their several homes. Twins had they been in pleasure; after strife And petty quarrels, had grown fond again; Each other's advocate, each other's stay; And, in their happiest moments, not content. If more divided than a sportive pair Of sea-fowl, conscious both that they are hovering Within the eddy of a common blast. Or hidden only by the concave depth Of neighbouring billows from each other's sight. Thus, not without concurrence of an age Unknown to memory, was an earnest given By ready Nature for a life of love. For endless constancy, and placid truth; But whatsoe'er of such rare treasure lay Reserved, had fate permitted, for support Of their maturer years, his present mind Was under fascination; — he beheld A vision, and adored the thing he saw. Arabian fiction never filled the world [ 268 ] VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA With half the wonders that were wrought for him. Earth breathed in one great presence of the spring; Life turned the meanest of her implements, Before his eyes, to price above all gold; The house she dwelt in was a sainted shrine; Her chamber-window did surpass in glory The portals of the dawn; all paradise Could, by the simple opening of a door. Let itself in upon him : — pathways, walks, Swarmed with enchantment, till his spirit sank, Surcharged, within him, overblest to move Beneath a sun that wakes a weary world To its dull round of ordinary cares; A man too happy for mortality ! So passed the time, till whether through effect Of some unguarded moment that dissolved Virtuous restraint — ah, speak it, think it, not ! Deem rather that the fervent Youth, who saw So many bars between his present state And the dear haven where he wished to be In honourable wedlock with his Love, Was in his judgment tempted to decline To perilous weakness, and entrust his cause To Nature for a happy end of all; Deem that by such fond hope the Youth was swayed, And bear with their transgression, when I add [ 269 ] VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA That Julia, wanting yet the name of wife, Carried about her for a secret grief The promise of a mother. To conceal The threatened shame, the parents of the Maid Found means to hurry her away by night. And unforewarned, that in some distant spot She might remain shrouded in privacy. Until the babe was born. When morning came The Lover, thus bereft, stung with his loss, And all uncertain whither he should turn. Chafed like a wild beast in the toils; but soon Discovering traces of the fugitives. Their steps he followed to the Maid's retreat. Easily may the sequel be divined — Walks to and fro — watchings at every hour; And the fair Captive, who, whene'er she may, Is busy at her casement as the swallow Fluttering its pinions, almost within reach. About the pendent nest, did thus espy Her Lover ! — thence a stolen interview, Accomplished under friendly shade of night. I pass the raptures of the pair; — such theme Is, by innumerable poets, touched In more delightful verse than skill of mine Could fashion; chiefly by that darling bard [ 270 ] VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA Who told of Juliet and her Romeo, And of the lark's note heard before its time, And of the streaks that laced the severing clouds In the unrelenting east. — Through all her courts The vacant city slept; the busy winds, That keep no certain intervals of rest, Moved not; meanwhile the galaxy displayed Her fires, that like mysterious pulses beat Aloft; — momentous but uneasy bliss! To their full hearts the universe seemed hung On that brief meeting's slender filament! They parted; and the generous Vaudracour Reached speedily the native threshold, bent On making (so the Lovers had agreed) A sacrifice of birthright to attain A final portion from his father's hand; Which granted. Bride and Bridegroom then would flee To some remote and solitary place. Shady as night, and beautiful as heaven. Where they may live, with no one to behold Their happiness, or to disturb their love. But now of this no whisper; not the less. If ever an obtrusive word were dropped Touching the matter of his passion, still, In his stern father's hearing, Vaudracour [ 271 ] VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA Persisted openly that death alone Should abrogate his human privilege Divine, of swearing everlasting truth, Upon the altar, to the Maid he loved. "You shall be baffled in your mad intent If there be justice in the Court of France," Muttered the Father. — From these words the Youth Conceived a terror; and, by night or day, Stirred nowhere without weapons, that full soon Found dreadful provocation: for at night When to his chamber he retired, attempt Was made to seize him by three armed men, Acting, in furtherance of the father's will. Under a private signet of the State. One the rash Youth's ungovernable hand Slew, and as quickly to a second gave A perilous wound — he shuddered to behold The breathless corse; then peacefully resigned His person to the law, was lodged in prison. And wore the fetters of a criminal. Have you observed a tuft of winged seed That, from the dandelion's naked stalk. Mounted aloft, is suffered not to use Its natural gifts for purposes of rest. Driven by the autumnal whirlwind to and fro [ 272 ] VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA Through the wide element? or have you marked The heavier substance of a leaf-clad bough, Within the vortex of a foaming flood, Tormented? by such aid you may conceive The perturbation that ensued; — ah, no! Desperate the Maid — the Youth is stained with blood; Unmatchable on earth is their disquiet! Yet as the troubled seed and tortured bough Is Man, subjected to despotic sway. For him, by private influence with the Court, Was pardon gained, and liberty procured; But not without exaction of a pledge. Which liberty and love dispersed in air. He flew to her from whom they would divide him — He clove to her who could not give him peace — Yea, his first word of greeting was, — "All right Is gone from me; my lately-towering hopes. To the least fibre of their lowest root. Are withered; thou no longer canst be mine, I thine — the conscience-stricken must not woo The unruflSed Innocent, — I see thy face. Behold thee, and my misery is complete!" "One, are we not?" exclaimed the Maiden — "One, For innocence and youth, for weal and woe?" Then with the father's name she coupled words Of vehement indignation; but the Youth [ 273 ] VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA Checked her with filial meekness; for no thought Uncharitable crossed his mind, no sense Of hasty anger rising in the eclipse Of true domestic loyalty, did e'er Find place within his bosom. — Once again The persevering wedge of tyranny Achieved their separation: and once more Were they united, — to be yet again Disparted, pitiable lot! But here A portion of the tale may well be left In silence, though my memory could add Much how the Youth, in scanty space of time, Was traversed from without; much, too, of thoughts That occupied his days in solitude Under privation and restraint; and what. Through dark and shapeless fear of things to come, And what, through strong compunction for the past. He suffered — breaking down in heart and mind ! Doomed to a third and last captivity. His freedom he recovered on the eve Of Julia's travail. When the Babe was born. Its presence tempted him to cherish schemes Of future happiness. "You shall return, Julia," said he, "and to your father's house Go with the child. — You have been wretched; yet The silver shower, whose reckless burthen weighs [ 274 ] VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA Too heavily upon the Hly's head, Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root. Malice, beholding you, will melt away. Go! — 't is a town where both of us were born; None will reproach you, for our truth is known; And if, amid those once-bright bowers, our fate Remain unpitied, pity is not in man. With ornaments — the prettiest Nature yields Or Art can fashion, shall you deck our boy. And feed his countenance with your own sweet looks Till no one can resist him. — Now, even now, I see him sporting on the sunny lawn; My father from the window sees him too; Startled, as if some new-created thing Enriched the earth, or Faery of the woods Bounded before him; — but the unweeting Child Shall by his beauty win his grandsire's heart So that it shall be softened, and our loves End happily, as they began!" These gleams Appeared but seldom; oftener was he seen Propping a pale and melancholy face Upon the Mother's bosom; resting thus His head upon one breast, while from the other The Babe was drawing in its quiet food. — That pillow is no longer to be thine, [ 275 ] VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA Fond Youth ! that mournful solace now must pass Into the list of things that cannot be! Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, hears The sentence, by her mother's lip pronounced, That dooms her to a convent. — Who shall tell, Who dares report, the tidings to the lord Of her affections? so they blindly asked Who knew not to what quiet depths a weight Of agony had pressed the Sufferer down: The word, by others dreaded, he can hear Composed and silent, without visible sign Of even the least emotion. Noting this. When the impatient object of his love Upbraided him with slackness, he returned No answer, only took the Mother's hand And kissed it; seemingly devoid of pain. Or care, that what so tenderly he pressed, Was a dependent on the obdurate heart Of one who came to disunite their lives For ever — sad alternative ! preferred, By the unbending Parents of the Maid, To secret 'spousals meanly disavowed. — So be it ! In the city he remained A season after Julia had withdrawn To those religious walls. He, too, departs — [ 276 ] VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA Who with him? — even the senseless Little-one. With that sole charge he passed the city-gates. For the last time, attendant by the side Of a close chair, a litter, or sedan, In which the Babe was carried. To a hill. That rose a brief league distant from the town. The dwellers in that house where he had lodged Accompanied his steps, by anxious love Impelled ; — they parted from him there, and stood Watching below till he had disappeared On the hill-top. His eyes he scarcely took. Throughout that journey, from the vehicle (Slow-moving ark of all his hopes !) that veiled The tender infant : and, at every inn. And under every hospitable tree At which the bearers halted or reposed. Laid him with timid care upon his knees, And looked, as mothers ne'er were known to look, Upon the nursling which his arms embraced. This was the manner in which Vaudracour Departed with his infant; and thus reached His father's house, where to the innocent child Admittance was denied. The young man spake No word of indignation or reproof, But of his father begged, a last request, [ 277 ] VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA That a retreat might be assigned to him Where in forgotten quiet he might dwell, With such allowance as his wants required; For wishes he had none. To a lodge that stood Deep in a forest, with leave given, at the age Of four-and-twenty summers he withdrew; And thither took with him his motherless Babe, And one domestic for their common needs. An aged woman. It consoled him here To attend upon the orphan, and perform Obsequious service to the precious Child, Which, after a short time, by some mistake Or indiscretion of the Father, died. — The Tale I follow to its last recess Of suffering or of peace, I know not which: Theirs be the blame who caused the woe, not mine! From this time forth he never shared a smile With mortal creature. An Inhabitant Of that same town, in which the pair had left So lively a remembrance of their griefs. By chance of business, coming within reach Of his retirement, to the forest lodge Repaired, but only found the matron there. Who told him that his pains were thrown away, For that her Master never uttered word [ 278 ] VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA To living thing — not even to her. — Behold! While they were speaking, Vaudracour approached; But, seeing some one near, as on the latch Of the garden-gate his hand was laid, he shrunk — And, like a shadow, glided out of view. Shocked at his savage aspect, from the place The visitor retired. Thus lived the Youth Cut off from all intelligence with man. And shunning even the light of common day; Nor could the voice of Freedom, which through France Full speedily resounded, public hope. Or personal memory of his own deep wrongs, Rouse him: but in those solitary shades His days he wasted, an imbecile mind! [ 279 ] THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT BY MY SISTER 1805 1815 Suggested to her while beside my sleeping children. The days are cold, the nights are long, The north- wind sings a doleful song; Then hush again upon my breast; All merry things are now at rest. Save thee, my pretty JLove! The kitten sleeps upon the hearth. The crickets long have ceased their mirth; There 's nothing stirring in the house Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse, Then why so busy thou? Nay! start not at that sparkling light; 'T is but the moon that shines so bright On the window pane bedropped with rain: Then, little Darling! sleep again, And wake when it is day. [ 280 ] THE WAGGONER 20 1805 1815 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The characters and story from fact. In Cairo's crowded streets The impatient Merchant, wondering, waits in vain. And Mecca saddens at the long delay. Thomson. TO CHARLES LAMB, ESQ. My dear Friend, When I sent you, a few weeks ago, the tale of Peter Bell, you asked "why *The Waggoner' was not added .^" — To say the truth — from the higher tone of imagination, and the deeper touches of passion aimed at in the former, I apprehended this little Piece could not accompany it without disadvant- age. In the year 1806, if I am not mistaken, "The Waggoner" was read to you in manuscript, and, as you have remembered it for so long a time, I am the more encouraged to hope, that, since the localities on which the Poem partly depends did not prevent its being interesting to you, it may prove acceptable to others. Being therefore in some measure the cause of its present appearance, you must allow me the gratification of inscribing it to you; in acknowledgment of the pleasure I have derived from your Writings, and of the high esteem with which I am very truly yours, William Wordsworth. Rydal Mount, May 20, 1819. [ 281 ] THE WAGGONER CANTO FIRST 'T IS spent — this burning day of June ! Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is stealing; The buzzing dor-hawk, round and round, is wheel- ing,— 21 That solitary bird Is all that can be heard In silence deeper far than that of deepest noon! Confiding Glow-worms, 't is a night Propitious to your earth-born light ! But, where the scattered stars are seen In hazy straits the clouds between. Each, in his station twinkling not, Seems changed into a pallid spot. The mountains against heaven's grave weight Rise up, and grow to wondrous height. The air, as in a lion's den. Is close and hot ; — and now and then Comes a tired and sultry breeze With a haunting and a panting, Like the stifling of disease; But the dews allay the heat, And the silence makes it sweet. Hush, there is some one on the stir! 'T is Benjamin the Waggoner; [ 282 ] » The Waggoner THE WAGGONER Who long hath trod this toilsome way, Companion of the night and day. That far-ofif tinkling's drowsy cheer, Mixed with a faint yet grating sound In a moment lost and found, The Wain announces — by whose side Along the banks of Rydal Mere He paces on, a trusty Guide, — Listen ! you can scarcely hear ! Hither he his course is bending; — Now he leaves the lower ground, And up the craggy hill ascending Many a stop and stay he makes. Many a breathing-fit he takes ; — Steep the way and wearisome, Yet all the while his whip is dumb! The Horses have worked with right good-will, And so have gained the top of the hill; He was patient, they were strong. And now they smoothly glide along, Recovering breath, and pleased to win The praises of mild Benjamin. Heaven shield him from mishap and snare! But why so early with this prayer? — Is it for threatenings in the sky? Or for some other danger nigh? [ 283 ] THE WAGGONER No; none is near him yet, though he Be one of much infirmity; For at the bottom of the brow, Where once the Dove and Olive-bough Offered a greeting of good ale To all who entered Grasmere Vale; And called on him who must depart To leave it with a jovial heart ; There, where the Dove and Olive-bough Once hung, a Poet harbours now, A simple water-drinking Bard; Why need our Hero then (though frail His best resolves) be on his guard? He marches by, secure and bold; Yet while he thinks on times of old, It seems that all looks wondrous cold; He shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head. And, for the honest folk within. It is a doubt with Benjamin Whether they be alive or dead ! Here is no danger, — none at all ! Beyond his wish he walks secure; But pass a mile — and then for trial, — Then for the pride of self-denial; If he resist that tempting door, Which with such friendly voice will call; [ 284 ] THE WAGGONER If he resist those casement panes, And that bright gleam which thence will fall Upon his Leaders' bells and manes, Inviting him with cheerful lure : For still, though all be dark elsewhere, Some shining notice will be there, Of open house and ready fare. The place to Benjamin right well Is known, and by as strong a spell As used to be that sign of love And hope — the Olive-bough and Dove; He knows it to his cost, good Man! Who does not know the famous Swan? Object uncouth! and yet our boast. For it was painted by the Host; His own conceit the figure planned, 'T was coloured all by his own hand; And that frail Child of thirsty clay, Of whom I sing this rustic lay. Could tell with self-dissatisfaction Quaint stories of the bird's attraction! -^ Well ! that is past — and in despite Of open door and shining light. And now the conqueror essays The long ascent of Dunmail-raise; And with his team is gentle here [ 2S5 ] THE WAGGONER As when he clomb from Rydal Mere; His whip they do not dread — his voice They only hear it to rejoice. To stand or go is at their pleasure; Their efforts and their time they measure By generous pride within the breast; And, while they strain, and while they rest, He thus pursues his thoughts at leisure. Now am I fairly safe to-night — And with proud cause my heart is light: I trespassed lately worse than ever — But Heaven has blest a good endeavour; And, to my soul's content, I find The evil One is left behind. Yes, let my master fume and fret, Here am I — with my horses yet ! My jolly team, he finds that ye Will work for nobody but me! Full proof of this the Country gained; It knows how ye were vexed and strained. And forced unworthy stripes to bear, When trusted to another's care. Here was it — on this rugged slope, Which now ye climb with heart and hope, I saw you, between rage and fear. Plunge, and fling back a spiteful ear, [ 286 ] THE WAGGONER And ever more and more confused, As ye were more and more abused: As chance would have it, passing by I saw you in that jeopardy: A word from me was like a charm; Ye pulled together with one mind; And your huge burthen, safe from harm, Moved like a vessel in the wind! — Yes, without me, up hills so high 'T is vain to strive for mastery. Then grieve not, jolly team! though tough The road we travel, steep, and rough; Though Rydal-heights and Dunmail-raise, And all their fellow banks and braes, Full often make you stretch and strain. And halt for breath and halt again. Yet to their sturdiness 't is owing That side by side we still are going! While Benjamin in earnest mood His meditations thus pursued, A storm, which had been smothered long. Was growing inwardly more strong; And, in its struggles to get free. Was busily employed as he. The thunder had begun to growl — He heard not, too intent of soul; [ 287 ] THE WAGGONER The air was now without a breath — He marked not that 't was still as death. But soon large rain-drops on his head Fell with the weight of drops of lead; — He starts — and takes, at the admonition, A sage survey of his condition. The road is black before his eyes, Glimmering faintly where it lies; Black is the sky — and every hill, Up to the sky, is blacker still — Sky, hill, and dale, one dismal room, Hung round and overhung with gloom; Save that above a single height Is to be seen a lurid light. Above Helm-crag ^^ — a streak half dead, A burning of portentous red; And near that lurid light, full well The Astrologer, sage Sidrophel, Where at his desk and book he sits, Puzzling aloft his curious wits; He whose domain is held in common With no one but the ancient woman, Cowering beside her rifted cell. As if intent on magic spell; — Dread pair, that, spite of wind and weather. Still sit upon Helm-crag together ! [ 288 ] THE WAGGONER The Astrologer was not unseen By solitary Benjamin; But total darkness came anon, And he and everything was gone: And suddenly a ruffling breeze (That would have rocked the sounding trees Had aught of sylvan growth been there) Swept through the Hollow long and bare: The rain rushed down — the road was battered, As with the force of billows shattered; The horses are dismayed, nor know Whether they should stand or go; And Benjamin is groping near them, Sees nothing, and can scarcely hear them. He is astounded, — wonder not, — With such a charge in such a spot; Astounded in the mountain gap With thunder-peals, clap after clap. Close-treading on the silent flashes — And somewhere, as he thinks, by crashes Among the rocks; with weight of rain. And sullen motions long and slow. That to a dreary distance go — Till, breaking in upon the dying strain, A rending o'er his head begins the fray again. [ 289 ] THE WAGGONER Meanwhile, uncertain what to do. And oftentimes compelled to halt, The horses cautiously pursue Their way, without mishap or fault; And now have reached that pile of stones. Heaped over brave King Dunmail's bones; His who had once supreme command. Last king of rocky Cumberland; His bones, and those of all his Power Slain here in a disastrous hour! When, passing through this narrow strait. Stony, and dark, and desolate, Benjamin can faintly hear A voice that comes from some one near, A female voice: — "Whoe'er you be. Stop," it exclaimed, "and pity me!" And, less in pity than in wonder. Amid the darkness and the thunder. The Waggoner, with prompt command. Summons his horses to a stand. While, with increasing agitation. The Woman urged her supplication. In rueful words, with sobs between — The voice of tears that fell unseen; There came a flash — a startling glare, And all Seat-Sandal was laid bare! [ 290 ] THE WAGGONER 'T is not a time for nice suggestion, And Benjamin, without a question. Taking her for some way-worn rover, Said, "Mount, and get you under cover!" Another voice, in tone as hoarse As a swoln brook with rugged course. Cried out, "Good brother, why so fast? I 've had a glimpse of you — avast I Or, since it suits you to be civil. Take her at once — for good and evil ! " "It is my Husband," softly said The Woman, as if half afraid: By this time she was snug within, Through help of honest Benjamin; She and her Babe, which to her breast With thankfulness the Mother pressed; And now the same strong voice more near Said cordially, "My Friend, what cheer? Rough doings these! as God's my judge The sky owes somebody a grudge! We've had in half an hour or less A twelvemonth's terror and distress!" Then Benjamin entreats the Man Would mount, too, quickly as he can: The Sailor — Sailor now no more. But such he had been heretofore — [ 291 ] THE WAGGONER To courteous Benjamin replied, "Go you your way, and mind not me; For I must have, whatever betide, My Ass and fifty things beside, — Go, and I'll follow speedily!" The Waggon moVes — and with its load Descends along the sloping road; And the rough Sailor instantly Turns to a little tent hard by: For when, at closing-in of day, The family had come that wayi Green pasture and the soft warm air Tempted them to settle there. — Green is the grass for beast to graze. Around the stones of Dunmail-raise! The Sailor gathers up his bed. Takes down the canvas overhead; And, after farewell to the place, A parting word — though not of grace, Pursues, with Ass and all his store. The way the Waggon went before. [ 292 ] THE WAGGONER CANTO SECOND If Wytheburn's modest House of prayer, As lowly as the lowliest dwelling, Had, with its belfry's humble stock, A little pair that hang in air. Been mistress also of a clock, (And one, too, not in crazy plight) Twelve strokes that clock would have been telling Under the brow of old Helvellyn — Its bead-roll of midnight. Then, when the Hero of my tale Was passing by, and, down the vale (The vale now silent, hushed I ween As if a storm had never been) Proceeding with a mind at ease; While the old Familiar of the seas. Intent to use his utmost haste, Gained ground upon the Waggon fast. And gives another lusty cheer; For spite of rumbling of the wheels, A welcome greeting he can hear; — It is a fiddle in its glee Dinning from the Cherry Tree! Thence the sound — the light is there — As Benjamin is now aware, [ 293 ] THE WAGGONER Who, to his inward thoughts confined, Had almost reached the festive door, When, startled by the Sailor's roar. He hears a sound and sees a light. And in a moment calls to mind That 't is the village Merry-night ! ^^ Although before in no dejection. At this insidious recollection His heart with sudden joy is filled, — His ears are by the music thrilled, His eyes take pleasure in the road Glittering before him bright and broad; And Benjamin is wet and cold, And there are reasons manifold That make the good, towards which he 's yearning, Look fairly like a lawful earning. Nor has thought time to come and go. To vibrate between yes and no; For, cries the Sailor, "Glorious chance That blew us hither ! — let him dance. Who can or will ! — my honest soul. Our treat shall be a friendly bowl!" He draws him to the door — " Come in. Come, come," cries he to Benjamin! And Benjamin — ah, woe is me ! [ 294 ] THE WAGGONER Gave the word — the horses heard And halted, though reluctantly. "Blithe souls and lightsome hearts have we, Feasting at the Cherry Tree!" This was the outside proclamation, This was the inside salutation; What bustling — jostling — high and low ! A universal overflow! What tankards foaming from the tap! What store of cakes in every lap! What thumping — stumping — overhead! The thunder had not been more busy: With such a stir you would have said, This little place may well be dizzy ! 'T is who can dance with greatest vigour — 'T is who can be most prompt and eager; As if it heard the fiddle's call, The pewter clatters on the wall ; The very bacon shows its feeling. Swinging from the smoky ceiling ! A steaming bowl, a blazing fire. What greater good can heart desire? 'T were worth a wise man's while to try The utmost anger of the sky : To seek for thoughts of a gloomy cast, If such the bright amends at last. [ 295 ] THE WAGGONER Now should you say I judge amiss, The Cherry Tree shows proof of this ; For soon of all the happy there, Our Travellers are the happiest pair; All care with Benjamin is gone — A Caesar past the Rubicon! He thinks not of his long, long strife; — The Sailor, Man by nature gay. Hath no resolves to throw away; And he hath now forgot his Wife, Hath quite forgotten her — or may be Thinks her the luckiest soul on earth. Within that warm and peaceful berth, Under cover. Terror over. Sleeping by her sleeping Baby. With bowl that sped from hand to hand. The gladdest of the gladsome band, Amid their own delight and fun. They hear — when every dance is done. When every whirling bout is o'er — The fiddle's squeak -^ — that call to bliss, Ever followed by a kiss; They envy not the happy lot. But enjoy their own the more ! [ 296 ] THE WAGGONER While thus our jocund Travellers fare, Up springs the Sailor from his chair — Limps (for I might have told before That he was lame) across the floor — Is gone — returns — and with a prize; With what? — a Ship of lusty size; A gallant stately Man-of-war, Fixed on a smoothly-sliding car. Surprise to all, but most surprise To Benjamin, who rubs his eyes. Not knowing that he had befriended A Man so gloriously attended! "This," cries the Sailor, "a Third-rate is — Stand back, and you shall see her gratis ! This was the Flag-ship at the Nile, The Vanguard — you may smirk and smile. But, pretty Maid, if you look near. You'll find you've much in little here! A nobler ship did never swim, - And you shall see her in full trim: I '11 set, my friends, to do you honour. Set every inch of sail upon her." So said, so done; and masts, sails, yards, He names them all; and interlards His speech with uncouth terms of art. Accomplished in the showman's part; [ 297 ] THE WAGGONER And then, as from a sudden check, Cries out — "'T is there, the quarter-deck On which brave Admiral Nelson stood — A sight that would have roused your blood ! One eye he had, which, bright as ten, Burned like a fire among his men; Let this be land, and that be sea. Here lay the French — and thus came we!" Hushed was by this the fiddle's sound, The dancers all were gathered round. And, such the stillness of the house. You might have heard a nibbling mouse; While, borrowing helps where'er he may, The Sailor through the story runs Of ships to ships and guns to guns; And does his utmost to display The dismal conflict, and the might And terror of that marvellous night ! "A bowl, a bowl of double measure," Cries Benjamin, "a draught of length. To Nelson, England's pride and treasure Her bulwark and her tower of strength ! " When Benjamin had seized the bowl, The mastiff, from beneath the waggon, Where he lay, watchful as a dragon. Rattled his chain; — 't was all in vain, [ 298 ] THE WAGGONER For Benjamin, triumphant soul! He heard the monitory growl; Heard — and in opposition quaffed A deep, determined, desperate draught! Nor did the battered Tar forget, Or flinch from what he deemed his debt; Then, like a hero crowned with laurel, Back to her place the ship he led; Wheeled her back in full apparel; And so, flag flying at mast head. Re-yoked her to the Ass : — anon, Cries Benjamin, "We must be gone.'* Thus, after two hours' hearty stay, Again behold them on their way ! [ 299 ] THE WAGGONER CANTO THIRD Right gladly had the horses stirred, When they the wished-for greeting heard, The whip's loud notice from the door, That they were free to move once more. You think, those doings must have bred In them disheartening doubts and dread; No, not a horse of all the eight. Although it be a moonless night, Fears either for himself or freight; For this they know (and let it hide. In part, the offences of their guide) That Benjamin, with clouded brains. Is worth the best with all their pains; And, if they had a prayer to make, The prayer would be that they may take With him whatever comes in course, The better fortune or the worse; That no one else may have business near them. And, drunk, or sober, he may steer them. So, forth in dauntless mood they fare. And with them goes the guardian pair. Now, heroes, for the true commotion, The triumph of your late devotion Can aught on earth impede delight, [ 300 ] THE WAGGONER Still mounting to a higher height; And higher still — a greedy flight ! Can any low-born care pursue her? Can any mortal clog come to her? ^^ No notion have they — not a thought, That is from joyless regions brought! And, while they coast the silent lake, Their inspiration I partake; Share their empyreal spirits — yea. With their enraptured vision, see — O fancy — what a jubilee! What shifting pictures — clad in gleams Of colour bright as feverish dreams! Earth, spangled sky, and lake serene, Involved and restless all — a scene Pregnant with mutual exaltation. Rich change, and multiplied creation! This sight to me the Muse imparts ; — And then, what kindness in their hearts! What tears of rapture, what vow-making. Profound entreaties, and hand-shaking! What solemn, vacant, interlacing. As if they'd fall asleep embracing! Then, in the turbulence of glee, And in the excess of amity. Says Benjamin, "That Ass of thine, [ 301 ] THE WAGGONER He spoils thy sport, and hinders mine: If he were tethered to the waggon, He 'd drag as well what he is dragging, And we, as brother should with brother, Might trudge it alongside each other!" Forthwith, obedient to command, The horses made a quiet stand; And to the waggon's skirts was tied The Creature, by the Mastiff's side. The Mastiff wondering, and perplext With dread of what will happen next; And thinking it but sorry cheer. To have such company so near! This new arrangement made, the Wain Through the still night proceeds again; No Moon hath risen her light to lend; But indistinctly may be kenned The Vanguard, following close behind, Sails spread, as if to catch the wind! "Thy wife and child are snug and warm, Thy ship will travel without harm; I like," said Benjamin, "her shape and stature: And this of mine — this bulky creature Of which I have the steering — this. Seen fairly, is not much amiss ! We want your streamers, friend, you know; [ 302 ] THE WAGGONER But, altogether as we go, We make a kind of handsome show! Among these hills, from first to last, We 've weathered many a fm-ious blast; Hard passage forcing on, with head Against the storm, and canvas spread. I hate a boaster; but to thee Will say 't, who know'st both land and sea. The unluckiest hulk that stems the brine Is hardly worse beset than mine, When cross-winds on her quarter beat; And, fairly lifted from my feet, I stagger onward — heaven knows how; But not so pleasantly as now: Poor pilot I, by snows confounded. And many a foundrous pit surrounded! Yet here we are, by night and day Grinding through rough and smooth our way; Through foul and fair our task fulfilling; And long shall be so yet — God willing!" "Ay," said the Tar, "through fair and foul- But save us from yon screeching owl ! " That instant was begun a fray Which called their thoughts another way: The mastiff, ill-conditioned carl! What must he do but growl and snarl, [ 303 ] THE WAGGONER Still more and more dissatisfied With the meek comrade at his side! Till, not incensed though put to proof, The Ass, uplifting a hind hoof, Salutes the Mastiff on the head; And so were better manners bred. And all was calmed and quieted. "Yon screech-owl," says the Sailor, turn- ing Back to his former cause of mourning, "Yon owl! — pray God that all be well! 'T is worse than any funeral bell; As sure as I ' ve the gift of sight. We shall be meeting ghosts to-night!" — Said Benjamin, "This whip shall lay A thousand, if they cross our way. I know that Wanton's noisy station, I know him and his occupation; The jolly bird hath learned his cheer Upon the banks of Windermere; Where a tribe of them make merry. Mocking the Man that keeps the ferry; Hallooing from an open throat. Like travellers shouting for a boat. — The tricks he learned at Windermere This vagrant owl is playing here — [ 304 ] THE WAGGONER That is the worst of his employment: He's at the top of his enjoyment!" This explanation stilled the alarm, Cured the foreboder like a charm; This, and the manner, and the voice, Summoned the Sailor to rejoice; His heart is up — he fears no evil From life or death, from man or devil; He wheels — and, making many stops. Brandished his crutch against the mountain- tops; And, while he talked of blows and scars, Benjamin, among the stars. Beheld a dancing — and a glancing; Such retreating and advancing As, I ween, was never seen In bloodiest battle since the days of Mars ! [ 305 ] THE WAGGONER CANTO FOURTH Thus they, with freaks of proud delight, Beguile the remnant of the night; And many a snatch of jovial song Regales them as they wind along; While to the music, from on high. The echoes make a glad reply. — But the sage Muse the revel heeds No farther than her story n,eeds; Nor will she servilely attend The loitering journey to its end. — Blithe spirits of her own impel The Muse, who scents the morning air. To take of this transported pair A brief and unreproved farewell; To quit the slow-paced waggon's side, And wander down yon hawthorn dell, With murmuring Greta for her guide. — There doth she ken the awful form Of Raven-crag — black as a storm — Glimmering through the twilight pale; And Ghimmer-crag,^^ his tall twin brother, Each peering forth to meet the other : — And, while she roves through St. John's Vale, Along the smooth unpathwayed plain, [ 306 ] THE WAGGONER By sheep-track or through cottage lane, Where no disturbance comes to intrude Upon the pensive soHtude, Her unsuspecting eye, perchance, With the rude shepherd's favoured glance, Behold the faeries in array. Whose party-coloured garments gay The silent company betray: Red, green, and blue; a moment's sight! For Skiddaw-top with rosy light Is touched — and all the band take flight. — Fly also, Muse ! and from the dell Mount to the ridge of Nathdale Fell; Thence, look thou forth o'er wood and lawn Hoar with the frost-like dews of dawn; Across yon meadowy bottom look. Where close fogs hide their parent brook; And see, beyond that hamlet small, The ruined towers of Threlkeld-hall, Lurking in a double shade. By trees and lingering twilight made! There, at Blencathara's rugged feet, Sir Lancelot gave a safe retreat To noble Clifford; from annoy Concealed the persecuted boy, Well pleased in rustic garb to feed [ 307 ] THE WAGGONER His flock, and pipe on shepherd's reed Among this multitude of hills. Crags, woodlands, waterfalls, and rills; Which soon the morning shall enfold, From east to west, in ample vest Of massy gloom and radiance bold. The mists, that o'er the streamlet's bed Hung low, begin to rise and spread; Even while I speak, their skirts of grey Are smitten by a silver ray; And lo! — up Crastrigg's naked steep (Where, smoothly urged, the vapours sweep Along — and scatter and divide, Like fleecy clouds self-multiplied) The stately waggon is ascending. With faithful Benjamin attending, Apparent now beside his team — Now lost amid a glittering steam: And with him goes his Sailor-friend, By this time near their journey's end; And, after their high-minded riot, Sickening into thoughtful quiet; As if the morning's pleasant hour Had for their joys a killing power. And, sooth, for Benjamin a vein Is opened of still deeper pain [ 308 ] THE WAGGONER As if his heart by notes were stung From out the lowly hedge-rows flung; As if the Warbler lost in light Reproved his soarings of the night, In strains of rapture pure and holy Upbraided his distempered folly. Drooping is he, his step is dull; But the horses stretch and pull; With increasing vigour climb. Eager to repair lost time; Whether, by their own desert, Knowing what cause there is for shame, They are labouring to avert As much as may be of the blame. Which, they foresee, must soon alight Upon his head, whom, in despite Of all his failings, they love best; Whether for him they are distrest, Or, by length of fasting roused. Are impatient to be housed: Up against the hill they strain Tugging at the iron chain. Tugging all with might and main. Last and foremost, every horse To the utmost of his force ! And the smoke and respiration, [ 309 ] THE WAGGONER Rising like an exhalation, Blend with the mist — a moving shroud — To form an undissolving cloud; Which, with slant ray, the merry sun Takes delight to play upon. Never golden-haired Apollo, Pleased some favourite chief to follow Through accidents of peace or war, In a perilous moment threw Around the object of his care Veil of such celestial hue; Interposed so bright a screen — Him and his enemies between! Alas! what boots it? — who can hide, When the malicious Fates are bent On working out an ill intent? Can destiny be turned aside? No — sad progress of my story ! Benjamin, this outward glory Cannot shield thee from thy Master, Who from Keswick has pricked forth. Sour and surly as the north; And, in fear of some disaster, Comes to give what help he may. And to hear what thou canst say; If, as needs he must forebode, [ 310 ] THE WAGGONER Thou hast been loitering on the road ! His fears, his doubts, may now take flight — The wished-for object is in sight; Yet, trust the Muse, it rather hath Stirred him up to livelier wrath; Which he stifles, moody man! With all the patience that he can; To the end that, at your meeting, He may give thee decent greeting. There he is — resolved to stop, Till the waggon gains the top; But stop he cannot — must advance : Him Benjamin, with lucky glance, Espies — and instantly is ready, Self-collected, poised, and steady: And, to be the better seen. Issues from his radiant shroud, From his close-attending cloud, With careless air and open mien. Erect his port, and firm his going; So struts yon cock that now is crowing; And the morning light in grace Strikes upon his lifted face, Hurrying the pallid hue away That might his trespasses betray. But what can all avail to clear him, [ 311 ], THE WAGGONER Or what need of explanation. Parley or interrogation? For the Master sees, alas ! That unhappy Figure near him, Limping o'er the dewy grass. Where the road it fringes, sweet. Soft and cool to way-worn feet; And, O indignity ! an Ass, By his noble Mastiff's side. Tethered to the waggon's tail : And the ship, in all her pride, Following after in full sail ! Not to speak of babe and mother; Who, contented with each other, And snug as birds in leafy arbour. Find, within, a blessed harbour! With eager eyes the Master pries; Looks in and out, and through and through; Says nothing — till at last he spies A wound upon the Mastiff's head, A wound, where plainly might be read What feats an Ass's hoof can do! But drop the rest : — this aggravation, This complicated provocation, A hoard of grievances unsealed; All past forgiveness it repealed; [ 312 ] THE WAGGONER And thus, and through distempered blood On both sides, Benjamin the good, The patient, and the tender-hearted, Was from his team and waggon parted; When duty of that day was^o'er, Laid down his whip — and served no more. Nor could the waggon long survive. Which Benjamin had ceased to drive: It lingered on; — guide after guide Ambitiously the office tried; But each unmanageable hill Called for his patience and his skill; — And sure it is, that through this night. And what the morning brought to light, Two losses had we to sustain. We lost both Waggoner and Wain! Accept, O Friend, for praise or blame. The gift of this adventurous song; A record which I dared to frame. Though timid scruples checked me long; They checked me — and I left the theme Untouched — in spite of many a gleam Of fancy which thereon was shed, Like pleasant sunbeams shifting still Upon the side of a distant hill: [ 313 ] THE WAGGONER But Nature might not be gainsaid; For what I have and what I miss I sing of these; — it makes my bliss! Nor is it I who play the part, But a shy spirit in my heart, That comes and goes — will sometimes leap From hiding-places ten years deep; Or haunts me with familiar face, Returning, like a ghost unlaid, Until the debt I owe be paid. Forgive me, then; for I had been On friendly terms with this Machine: In him, while he was wont to trace Our roads, through many a long year's space, A living almanack had we; We had a speaking diary, Thatjn this uneventful place Gave to the days a mark and name By which we knew them when they came. — Yes, I, and all about me here. Through all the changes of the year. Had seen him through the mountains go. In pomp of mist or pomp of snow, Majestically huge and slow: Or, with a milder grace adorning The landscape of a summer's morning; [ 314 ] THE WAGGONER While Grasmere smoothed her liquid plain The moving image to detain; And mighty Fairfield, with a chime Of echoes, to his march kept time; When little other business stirred. And little other sound was heard; In that delicious hour of balm. Stillness, solitude,, and calm, While yet the valley is arrayed, On this side with a sober shade; On that is prodigally bright — Crag, lawn, and wood — with rosy light. — But most of all, thou Lordly Wain ! I wish to have thee here again. When windows flap and chimney roars, And all is dismal out of doors; And, sitting by my fire, I see Eight sorry carts, no less a train; Unworthy successors of thee. Come straggling through the wind and rain! And oft, as they pass slowly on, Beneath my windows, one by one, See, perched upon the naked height The summit of a cumbrous freight, A single traveller — and there Another; then perhaps a pair — I 315 ] THE WAGGONER The lame, the sickly, and the old; Men, women, heartless with the cold; And babes in wet and starveling plight; Which once, be weather as it might, Had still a nest within a nest, Thy shelter — and their mother's breast ! Then most of all, then far the most, Do I regret what we have lost; Am grieved for that unhappy sin Which robbed us of good Benjamin; And of his stately Charge, which none Could keep alive when He was gone ! FRENCH REVOLUTION AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS COMMENCEMENT REPRINTED FROM THE FRIEND ^^ 1805 1810 An extract from the long poem on my own poetical educa- tion. It was first published by Coleridge in his Friend, which is the reason of its having had a place in every edition of my poems since. 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 The attraction of a country in romance! When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights. When most inteiit on making of herself A prime Enchantress — to assist the work, Which then was going forward in her name! Not favoured spots alone, but the whole earth, The beauty wore of promise, that which sets (As at some moment might not be unfelt Among the bowers of paradise itself) [ 317 ] FRENCH REVOLUTION 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 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 within some lurking 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 world, which is the world Of all of us, — the place where in the end We find our happiness, or not at all! END OF VOLUME IV tf CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS U . S . A