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THE COMPLETE 
 
 POETICAL WORKS 
 
 OP 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH: 
 
 TOGETHER WITH 
 
 A DESCRIPTION OF THE 
 
 COUNTRY OF THE LAKES IN THE NORTH OF ENGLAND, 
 
 NOW FIRST PUBLISHED WITH HIS WORKS. 
 
 POETS DWELL ON EARTH 
 
 TO CLOTHE WHATE'eR THE SOUL ADMIRES AND LOVES 
 WITH LANGUAGE AND WITH NUMBERS. 
 
 Aienside. 
 
 THIS CONeORD OF A, WELL-THNED MIND 
 
 HATH BEEN SO SET BY THAT. ALL-WORKING HAND 
 
 OP HEAVEN, THAT THOUGH THE WORLD HATH DONE HIS WORST 
 
 TO PUT IT OUT BY DISCORDS MOST UNKIND ; 
 
 YET DOTH IT STILL IN PERFECT UNION STAND 
 
 WITH GOD AND MAN 5 NOR EVER WILL BE FORCED 
 
 FROM THAT MOST SWEET ACCORD ; BUT STILL AGREE, 
 
 EaUAL IN fortune's INEdUALITY. 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 HENRY REED, 
 
 PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE IN THE UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA : 
 
 JAMES KAY, JUN. AND BROTHER, 122 CHESTNUT STREET. 
 
 BOSTON: JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY. 
 
 PITTSBURGH: JOHN I. KAY & CO. 
 
 18 37. 
 
■^^ 
 
 Entered according to the act of congress, in the year 1837, by James Kay, Jun. & Brother, 
 in the clerk's office of the district court of the United States in and for the eastern district of 
 Pennsylvania. 
 
 3P-i^ 
 
 STEREOTYPED BY J. FAGAN PHILADELPHIA. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AMERICAN EDITOR. 
 
 This Volume is published with a view to present a complete and uniform Edition of the 
 Poetical Works of William Wordsworth. It contains the latest collected edition published by 
 him, and the additional volume, entitled " Yarrow Revisited and other Poems," published in 
 1835. — The text has been adopted with great care from the London edition. To the contents 
 of those volumes there have been added some lines published since the date of the last volume, 
 and the Description of the Scenery of the Lakes, written by Mr. Wordsworth some years since. 
 
 When the Publishers were about commencing the preparation of this volume, a difficulty in 
 regard to the arrangement of the poems presented itself, to which it is proper here to advert. — 
 The recent volume " Yarrow Revisited, &c." was prefaced by an advertisement in which Mr. 
 Wordsworth stated his intention to have been ' to reserve the contents of the volume to be 
 interspersed in some future edition of his miscellaneous Poems.' The request of friends, how- 
 ever, and a very delicate regard for the interests of the purchasers of his former works, 
 induced the publication of the separate volume, in which the poems are printed without refer- 
 ence to the classification, which distinguishes the general collection of his poems. — In pre- 
 paring a complete and uniform edition, it was at once obvious that great incongruity would 
 result from inserting after the former collection of Poems, as arranged by Mr. Wordsworth, 
 the contents of the volume since published in an order wholly different. Such a course would 
 have been in direct violation of the Poet's expressed intention, and would have betrayed an 
 ignorance or distrust in his principles of classification, or a timidity in applying them. It 
 would have been a method purely mechanical, and calculated to impair the effect of that 
 philosophical arrangement, which was designed ' as a commentary unostentatiously directing 
 the attention of those, who read with reflection, to the Poet's purposes.' — Intelligent readers, 
 familiar with the spirit of Wordsworth's poetry, would regret any violation of the harmony 
 of his method : they could not be content, for instance, with any other arrangement of the 
 miscellaneous Poems than that which the Poet has adopted, closing with the lofty Ode on the 
 Intimations of ImmortaHty. 
 
 In editing this volume, I have therefore ventured to adopt the only alternative which pre- 
 sented itself— to anticipate Mr. Wordsworth's unexecuted intention of interspersing the con- 
 tents of the volume entitled " Yarrow Revisited, &c." among the poems already arranged by 
 him. — I have been guided by an attentive study of the principles of classification stated in the 
 general Preface, and of the character of each poem to which they were to be applied. In 
 some instances special directions for arrangement had been given by the Poet himself; — these 
 have been carefully followed. In many instances the close similarity between groups of the 
 unarranged poems, and those which had been arranged, left little room for error. With 
 
PREFACE BY THE AMERICAN EDITOR. 
 
 respect to the detached pieces, it has been felt to be a delicate undertaking to decide under 
 which class each one of them should be appropriately arranged. This has been attempted 
 with an anxious sense of the care it required, though with an assurance that there was no 
 possibility of impairing the individual interest of any of the poems.— It may be added that no 
 one would feel more grieved at any injury done by a false arrangement than he who claims to 
 have brought to the task an affectionate solicitude for every verse in the volume. 
 
 A few notes have been introduced, consisting almost entirely of illustrative passages from the 
 writings of those with whom I am confident Mr. Wordsworth, from similarity of mind or 
 feeling, or from personal friendship, would most willingly find his name associated. That 
 these notes may in a moment be distinguished from the Poet's own, they have been included 
 in brackets and designated with the addition of the initial letters of the Editor's name. They 
 have been limited in number by an anxiety to avoid encumbering the text, which considera- 
 tion has also regulated the general arrangement of notes throughout the volume. 
 
 Pains have been taken to indicate typographically, in a manner more clear than in any 
 former edition, the general classification of the Poems. — The Prose writings have been 
 arranged, together with the Description of the Scenery of the Lakes, in an Appendix, for the 
 greater convenience of reference, and from a regard to their value. 
 
 To prevent any possibility of misapprehension, it may be proper to state that the second 
 motto on the title-page, has been introduced into this Edition. The motto quoted from Aken- 
 side was adopted by Mr. Wordsworth on the title-page of " Yarrow Revisited, &c.," from 
 which it has been here transferred. The sonnet by Hartley Coleridge has been introduced 
 as dedicatory lines to this Edition. 
 
 A Poet of the age of Queen Elizabeth, looking to the then unbroken shores of America, 
 found a new impulse for the English Muse, and foresaw a boundless scope for the English 
 tongue : 
 
 "And who (in time) knows whither we may vent 
 The treasure of our tongue ■! To what strange shores 
 This gain of our best glory shall be sent 
 T' enrich unknowing nations with our stores f 
 What worlds in th' yet unformed Occident, 
 May come refined with th' accents that are ours?" 
 
 ' Musophilus.'' 
 
 In preparing this Edition of the Poetical Works of Wordsworth for the press, it has been 
 
 a pleasing thought that in no instance could that anticipation — not quite a prophecy — of the 
 
 ' well-languaged Daniel,' have been better fulfilled, than in the publication of the writings of 
 
 one, who, though incomparably superior in genius, is closely kindred to him in right-minded 
 
 habits of reflection and in purity and gentleness of heart. 
 
 H. R. 
 
 Philadelphia, December, 1836. 
 
TO 
 
 WORD SWORTH. 
 
 THERE HAVE BEEN POETS THAT IN VERSE DISFLATi 
 
 THE ELEMENTAL FORMS OF HUMAN PASSIONS: 
 
 POETS HAVE BEEN, TO WHOM THE FICKLE FASHIONS 
 
 AND ALL THE WILFUL HUMOURS OF THE DAY 
 
 HAVE FURNISHED MATTER FOR A POLISHED LAY: 
 
 AND MANY ARE THE SMOOTH ELABORATE TRIBE 
 
 WHO, EMULOUS OF THEE, THE SHAPE DESCRIBE. 
 
 AND FAIN WOULD EVERY SHIFTING HUE POURTRAY 
 
 OF RESTLESS NATURE. BUT, THOU MIGHTY SEER! 
 
 'TIS THINE TO CELEBRATE THE THOUGHTS THAT MAKE 
 
 THE LIFE OF SOULS, THE TRUTHS FOR WHOSE SWEET SAKE 
 
 WE TO OURSELVES AND TO OUR GOD ARE DEAR. 
 
 OF NATURE'S INNER SHRINE THOU ART THE PRIEST, 
 
 WHERE MOST SHE WORKS WHEN WE PERCEIVE HER LEAST 
 
 HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 
 
TO 
 
 • SIR GEORGE ROWLAND BEAUMONT, 
 
 BART. 
 
 My dear Sir George, 
 Accept my thanks for the permission given me to dedicate these Poems to you. — In addition to a 
 lively pleasure derived from general considerations, I feel a particular satisfaction ; for by inscribing 
 them with your Name, I seem to myself in some degree to repay, by an appropriate honour, the 
 great obligation which I owe to one part of the Collection — as having been the means of first making 
 us personally known to each other. Upon much of the remainder, also, you have a peculiar claim, — 
 for several of the best pieces were composed under the shade of your own groves, upon the classic 
 ground of Coleorton ; where I was animated by the recollection of those illustrious Poets of your 
 Name and Family, who were born in that neighbourhood ; and, we may be assured, did not wander 
 with indifference by the dashing stream of Grace Dieu, and among the rocks that diversify the forest 
 of Charnwood. — Nor is there any one to whom such parts of this Collection as have been inspired 
 or coloured by the beautiful Country from which I now address you, could be presented with more 
 propriety than to yourself— who have composed so many admirable Pictures from the suggestions 
 of the same scenery. Early in life, the sublimity and beauty of this Region excited your admiration ; 
 and I know that you are bound to it in mind by a still-strengthening attachment. 
 
 Wishing and hoping that this Work may survive as a lasting memorial of a firiendship, which I j 
 reckon among the blessings of my Ufe, 
 
 I have the honour to be, 
 My dear Sir George, 
 
 Yours most affectionately 
 and faithfully, 
 
 WI LLI AM WORDSWORTH. 
 Rydal Motjnt, Westmokeiand, 
 February 1, 1815. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The observations prefixed to that portion of this 
 Volume which was published many years ago, 
 under the title of " Lyrical Ballads," have so little 
 of a special application to the greater part of the 
 present enlarged and diversified collection, that 
 they could not with propriety stand as an Intro- 
 duction to it. Not deeming it, however, expedient 
 to suppress that exposition, slight and imperfect 
 as it is, of the feelings which had determined the 
 choice of the subjects, and the principles which 
 had regulated the composition of those Pieces, I 
 have transferred it to an Appendix, to be attended 
 to, or not, at the pleasure of the Reader. 
 
 In the Preface to that part of " The Recluse," 
 lately published under the title of " The Excur- 
 sion," I have alluded to a meditated arrangement 
 of my minor Poems, which should assist the at- 
 tentive Reader in perceiving their connexion with 
 each other, and also their subordination to that 
 Work. I shall here say a few words explanatory 
 of this arrangement, as carried into effect. 
 
 The powers requisite for the production of 
 poetry are, first, those of observation and descrip- 
 tion, i. e. the ability to observe with accuracy 
 things as they are in themselves, and with fidelity 
 to describe them, unmodified by any passion or 
 feeling existing in the mind of the Describer : 
 whether the things depicted be actually present to 
 the senses, or have a place only in the memoiy. 
 This power, though indispensable to a Poet, is one 
 which he employs only in submission to necessity, 
 and never for a continuance of time : as its exer- 
 cise supposes all the higher qualities of the mind 
 to be passive, and in a state of subjection to exter- 
 nal objects, much in the same way as the Trans- 
 lator or Engraver ought to be to his Original. 
 2dly, Sensibility, — which, the more exquisite it is, 
 the wider will be the range of a Poet's perceptions ; 
 and the more will he be incited to observe objects, 
 both as they exist in themselves and as re-acti'd 
 upon by his own mind. (The distinction be' '•.u 
 poetic and human sensibility has been w .•::■ < 
 the character of the Poet delineated in the oj-igiuui 
 preface, before-mentioned.) 3dly. Reflection, — 
 which makes the Poet acquainte' . ■ ' '"r 
 
 B 
 
 of actions, images, thoughts, and feelings ; and 
 assists the sensibihty in perceiving their con- 
 nexion with each other. 4thly, Imagination and 
 Fancy, — to modify, to create, and to associate. 
 Sthly, Invention, — by which characters are com- 
 posed out of materials supplied by observation ; 
 whether of the Poet's own heart and mind, or of 
 external life and nature ; and such incidents and 
 situations produced as are most impressive to the 
 imagination, and most fitted to do justice to the 
 characters, sentiments, and passions, which the 
 Poet undertakes to illustrate. And, lastly. Judg- 
 ment, — to decide how and whei'e, and in what de- 
 gree, each of these faculties ought to be exerted ; 
 so that the less shall not be sacrificed to the 
 greater ; nor the greater, slighting the less, arro- 
 gate, to its own injury, more than its due. By 
 judgment, also, is determined what are the laws 
 and appropriate graces of every species of com- 
 position. 
 
 The materials of Poetry, by these powers col- 
 lected and produced, are cast, by means of various 
 moulds, into divers forms. The moulds may be 
 enumerated, and the forms specified, in the fol- 
 lowing order. 1st, the Narrative, — including the 
 Epopoeia, the Historic Poem, the Tale, the Ro- 
 mance, the Mock-heroic, and, if the spirit of Ho- 
 mer will tolerate such neighbourhood, that dear 
 production of our days, the metrical Novel. Of 
 this Class, the distinguishing mark is, that the 
 Narrator, however liberally his speaking agents 
 be introduced, is himself the source from which 
 everything primarily flows. Epic Poets, in order 
 that their mode of composition may accord with 
 the elevation of their subject, represent themselves 
 as singing from the inspiration of the Muse, " Ar- 
 ma virumque cano ;" but this is a fiction, in mo- 
 dern times, of slight value : the Iliad or the Para- 
 dise Lost would gain little in our estimation by 
 Otii.iBC chanted. The other poets who belong to 
 'hi:. - JH^s are commonly content to tell their tale; 
 .<. of the whole it may be affirmed that 
 icither require nor reject the accompaniment 
 
 music. 
 
 2dly, The Dramatic, — consisting of Tragedy, 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 : liistoi'ic Drama, Comedy, and Masque, in which 
 ! the poet does not appear at all in his own person, 
 ' and where the whole action is carried on by 
 speech and dialogue of the agents ; music being 
 admitted only incidentally and rarely. The 
 Opera may be placed here, inasmuch as it pro- 
 ceeds by dialogue ; though depending, to the de- 
 gree that it does, upon music, it has a strong claim 
 to be ranked with the Lyrical. The characteristic 
 and impassioned Epistle, of which Ovid and Pope 
 have given examples, considered as a species of 
 monodrama, may, without impropriety, be placed 
 in this class. 
 
 3dly, The Lyrical, — containing the Hymn, the 
 Ode, the Elegy, the Song, and the Ballad ; in all 
 which, for the production of their full effect, an 
 accompaniment of music is indispensable. 
 
 4thly, The Idyllium, — descriptive chiefly either 
 of the processes and appearances of external na- 
 ture, as the Seasons of Thomson; or of charac- 
 ters, manr^rs, and sentiments, as are Shenstone's 
 Schoolmistress, The Cotter's Saturday Night of 
 Burns, The Twa Dogs of the same Author ; or 
 of these in conjunction with the appearances of 
 Nature, as most of the pieces of Theocritus, the 
 Allegro and Penseroso of Milton, Beattie's Min- 
 strel, Goldsmith's Deserted Village. The Epi- 
 taph, the Inscription, the Sonnet, most of the epis- 
 tles of poets writing in their own persons, and all 
 loco-descriptive poetry, belong to this class. 
 
 5thly, Didactic, — the principal object of which 
 is direct instruction ; as the Poem of Lucretius, 
 '.he Georgics of Virgil, The Fleece of Dyer, Ma- 
 son's " English Garden," &c. 
 
 And, lastly, philosophical satire, like that of 
 Horace and Juvenal ; personal and occasional Sa- 
 :ire rarely comprehending sufficient of the general 
 n the individual to be dignified with the name of 
 poetry. 
 
 Out of the three last has been constructed a 
 composite order, of which Young's Night Thoughts, 
 and Cowpcr's Task, are excellent examples. 
 
 It is deducible from the above, that poems, ap- 
 parently miscellaneous, may with propriety be 
 arranged either with reference to the powers of 
 mind predominant in the production of them ; or 
 to the mould in which they are cast ; or, lastly, 
 to the subjects to which they relate. From each 
 af these considerations, the following Poems have 
 been divided into classes ; which, that the work 
 may more obviously correspond with the course 
 of human life, and for the sake of exhibiting in it 
 the three requisites of a legitimate whole, a begin- 
 ning, a middle, and an end, have been also a^ 
 
 ranged, as far as it was possible, according to an 
 order of time, commencing with Childhood, and 
 terminating with Old Age, Death, and Immortality. 
 My guiding wish was, that the small pieces in this 
 volume, thus discriminated, might be regarded 
 under a two-fold view ; as composing an entire 
 work within themselves, and as adjuncts to the 
 philosophical Poem, " The Recluse." This ar- 
 rangement has long presented itself habitually to 
 my own mind. Nevertheless, I should have pre- 
 ferred to scatter them at random, if I had been 
 persuaded that, by the plan adopted, any thing 
 material would be taken from the natural effect of 
 the pieces, individually, on the mind of the unre- 
 flecting Reader. I trust there is a sufficient va- 
 riety in each class to prevent this ; while, for him 
 who reads with reflection, the arrangement will 
 serve as a commentary unostentatiously directing 
 his attention to my purposes, both particular and 
 general. But, as I wish to guard against the pos- 
 sibility of misleading by this classification, it is 
 proper first to remind the Reader, that certain 
 poems are placed according to the powers of mind, 
 in the Author's conception, predominant in the 
 production of them ; predominant, which implies 
 the e.xcrtion of other faculties in less degree. 
 Where there is more imagination than fancy in a 
 poem, it is placed under the head of imagination, 
 and vice versa. Both the above classes might 
 without impropriety have been enlarged from that 
 consisting of " Poems founded on the Affections ;" 
 as might this latter from those, and from the class 
 " proceeding from Sentiment and Reflection." 
 The most striking characteristics of each piece, 
 mutual illustration, variety, and proportion, have 
 governed me throughout. 
 
 It may be proper in this place to state, that the 
 Extracts in the Second Class, entitled " Juvenile 
 Pieces," are in many places altered from the 
 printed copy, chiefly by omission and compression. 
 The slight alterations of another kind were for the 
 most part made not long after the publication of 
 the Poems from which the Extracts are taken.* 
 These Extracts seem to have a title to be placed 
 here, as they were the productions of youth, and 
 represent implicitly some of the features of a 
 youthful mind, at a time when images of nature 
 supplied to it the place of thought, sentiment, and 
 almost of action ; or as it will be found expressed, 
 of a state of mind when 
 
 -" the sounding cataract 
 
 Haunted mc lilie a passion : Die tall rock, 
 The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood. 
 
 * These Poems are now printed entire. 
 
 .u 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Their colours and their forms were Ihen to me 
 An appetite, a feeling, and a love. 
 That had no need of a remoter charm, 
 By thought supplied, or any interest 
 Unborrowed from the eye." — 
 
 I will own that I was much at a loss what to se- 
 lect of these descriptions ; and perhaps it would 
 have been better either to have reprinted the whole, 
 or suppressed what I have given. 
 
 None of the other Classes, e.xcept those of 
 Fancy and Imagination, require any particular 
 notice. But a remark of general application may 
 be made. All Poets, except the dramatic, have 
 been in the practice of feigning that their worlts 
 were composed to the music of the harp or lyre : 
 with what degree of affectation this has been done 
 in modern times, I leave to the judicious to deter- 
 mine. For my own part, I have not been dis- 
 posed to violate probability so far, or to make 
 such a large demand upon the Reader's charity. 
 Some of these pieces are essentially lyrical ; and, 
 therefore, cannot have their due force without a 
 supposed musical accompaniment ; but, in much 
 the greatest part, as a substitute for the classic 
 lyre or romantic harp, I require nothing more 
 than an animated or impassioned recitation, 
 adapted to the subject. Poems, however humble 
 in their kind, if they be good in that kind, cannot 
 read themselves : the law of long syllable and 
 short must not be so inflexible, — the letter of metre 
 must not be so impassive to the spirit of versifi- 
 cation, — as to deprive the Reader of a voluntary 
 power to modulate, in subordination to the sense, 
 the music of the poem ; — in the same manner as 
 his mind is left at liberty, and even summoned, to 
 act upon its thoughts and images. But, though 
 the accompaniment of a musical instrument be 
 frequently dispensed with, the true Poet does not 
 therefore abandon his privilege distinct from that 
 of the mere Proseman ; 
 
 " He murmurs near the running brooks 
 A music sweeter than their own." 
 
 I come now to the consideration of the words 
 Fancy and Imagination, as employed in the classi- 
 fication of the following Poems. " A man," says 
 an intelligent author, " has imagination in propor- 
 tion as he can distinctly copy in idea the impres- 
 sions of sense : it is the facultj' which Images 
 within the mind the phenomena of sensation. A 
 man has fancy in proportion as he can call up, 
 connect, or associate, at pleasure, those internal 
 images (^ai'-^aftw is to cause to appear) so as to 
 complete ideal representations of absent objects. 
 Imagination is the pov/er of depicting, and fancy 
 
 of evoking and combining. The imagination is 
 formed by patient observation ; the fancy by a 
 voluntary activity in shifting the scenery of the 
 mind. The more accurate the imagination, the 
 more safely may a paititer, or a poet, undertake a 
 delineation, or a description, without the presence 
 of the objects to be characterised. The more ver- 
 satile the fancy, the more original and striking 
 will be the decorations produced." — British Sy- 
 nonyms discriminated, by W. Taylor. 
 
 Is not this as if a man should undertake to sup- 
 ply an account of a building, and be so intent upon 
 what he had discovered of the foundation, as to 
 conclude his task without once looking up at the 
 superstructure? Here, as in other instances 
 throughout the volume, the judicious Author's 
 mind is enthralled by Etymology ; he takes up the 
 original word as his guide and escort, and too 
 often does not perceive how soon he becomes its 
 prisoner, without liberty to tread in any path but 
 that to which it confines him. It is not easy to 
 find out how imagination, thus explained, differs 
 from distinct remembi"ance of images ; or fancy 
 from quick and vivid recollection of them : each 
 is nothing more than a mode of memory. 1^ the 
 two words bear the above meaning, and no other, 
 what term is left to designate that Faculty of which 
 the Poet is " all compact ;" he whose eye glances 
 from earth to heaven, whose spiritual attributes 
 body forth what his pen is prompt in turning to 
 shape ; or what is left to characterise Fancy, as 
 insinuating herself into the heart of objects with 
 
 creative activity 1 Imagination, in the sense 
 
 of the word as givina; title to a Class of the fol- 
 lowing Poems, has no reference to images that are 
 merely a faithful copy, existing in the mind, of 
 absent external objects ; but is a word of higher 
 import, denoting operations of the mind upon 
 those objects, and processes of creation or of com- 
 position, governed by certain fixed laws. I pro- 
 ceed to illustrate my meaning by instances. A 
 parrot Jiangs from the wires of his cage by his 
 beak or by his claws ; or a monkey from the 
 bough of a tree by his paws or his tail. Each 
 creature does so literally and actually. In the 
 first Eclogue of Virgil, the Shepherd, thinking of 
 the time when he is to take leave of his Farm, 
 thus addresses his Goats : — 
 
 "Non ego vos posthac viridi projcctus in antro 
 DumosSi pendere procul de rupc videbo." 
 
 " Half way down 
 
 Hangs one who gathers sampliire," 
 
 is the well-known expression of Shakspeare, de- 
 lineating an ordinary image upon the Cliffs of 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Dover. In these two instances is a slight exer- 
 tion of the faculty wliich I denominate Imagina- 
 tion, in the use of one word : neither the goats 
 nor the samphire-gatherer do literally hang, as 
 does the parrot or the monkey ; but, presenting to 
 the senses something of such an appearance, the 
 mind in Us activity, for its own gratiiication, con- 
 templates them as hanging. 
 
 " As wlicn far off at Sea a Fleet descried 
 Hanss in the clouds, by cquinoctijl winds 
 Close sailing from Bongala, or the Isles 
 Oi' 'rcrnitc or Tiflore, wlicnce Merchants bring 
 Their spicy drugs ; they on the trading flood 
 Through the wide Ethiopian to the Cape 
 Ply, stemming nightly toward the Pole : so seemed 
 Far off the flying Fiend." 
 
 Here is the full strength of the imagination in- 
 volved in the word hangs, and exerted upon the 
 
 in which it is entombed, and conveys it to the ear 
 of the listener. 
 
 " Shall I call thee Bird, 
 Or but a wandering Voice ?" 
 
 This concise interrogation characterises the 
 seeming ubiquity of the voice of the Cuckoo, and 
 dispossesses the creature almost of a corporeal 
 existence ; the Imagination being tempted to this 
 exertion of her power by a consciousness in the 
 memory that the Cuckoo is almost perpetually 
 heard throughout the season of Spring, but seldom 
 becomes an object of sight. 
 
 Thus far of images independent of each other, 
 and immediately endowed by the mind with pro- 
 perties that do not inhere in them, upon an incite- 
 ment from properties and qualities the existence 
 of which is inherent and obvious. These pro- 
 
 whole image : First, the Fleet, an aggregate of ' cesses of imagination are carried on either by con- 
 many Ships, is represented as one mighty Person, I ferring additional properties upon an object, or 
 whose track, we know and feel, is upon the wa- abstracting from it some of those which it actually 
 
 ters : but, taking advantage of its appearance to 
 the senses, the Poet dares to represent it as hang- 
 ing in the clovds, both for the gratification of the 
 mind in contemplating the image itself, and in 
 reference to the motion and appearance of the 
 sublime objects to which it is compared. 
 
 From images of sight we will pass to those of 
 sound : 
 
 " Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods ;" 
 
 of the same bird, 
 
 " His voice was Itiricd among trees, 
 Yet to be come at by the breeze ;" 
 
 " O, Cuckoo! shall I call thee Eird, 
 Or but a wandering I'oi'cc?" 
 
 The Stock-dove is said to coo, a sound well 
 imitating the note of the bird ; but, by the inter- 
 vention of the metaphor broods, the affections are 
 called in by the imagination to assist in marking 
 the manner in which the Bird reiterates and pro- 
 longs her soft note, as if herself delighting to 
 listen to it, and participating of a still and quiet 
 satisfaction, like that which may be supposed inse- 
 parable from the continuous process of incubation. 
 " His voice was buried among trees," a metaphor 
 expressing the love of stxliision by which this 
 Bird is marked ; and characterising its note as not 
 partaking of the shrill and the piercing, and there- 
 fore more easily deadened by the intervening 
 shade ; yet a note so peculiar and withal so pleas- 
 
 possesses, and thus enabling it to re-act U])on the 
 mind wliich hatli performed the process, like a 
 new existence. 
 
 I pass from the Imagination acting upon an 
 individual image to a consideration of the same 
 faculty employed upon images in a conjunction 
 by which they modify each other. The Reader 
 has already had a fine instance before him in the 
 passage quoted from Virgil, where thc^ apparently 
 perilous situation of the Goat, hanging upon the 
 shaggy precipice, is contrasted with that of the 
 Shepherd, contemplating it from the seclusion of 
 the Cavern in which he lies stretched at ease and 
 in security. Take these images separately, and 
 how unallecting the picture compared with that 
 produced by their being thus connected with, and 
 opposed to, each other ! 
 
 " 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, which on a shelf 
 Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun himself. 
 
 Such seemed this Man ; not all alive or dead, 
 Nor all asleep, in his extreme old age. 
 Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood, 
 That hearcth not the loud winds when they call, 
 And movetli altogether if it move at all." 
 
 In these images, the conferring, the abstracting, 
 and the modifying powers of the Imagination, im- 
 mediately and mediateh' acting, are all brought 
 
 ing, that the breeze, gifted with that love of the j into conjunction. The Stone is endowed with 
 sound which the Poet feels, penetrates the shade | something of the power of life to approximate it 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 to the Sea-beast; and the Sea-beast stripped of 
 some of its vital qualities to assimilate it to the 
 stone ; which intermediate image is thus treated 
 for the purpose of bringing the original image, 
 that of the stone, to a nearer resemblance to the 
 figure and condition of the aged Man ; who is di- 
 vested of so much of the indications of life and 
 motion as to bring him to the point where the two 
 objects unite and coalesce in just comparison. 
 After what has been said, the image of the Cloud 
 need not be commented upon. 
 
 Thus far of an endowing or modifying power : 
 but the Imagination also shapes and creates ; and 
 how 1 By innumerable processes ; and in none 
 does it more delight than in that of consolidating 
 numbers into unity, and dissolving and separating 
 unity into number, — alternations proceeding from, 
 and governed by, a sublime consciousness of the 
 soul in her own mighty and almost divine powers. 
 Recur to the passage already cited from Milton. 
 When the compact Fleet, as one Person, has been 
 introduced " Sailing from Bengala," " They," i. e. 
 the " Merchants," representing the Fleet, resolved 
 into a Multitude of Ships, " ply" their voyage 
 towards the extremities of the earth : " So" (re- 
 ferring to the word " As" in the commencement) 
 " seemed the flying Fiend ;" the image of his Per- 
 son acting to recombine the multitude of Ships 
 into one body, — the point from which the compa- 
 rison set out. " So seemed," and to whom seemed ? 
 To the heavenly Muse who dictates the poem, to 
 the eye of the Poet's mind, and to that of the 
 Reader, present at one moment in the wide Ethio- 
 pian, and the next in the solitudes, then first 
 broken in upon, of the infernal regions ! 
 
 " Modo me Thebis, modo ponit Athenis." 
 
 Hear again this mighty Poet, — speaking of the 
 Messiah going forth to expel from Heaven the 
 rebellious Angels, 
 
 " Attended by ten thousand thousand Saints 
 He onward came : far off his coming shone," — 
 
 the retinue of Saints, and the Person of the Mes- 
 siah himself, lost almost and merged in the splen- 
 dour of that indefinite abstraction, " His com- 
 ing!" 
 
 As I do not mean here to treat this subject fur- 
 ther than to throw some light upon the present 
 Poems, and especially upon one division of them, 
 I shall spare myself and the Reader the trouble 
 of considering the Imagination as it deals with 
 thoughts and sentiments, as it regulates the com- 
 position of characters, and determines the course 
 of actions : I will not consider it (more than I 
 
 have already done by implication) as that power 
 which, in the language of one of my most es- 
 teemed Friends, " draws all things to one ; which 
 makes things animate or inanimate, beings with 
 their attributes, subjects with their accessaries, 
 take one colour and serve to one effect." * The 
 grand store-houses of enthusiastic and meditative 
 Imagination, of poetical, as contradistinguished 
 from human and dramatic Imagination, are the 
 prophetic and lyrical parts of the Holy Scriptures, 
 and the works of Milton, to which I cannot for- 
 bear to add those of Spenser. I select these 
 writers in preference to those of ancient Greece 
 and Rome, because the anthropomorphitism of the 
 Pagan religion subjected the minds of the greatest 
 poets in those countries too much to the bondage 
 of definite form ; from which the Hebrews were 
 preserved by their abhorrence of idolatry. This 
 abhorrence was almost as strong in our great epic 
 Poet, both from circumstances of his life, and from 
 the constitution of his mind. However imbued 
 the surface might be with classical literature, he 
 was a Hebrew in soul ; and all things tended in 
 him towards the sublime. Spenser, of a gentler 
 nature, maintained his freedom by aid of his alle- 
 gorical spirit, at one time inciting him to create 
 persons out of abstractions ; and, at another, by 
 a superior effort of genius, to give the universality 
 and permanence of abstractions to his human be- 
 ings, by means of attributes and emblems that 
 belong to the highest moral truths and the purest 
 sensations, — of which his character of Una is a 
 glorious example. Of the human and dramatic 
 Imagination the works of Shakspeare are an inex- 
 haustible source. 
 
 " I tax not you, ye Elements, with unkindness, 
 I never gave you Kingdoms, called you Daughters !" 
 
 And if, bearing in mind the many Poets distin- 
 guished by this prime quality, whose names I 
 omit to mention ; yet justified by a recollection 
 of the insults which the Ignorant, the Incapable 
 and the Presumptuous, have heaped upon these 
 and my other writings, I may be permitted to an- 
 ticipate the judgment of posterity upon myself; 
 I shall declare (censurable, I grant, if the noto- 
 riety of the fact above stated does not justify me) 
 that I have given, in these unfavourable times, 
 evidence of exertions of this faculty upon its 
 worthiest objects, the external universe, the moral 
 and religious sentiments of Man, his natural af- 
 fections, and his acquired passions ; which have 
 the same ennobling tendency as the productions 
 
 * Charles Lamb upon the genius of Hogarth. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 of men, in this kind, worthy to be holden in un- 
 dying remembrance. 
 
 This subject may be dismissed with observing 
 — that, in the series of Poems placed under the 
 head of Imagination, I have begun with one of the 
 earliest processes of Nature in the developement 
 of this faculty. Guided by one of my own pri- 
 mary consciousnesses, I have represented a com- 
 mutation and transfer of internal fee'.ings, co- 
 operating with external accidents, to plant, for 
 immortality, images of sound and sight, in the ce- 
 lestial soil of the Imagination. The Boy, there 
 introduced, is listening, with something of a fever- 
 ish and restless anxiety, for the recurrence of the 
 riotous sounds which he had previously excited ; 
 and, at the moment when the intensencss of his 
 mind is beginning to remit, he is surprised into a 
 perception of the solemn and tranquillizing images 
 which the Poem describes. — The Poems next in 
 succession exhibit the faculty exerting itself upon 
 various objects of the external universe ; then fol- 
 low others, where it is employed upon feelings, 
 characters, and actions*; and the Class is con- 
 cluded with imaginative pictures of moral, politi- 
 cal, and religious sentiments. 
 
 To the mode in which Fancy has already been 
 charactei'ised as the Power of evoking and com- 
 bining, or, as my friend Mr. Coleridge has styled 
 it, " the aggregative and associative Power," my 
 objection is only that the definition is too general. 
 To ajrgreHate and to associate, to evoke and to 
 combine, belong as well to the Imagination as to 
 the Fancy : but either the materials evoked and 
 combined are different ; or they are brought toge- 
 ther under a different law, and for a different pur- 
 pose. Fancy does not require that the materials 
 which she makes use of should be susceptible of 
 change in their constitution, from her touch ; and, 
 where they admit of modification, it is enough for 
 her purpose if it be slight, limited, and evanescent. 
 Directly the reverse of these, are the desires and 
 demands of the Imagination. She recoils from 
 every thing but the plastic, the pliant, and the in- 
 definite. She loaves it to Fancy to describe Queen 
 Blab as coming, 
 
 " In shape no bigger than an agate-stone 
 On the forc-finger of an Alderman." 
 
 Having to speak of stature, she does not tell you 
 that her gigantic Angel was as tall as Pompej^'s 
 Pillar ; much less that he was twelve cubits, or 
 twelve hundred cubits high ; or that his dimen- 
 
 * In the present edition, sucli of these as were furnished 
 by Scottish subjects are incorporated witli a c]at;s entitled, 
 Jlcmorials of Tours in Scotland. 
 
 sions equalled those of Teneriffe or Atlas ; — be- 
 cause these, and if they were a million times as 
 high, it would be the same, are bounded : The ex- 
 pression is, " His statui'e reached the sky !" the 
 illimitable firmament ! — When the Imagination 
 frames a comparison, if it does not strike on the 
 first presentation, a sense of the truth of the like- 
 ness, from the moment that it is perceived, grows 
 — and continues to grow — upon the mind ; the 
 resemblance depending less upon outline of form 
 and feature, than upon expression and effect ; less 
 upon casual and outstanding, than upon inherent 
 and internal, properties : — moreover, the images 
 invariably modify each other. — The law under 
 which the processes of Fancy are carried on is as 
 capricious as the accidents of things ; and the ef- 
 fects are surprising, playful, ludicrous, amusing, 
 tender, or pathetic, as the objects happen to be 
 appositely produced or fortunately combined. 
 Fancy depends upon the rapidity and profusion 
 with which she scatters her thoughts and images ; 
 trusting that their number, and the felicity with 
 which they are linked together, will make amends 
 for the want of individual value : or she prides 
 herself upon the curious subtilty and the success- 
 ful elaboration with which she can detect their 
 lurking affinities. If she can win you over to her 
 purpose, and impart to you her feelings, she cares 
 not how unstable or transitory may be her influ- 
 ence, knowing that it will not be out of her power 
 to resume it upon an apt occasion. But the Ima- 
 gination is conscious of an indestructible domi- 
 nion ; — the Soul may fall away from it, not being 
 able to sustain its grandeur ; but, if once felt and 
 acknowledged, by no act of any other faculty of 
 the mind can it be relaxed, impaired, or dimin- 
 ished. — Fancy is given to quicken and to beguile 
 the temporal part of our Nature, Imagination to 
 incite and to support the eternal. — Yet is it not the 
 less true that Fancy, as she is an active, is also, 
 under her own laws and in her own spirit, a cre- 
 ative faculty. In what manner Fancy ambitiously 
 aims at a rivalship with the Imagination, and Ima- 
 gination stoops to work with the materials of 
 Fancy, might be illustrated from the compositions 
 of all eloquent writers, whether in prose or verse ; 
 and chiefly from those of our own Country. 
 Scarcely a page of the impassioned parts of Bishop 
 Taylor's Works can be opened that shall not af- 
 ford examples. — Referring the Reader to those 
 inestimable Volumes, I will content myself with 
 placing a conceit (ascribed to Lord Chesterfield) in 
 contrast with a passage from the Paradise Lost : — 
 "The dews of tlie evening most carefully shun, 
 Tiiey are the tears of tlie sky for tlic loss of the Sun.'* 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 XV 
 
 After the transgression of Adam, Milton, with 
 other appearances of sympathising Nature, thus 
 marlis the immediate consequence, 
 
 " Sky lowered, and muttering thunder, some sad drops 
 Wept at completion of the mortal sin." 
 
 The associating link is the same in each instance ; 
 — dew or rain, not distinguishable from the liquid 
 substance of tears, are employed as indications of 
 sorrow. A flash of surprise is the effect in the 
 former case ; a flash of surprise, and nothing 
 more ; for the nature of things does not sustain 
 the combination. In the latter, the effects of the 
 act, of which there is this immediate consequence 
 and visible sign, are so momentous, that the mind 
 acknowledges the justice and reasonableness of 
 the sympathy in Nature so manifested ; and the 
 sky weeps drops of water as if with human eyes, 
 as " Earth had before, trembled from her entrails, 
 and Nature given a second groan." 
 
 Awe-stricken as- I am by contemplating the 
 operations of the mind of this truly divine Poet, I 
 scarcely dare venture to add that " An Address 
 to an Infant," which the reader will find under the 
 Class of Fancy in the present Volume, exhibits 
 something of this communion and interchange of 
 instruments and functions between the two pow- 
 ers ; and is, accordingly, placed last in the class, 
 as a preparation for that of Imagination which 
 follows. 
 
 Finally, I will refer to Cotton's " Dde upon 
 Winter," an admirable composition, though stained 
 with some peculiarities of the age in which he 
 lived, for a general illustration of the characteris- 
 tics of Fancy. The middle part of this ode con- 
 tains a most lively description of the entrance of 
 Winter, with his retinue, as " A palsied King," 
 and yet a military Monarch, — advancing for con- 
 quest with his Army ; the several bodies of which, 
 and their arms and equipments, are described with 
 a rapidity of detail, and a profusion oi fanciful 
 comparisons, which indicate on the part of the 
 Poet extreme activity of intellect, and a corre- 
 spondent hurry of delightful feeling. Winter re- 
 tires from the Foe into his fortress, where 
 
 " a magazme 
 
 Of sovereign juice is cellared in ; 
 Liquor that will the siege maintain 
 Should Phoebus ne'er return again." 
 
 Though myself a water-drinker, I cannot resist 
 the pleasure of transcribing what follows, as an 
 instance still more happy of Fancy employed in 
 the treatment of feeling than, in its preceding 
 
 passages, the Poem supplies of her management 
 of forms. 
 
 " 'Tis that, that gives the Poet rage, 
 And thaws the gelly'd blood of Age ; 
 Matures the Young, restores tile Old, 
 And makes the fainting Coward bold. 
 
 It lays the careful head to rest, 
 Calms palpitations in the breast, 
 Renders our lives' misfortune sweet ; 
 
 ******* 
 
 Then let the chill Sirocco blow. 
 And gird us round with hills of snow. 
 Or else go whistle to the shore. 
 And make the hollow mountains roar, 
 
 Whilst we together jovial sit 
 Careless, and crowned with mirth and wit, 
 Where, though bleak winds confine us home, 
 Our fancies round the world shall roam. 
 
 We '11 think of all the Friends we know, 
 And drink to all worth drinking to ; 
 When having drunk all thine and mine, 
 We rather shall want healths than wine. 
 
 But where Friends fail us, we 'II supply 
 Our friendships with our charity ; 
 Men that remote in sorrovvs live, 
 Shall by our lusty Brimmers thrive. 
 
 We'll drink the wanting into Wealth, 
 And those that languish into health ; 
 The Afflicted into joy ; th' Opprest 
 Into security and rest. 
 
 The Worthy in disgrace shall find 
 Favour return again more kind. 
 And in restraint who stifled lie, 
 Shall taste the air of liberty. 
 
 The Brave shall triumph in success, 
 The Lovers shall have Mistresses, 
 Poor unregarded Virtue, praise. 
 And the neglected Poet, Bays. 
 
 Thus shall our healths do others good, 
 Whilst we ourselves do all we would ; 
 For, freed from envy and from care. 
 What would we be but what we are ?" 
 
 It remains that I should express my regret at 
 the necessity of separating my compositions from 
 some beautiful Poems of Mr. Coleridge, with 
 which they have been long associated in publica- 
 tion. The feelings with which that joint publica- 
 tion was made, have been gratified ; its end is an- 
 swered ; and the time is come when considerations 
 of general propriety dictate the separation. Four 
 short pieces are the work of a Female Friend ; 
 and the Reader, to whom they may be acceptable, 
 is indebted to me for his pleasure ; if any one 
 regard them with dislike, or be disposed to con- 
 
XVI 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 demn them, let the censure fall upon him who, I sive ; but as all that I deem necessary is expressed, 
 
 trusting in his own sense of their merit and their 
 fitness for the place which they occupy, extorted 
 them from the Authoress. 
 
 When I sate down to write this preface, it was 
 my intenUon to have made it more comprehen- 
 
 I will here detain the reader no longer : — what I 
 have further to remark shall be introduced in a 
 Supplementary Essay.* 
 
 * See appendix I. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OP 
 CHILDHOOD : 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold Page 97 
 
 To a Butterfly , 27 
 
 Foresight, or the Charge of a Child to his younger 
 
 Companion 27 
 
 Characteristics of a Child three years old 27 
 
 Address to a Child, during a boisterous Winter 
 
 Evening 28 
 
 The Mother's Return. 98 
 
 , Loving and Liking 29 
 
 H-- Lucy Gray, or Solitude 29 
 
 ^ We are Seven 30 
 
 Anecdote for Fathers, showing how the Practice of 
 
 Lying may be taught 31 
 
 Rural Architecture 31 
 
 The Pet Lamb 32 
 
 *■ — The Idle Shepherd-Boys ; or Dungeon-Ghyll Force 33 
 
 To H. C. six years old 34 
 
 Influence of Natural Objects 34 
 
 The Longest Day 35 
 
 Notes to Poems Referring to the Period of Child- 
 hood 36 
 
 JUVENILE PIECES: 
 
 Extract from the Conclusion of a Poem composed 
 upon leaving School 41 
 
 An Evening Walk, addressed to a Young Lady. . 41 
 
 Descriptive Sketches, taken during a Pedestrian 
 Tour among the Alps 45 
 
 The Female Vagrant 52 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS : 
 
 The Brothers 59 
 
 Artegal and Elidore 63 
 
 The Sparrow's Nest 66 
 
 To a Butterfly 66 
 
 A Farewell 66 
 
 Stanzas written in my Pocket-copy of Thomson's 
 
 Castle of Indolence 67 
 
 Louisa 68 
 
 Strange fits of passion have I known 68 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 68 
 
 I travelled among unknown men 68 
 
 Ere with cold beads of midnight dew 68 
 
 To 
 
 Look at the fate of summer flovrers 69 
 
 'T is said that some have died for love 69 
 
 A Complaint ■ 69 
 
 To 
 
 Let other Bards of Angels sing 70 
 
 How rich tliat forehead's calm expanse 70 
 
 c 
 
 To 
 
 O Dearer far than light and life are dear 70 
 
 Lament of Mary Queen of Scots 70 
 
 The Complaint of a Forsaken Indian Woman 71 
 
 The last of the Flock 72 
 
 Repentance, a Pastoral Ballad 73 
 
 The Affliction of Margaret 73 
 
 The Cottager to her Infant 74 
 
 The Sailor's Mother 74 
 
 The Childless Father 74 
 
 The Emigrant Mother 75 
 
 Vaudracour and Julia 76 
 
 The Armenian Lady's Love 79 
 
 The So.-hnambdlist 81 
 
 The Idiot Boy 89 
 
 Michael, a Pastoral Poem 87 
 
 The Russian Fugitive, in Four Parts 91 
 
 The Waggoner, in Four Cantos 95 
 
 The Prioress' Tale (from Chaucer.) 104 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY : 
 
 A Morning Exercise 109 
 
 To the Daisy 109 
 
 A Whirl-blast from behind the hill 110 
 
 The Green Linnet 110 
 
 The Contrast 111 
 
 , Tn the- Small Celandine Ill 
 
 To the same Flower 112 
 
 The Waterfall and the Eglantine 119 
 
 The Oak and the Broom, a Pastoral 113 
 
 Song for the Spinning Wheel 114 
 
 The Redbreast and Butterfly 114 
 
 '-- The Kitten and the Falling Leaves 115 
 
 A Flower Garden 116 
 
 To the Daisy 117 
 
 To the Same Flower 117 
 
 ^ Written in an Album 117 
 
 r To a Sky-lark 117 
 
 To a Sexton 118 
 
 Who fancied what a pretty sight 118 
 
 Song for the Wandering Jew 118 
 
 ~"The Seven Sisters ; or, the Solitude of Binnorie. . 118 
 
 A Fragment 119 
 
 A Jewish Family 120 
 
 The Pilgrim's Dream ; or, the Star and the Glow 
 
 Worm 120 
 
 Hint from the Mountains for certain Political Pre- 
 tenders 121 
 
 Stray Pleasures 121 
 
 On seeing a Needle-case in the form of a Harp. . 122 
 
 The Poet and the Caged Turtledove 129 
 
 A Wren's Nest 129 
 
 The Redbreast 123 
 
 Rural Illusions 124 
 
 This Lawn, &c.. 124 
 
 Address to my Infant Daughter 125 
 
 2* '"> 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION : 
 
 There was a boy ; ye knew liim well, ye Cliffs. . . 129 
 
 To , on her first Ascent to the summit of 
 
 Helvellyn 129 
 
 To the Cuckoo 129 
 
 A Night-Piece 130 
 
 Water-Fowl 130 
 
 Yew Trees 130 
 
 View from the top of Black Comb 131 
 
 — Nutting 131 
 
 ^ ffffi^ ""^" a Phantom of delight 132 
 
 Nightingale I thou surely art 132 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower 132 
 
 A slumber did my spirit seal 133 
 
 The Horn of Egremont Castle 133 
 
 Goody Blake and Harry Gill, a true Story... 134 
 
 1 wandered lonely as a cloud ] 35 
 
 The Reverie of Poor Susan 135 
 
 Power of Music 136 
 
 Star-Gazers 136 
 
 The Haunted Tree 137 
 
 Written in March, while resting on the Bridge at 
 
 the Foot of Brothers' Water 137 
 
 Gipsies 137 
 
 Beggars 138 
 
 Sequel to the Foregoing, composed many years 
 
 after 138 
 
 Ruth 139 
 
 Laodamia 141 
 
 The Triad J43 
 
 Her eyes are wild, her head is bare 145 
 
 Resolution and Independence 146 
 
 The Thorn 148 
 
 Hart-leap Weli 150 
 
 Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, upon 
 
 the Restoration of Lord Clifford, the Shepherd 152 
 
 ' Yes, it was the Mountain Echo 154 
 
 • V To a Sky-I.ark 154 
 
 It is no Spirit who from Heaven hath flown 154 
 
 y^ French Revolution, as it appeared to Enthusiasts 
 at its Commencement, reprinted from " the 
 
 Friend" 154 
 
 Gold and Silver Fishes in a Vase 155 
 
 Liberty (Sequel to the above) 155 
 
 Ode. — The Pass of Kirkslone 157 
 
 Evening Ode, composed upon an Evening of ex- 
 traordinary Splendour and Beauty 158 
 
 Lines composed a few Miles above Tintern Abbey, 
 on revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a 
 
 Tour 159 
 
 Peter Bell, a Tale, in three Parts ICO 
 
 The Egyptian Maid, or the Romance of the Wa- 
 
 ter-Lily 172 
 
 Stanzas on the Power of Sound 177 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS— Part First. 
 
 To 
 
 Happy the feeling from the bosom thrown . . 179 
 Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room. . 179 
 
 Written in very early Youth 179 
 
 Admonition 180 
 
 " Beloved Vale !" I said, " when I shall con. . . 180 
 
 Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side 180 
 
 There is a little unpretending Rill ISO 
 
 Her only Pilot the soft breeze, the Boat 180 
 
 The fairest, brightest hues of ether fudc 180 
 
 Upon the Sigiit of a beautiful Picture 181 
 
 " Why, Minstrel, these untuneful munnurings. 181 
 Aerial Rock — whose solitary brow 181 
 
 gentle Sleep ! do they belong to thee 181 
 
 To Sleep 181 
 
 To Sleep 181 
 
 The Wild Duck's Nest 182 
 
 Written upon a blank leaf in " The Complete 
 
 Angler " 182 
 
 To the Poet, John Dyer 182 
 
 On the Detraction which followed the Publica- 
 tion of a certain Poem 182 
 
 To the River Derwent 1 82 
 
 Composed in one of the Valleys of Westmore- 
 land on Easter Sunday 182 
 
 Grief, thou hast lost an ever-ready Friend 183 
 
 ToS. H 183 
 
 Decay of Piety 183 
 
 Composed on the Eve of the Marriage of a 
 
 Friend in the Vale of Grasmere 183 
 
 From the Italian of Michael Angelo 183 
 
 From the Same 183 
 
 From the Same. To the Supreme Being 184 
 
 Surprised by Joy — impatient as the Mind 184 
 
 Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne .... 184 
 " Weak is the will of Man, his judgment blind" 184 
 
 It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free 184 
 
 Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go 164 
 With Ships the Sea was sprinkled far and nigh 185 
 The world is too much with us; late and soon. 185 
 A volant Tribe of Bards on earth are found. . . 185 
 How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks ... 185 
 
 Personal Talk 185 
 
 Continued 185 
 
 Continued 186 
 
 Concluded 186 
 
 1 watch, and long have watched, with calm re- 
 
 gret 186 
 
 To R. B. Haydon, Esq 186 
 
 From the dark chambers of dejection freed . . . 186 
 Fair Prime of Life I were it enough to gild. . . 186 
 
 I heard (alas ! 'twas only in a dream) 1 87 
 
 Retirement 187 
 
 To the Memory of Raisley Calvert 187 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS.— Part Second. 
 
 Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned 187 
 Not Love, nor War, nor the tumultuous Swell. 187 
 
 September, 1815 187 
 
 November 1 188 
 
 Composed daring a Storm 188 
 
 To a Snow-Drop 188 
 
 Composed a few days after the foregoing 188 
 
 The Stars are Mansions built by Nature's hand 188 
 
 To the Lady Beaumont 188 
 
 To the Lady Mary Lowther 189 
 
 There is a pleasure in poetic pains 189 
 
 The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said. . . 189 
 Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour 189 
 With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climbest the 
 
 sky 189 
 
 Even as a dragon's eye that feels the stress . . . 189 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Mark the concentred Hazels that inclose 190 
 
 Captivity 190 
 
 Brook ! whose society the Poet seeks 190 
 
 Composed on the Banks of a rocky Stream ... 190 
 
 Pure element of waters ! wheresoe'er 190 
 
 Malham Cove 190 
 
 Gordale 191 
 
 The Monument commonly called Long Meg 
 
 and her Daughters, near the River Eden. . 191 
 Composed after a Journey across the Hambleton 
 
 Hills, Yorkshire 191 
 
 These words were uttered as in pensive mood. 191 
 Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 
 
 3, 1803 191 
 
 Oxford, May 30, 1820 192 
 
 Oxford, May 30, 1820 192 
 
 Eecollection of the Portrait of King Henry 
 
 Eightli, Trinity Lodge, Cambridge 199 
 
 On the Death of His Majesty, (George the 
 
 Third) 192 
 
 June, 1820 192 
 
 A Parsonage in Oxfordshire 192 
 
 Composed among the Ruins of a Castle in 
 
 North Wales 193 
 
 To the Lady E. B. and the Hon. Miss P 193 
 
 To the Torrent at the Devil's Bridge, North 
 
 Wales 193 
 
 Though narrow be that Old Man's cares, and 
 
 near 193 
 
 Strange visitation ! at Jemima's lip 193 
 
 When Philoctetes in the Lemnian Isle 193 
 
 While they, who once were Anna's Playmates, 
 
 tread 194 
 
 To tlie Cuckoo 194 
 
 The Infant M M 194 
 
 To Rotha Q 194 
 
 To , in her seventieth year 194 
 
 A Grave-Stone upon the Floor in the Cloisters 
 
 of Worcester Cathedral. 194 
 
 A Tradition of Darley Dale, Derbyshire 195 
 
 Filial Piety 195 
 
 To R. B. Haydon, Esq., on seeing his Picture of 
 
 Napoleon Buonaparte on the Island of St. 
 
 Helena 195 
 
 Chatsworth ! thy Stately mansion, and the pride 195 
 Desponding Father ! mark this altered bough . 195 
 
 Roman Antiquities Discovered 195 
 
 St. Catherine of Ledbury 196 
 
 Why art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant 196 
 
 Four fiery steeds impatient of the rein 196 
 
 To the Author's Portrait 196 
 
 Conclusion. To 196 
 
 In my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud 196 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803. 
 Departure from the Vale of Grasmere, August, 
 
 1803 197 
 
 To the Sons of Burns, after visiting the Grave 
 
 of their Father 197 
 
 Ellen Irwin, or the Braes of Kirtle 198 
 
 To a Highland Girl 198 
 
 Glen-Almain ; or the Narrow Glen 199 
 
 Stepping Westward 199 
 
 The Sohtary Reaper 200 
 
 Address to Kilchurn Castle upon Loch Awe. . . 200 
 
 Rob Roy's Grave 200 
 
 Composed at Castle 202 
 
 Yarrow Unvisited 202 
 
 In the Pass of Kiliicranky, an Invasion being 
 
 expected, October 1803 203 
 
 The Matron of Jed borough and her Husband. . 203 
 Fly, some kind Spirit, fly to Grasmere-dale . . . 204 
 The Blind Highland Boy 204 
 
 JIEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, x814. 
 
 The Brownie's Cell 207 
 
 Composed at Cora Linn, in sight of Wallace's 
 
 Tower 208 
 
 Effusion, in the Pleasure-ground on the Banks 
 
 of the Bran, near Dunkeld 208 
 
 Yarrow Visited, September 1814 210 
 
 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY.— Part First. 
 
 Composed by the Sea-side, near Calais, August 
 
 1802 211 
 
 Calais, August 1802 211 
 
 To a Friend 211 
 
 I grieved for Buonaparte, &.c 211 
 
 Calais, August 15, 1802 211 
 
 On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic . . 212 
 
 The King of Sweden 212 
 
 To Toussaint L'Ouverture 212 
 
 Driven from the soil of France, a Female came 212 
 Composed in the Valley, near Dover, on tlie Diiy 
 
 of Landing 212 
 
 Inland, within a hollow Vale, I stood 212 
 
 Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of 
 
 Switzerland 213 
 
 O Friend! I know not which way I must look 213 
 Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour. . 213 
 
 Great Men have been among us, &c 213 
 
 It is not to be thought of that the Flood 213 
 
 When I have borne in Memory what has tamed 213 
 
 One might believe that natur.:l miseries 214 
 
 There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear . . 214 
 These times touch moneyed Worldlings with 
 
 dismay 214 
 
 England ! the time is come when thou should'st 
 
 wean 214 
 
 When, looking on tlie present face of things . . 214 
 
 To the Men of Kent 214 
 
 Anticipation 21.5 
 
 Another year ! another deadly blow 215 
 
 Ode 215 
 
 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTI^^^Part Second. 
 
 On a Celebrated Event in Ancient Histo?y>»«^. 216 
 
 Upon the Same Event 
 
 To Thomas Clarkson, on the final passing of tlie 
 Bill for the Abolition of the Slave Trade, 
 
 March 1807 .T. 216 
 
 A Prophecy. February 1807 216 
 
 Clouds lingering yet, extend in solid bars 216 
 
 Go back to antique ages, if thine eyes 216 
 
 Composed, while the Author was engaged in 
 writing a Tract, occasioned by the Conven- 
 tion of Cintra, 1808 217 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Composed at the same time, and on the same 
 
 occasion 217 
 
 Hoffer 217 
 
 Advance — come forth from thy Tyrolean ground 217 
 
 Feelings of the Ty rolcse 217 
 
 Alas I what boots tlio long laborious quest .... 217 
 
 And is it among rude untutored Dales 218 
 
 O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain 218 
 
 On the final Submission of the Tyrolese 218 
 
 Hail, Zaragoza ! &c 218 
 
 Say, what is Honour ? &c 218 
 
 The martial courage of a day is vain 218 
 
 Brave Schill ! by death delivered, take thy flight 219 
 
 Call not the Royal Swede unfortunate 219 
 
 Look now on that Adventurer, &.C 219 
 
 Is there a Power that can sustain and cheer . . . 219 
 
 Ah ! where is Palafo.x ? i c 2J 9 
 
 In due observance of an ancient rite 219 
 
 Feelings of a noble Biscayan at one of these 
 
 Funerals 220 
 
 The Oak of Guernica 220 
 
 Indignation of a high-minded Spaniard 220 
 
 Avaunt, all specious pliancy of mind 220 
 
 O'crweening Statesmen have full long relied . . 220 
 
 The French and Spanish Guerillas 221 
 
 Spanish Guerillas, 1811 221 
 
 The power of Armies is a visible thing 221 
 
 Here pause : the poet claims at least this praise 221 
 
 Tlie French Army in Russia 221 
 
 On the Same Occasion 922 
 
 By .AIoscow self-devoted to a blaze 222 
 
 The Germans on the Heights of Hoekheim . . . 222 
 Now tliat all hearts are glad, all faces bright. . . 222 
 On the Disinterment of the Remains of the 
 
 Duke d'Enghien 222 
 
 Occasioned by the Battle of Waterloo 223 
 
 O, for a kindling touch of that pure flame 223 
 
 Occasioned by the same Battle 223 
 
 Emperors and Kings, how oft have Temples 
 
 rung 223 
 
 Ode composed in January, 1816 923 
 
 Thanksgiving Oue 225 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 
 1820. 
 
 Dedication 230 
 
 Fish-Women. — On landing at Calais 230 
 
 Bruges 230 
 
 Bruges 230 
 
 After visiting the Field of Waterloo 230 
 
 Scenery between Namur and Liege 231 
 
 Ai.'5-la-Chapelle 231 
 
 In the Cathedral at Cologne 931 
 
 In a Carriage, upon the Banks of the- Rhine. . . 231 
 Hymn, for the Boatmen, as they approach the 
 
 Rapids, under the Castle of Heidelberg. . . 231 
 
 The Source of the Danube 232 
 
 Memorial, near the Outlet of the Lake of Thun 232 
 Composed in one of the Catholic Cantons of 
 
 Switzerland 932 
 
 On approaching the Staub-Bach, Lauterbrunnen 232 
 
 The Fall of the Aar— Handee 233 
 
 Scene on the Lake of Brientz 233 
 
 Engelberg, the Hill of Angels 233 
 
 Oar Lady of the Snow 233 
 
 Effusion in Presence of the painted Tower of 
 
 Tell, at Altorf 234 
 
 The Town of Schwytz 234 
 
 On hearing the " Ranz des Vaches" on the Top 
 
 of the Pass of St. Gothard 234 
 
 The Church of San Salvador, seen from the 
 
 Lake of Lugano 935 
 
 Fort Fuentes 235 
 
 The Italian Itinerant, and the Swiss Goatherd . 236 
 The Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci, in the 
 Refectory of the Convent of Maria dtlla 
 
 Grazia— Milan 237 
 
 The Eclipse of the Sun, 1820 237 
 
 The three Cottage Girls 238 
 
 The Column intended by Buonaparte for a tri- 
 umphal Edifice in Milan, now lying by the 
 
 Way-side in the Simplon Pass 239 
 
 Stanzas, composed in the Simplon Pass 239 
 
 Echo, upon the Gemmi 230 
 
 Processions 230 
 
 Elegiac Stanzas 240 
 
 Sky -prospect — from the Plain of France 241 
 
 On being stranded near the Harbour of Boulogne 241 
 
 After landing — the Valley of Dover 242 
 
 Desultory Stanzas 242 
 
 To Enterprise 243 
 
 THE RIVER DUDDON : A Series of Sonnets. 
 
 Dedication 245 
 
 Not envying shades which haply yet may throw 246 
 Child of the clouds I remote from every taint. . 246 
 How shall I paint thee ? — Be this naked stone 246 
 Take, cradled Nursling of the mountain, take . 24G 
 Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played 246 
 
 Flowers 246 
 
 " Change me, some God, into that breathing 
 
 rose !" 247 
 
 What aspect bore the Man who roved or fled . . 247 
 
 Tlie Stepping-stones 247 
 
 The same subject 247 
 
 The Faery Chasm 247 
 
 Hints for the Fancy 247 
 
 Open Prospect 248 
 
 O mountain Stream ! the Shepherd and his Cot 248 
 From this deep chasm — where quivering sun- 
 beams play 248 
 
 American Tradition 248 
 
 Return 248 
 
 Seathwaite Chapel 948 
 
 Tributary Stream 949 
 
 The Plain of Donnerdale 249 
 
 Whence that low voice ? — A whisper from the 
 
 heart 249 
 
 Tradition 949 
 
 Sheep-washing 949 
 
 The Resting-place 249 
 
 Methinks 'twere no unprecedented feat 250 
 
 Return, Content I for fondly I pursued 250 
 
 Fallen, and ditfused into a shapeless heap 250 
 
 Journey Renewed 250 
 
 No record tells of lance opposed to lance 250 
 
 Who sw^crves from innocence, who makes divorce 250 
 The Kirk of Llpha to the Pilgrim's eye 251 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 XXI 
 
 Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep .... 251 
 
 Conclusion 251 
 
 After-thought 251 
 
 Postscript 251 
 
 YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS, COM- 
 POSED (TWO EXCEPTED) DURING A TOUR IN 
 SCOTLAND, AND ON THE ENGLISH BORDER, 
 IN THE AUTUMN OF 1831 : 
 
 Yarkow Revisited 252 
 
 Sonnets : 
 On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott from Ab- 
 
 botsford, for Naples 253 
 
 A Place of Burial in the South of Scotland ... 254 
 On the Sight of a Manse in the South of Scot- 
 land 254 
 
 Composed in Roslin Chapel, during a Storm. . . 254 
 
 The Trosachs 254 
 
 The Pibroch's Note, discountenanced or mute . 254 
 
 Composed in the Glen of Loch Etive 254 
 
 Composed after reading a Newspaper of the Day 255 
 Eagles, composed at DunoUie Castle in the Bay 
 
 of Oban 255 
 
 In the Sound of Mull 255 
 
 At Tyndrum 255 
 
 The Earl of Breadalbane's ruined Mansion, and 
 
 Family Burial-Place, near Killin 255 
 
 Rest and be thankful, at the Head of Glencroe 255 
 
 Highland Hut 256 
 
 The Brownie 256 
 
 To the Planet Venus, an Evening Star. Com- 
 posed at Loch Lomond 256 
 
 Bothwell Castle 256 
 
 Picture of Daniel in the Lions' Den, at Hamil- 
 ton Palace 256 
 
 The Avon, a Feeder of the Annan 257 
 
 Suggested by a View from an Eminence in In- 
 
 glewood Forest 257 
 
 Hart's-horn Tree, near Penrith 257 
 
 Countess's Pillar . . 257 
 
 Roman Antiquities. (From the Roman Station 
 
 at Old Penrith) 257 
 
 Apology 257 
 
 The Highland Broach 258 
 
 SONNETS COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A 
 TOUR IN SCOTLAND IN THE SUMMER OF 
 1833: 
 
 Adieu ! Rydalian Laurels ! that have grown . . 259 
 Why should the Enthusiast, journeying through 
 
 this Isle 259 
 
 They called Thee merry England, in old Time 259 
 
 To the River Greta, near Keswick 259 
 
 To the River Derwent 260 
 
 In Sight of the Town of Cockermouth 260 
 
 Address from the Spirit of Cockermouth Castle 260 
 
 Nun's Well, Brigham 260 
 
 To a Friend (on the Banks of the Derwent). . . 260 
 Mary Queen of Scots (landing at the Mouth of 
 
 the Derwent, Workington) 261 
 
 In the Channel, between the Coast of Cumber- 
 land and the Isle of Man. 261 
 
 At Sea off the Isle of Man 261 
 
 Desire we past Illusions to recall ? 261 
 
 On entering Douglas Bay, Isle of Man 261 
 
 By the Sea-shore, Isle of Man 262 
 
 Isle of Man 262 
 
 The Retired Marine Officer, Isle of Man 262 
 
 By a Retired Mariner (a Friend of the Author) 262 
 At Bala-sala, Isle of Man. (Supposed to be 
 
 written by a Friend of the Author) 262 
 
 Tynwald Hill 262 
 
 Despond who will — / heard a Voice exclaim . 263 
 In the Frith of Clyde, Ailsa Crag. (July 17, 
 
 1833) 263 • 
 
 On the Frith of Clyde. (In a steam-boat) 263 
 
 On revisiting Dunolly Castle 263 
 
 The Dunolly Eagle 263 
 
 Cave of Staffa 264 
 
 Cave of Staffa 264 
 
 Cave of Staffi 264 
 
 Flowers on the Top of the Pillars at the En- 
 trance of the Cave 264 
 
 On to lona ! What can she afford 264 
 
 lona. (Upon landing) 265 
 
 The Black Stones of lona 265 
 
 Home%vaid we turn. Isle of Columba's Cell . . 265 
 
 Greenock 265 
 
 " There 1" said a Stripling, pointing with meet 
 
 Pride 265 
 
 Fancy and Tradition 265 
 
 The River Eden, Cumberland 266 
 
 Monument of Mrs. Howard (by Nollekins) in 
 Wetheral Church, near Corby, on the Banks 
 
 of the Eden 266 
 
 Tranquillity ! the sovereign aim wert thou. . . . 266 
 
 Nunnery , 266 
 
 Steam-boats, Viaducts, and Railways 266 
 
 Lowther ! in thy majestic Pile are seen 267 
 
 To the Earl of Lonsdale 267 
 
 To Cordelia M , Halhteads, IHlswater . . 267 
 
 Conclusion 267 
 
 Stanzas Suggested in a Steam-boat off St. 
 Bees' Heads 267 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE ; OR, the Fate 
 OF the Nortons. In Seven Cantos 270 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES, in a Series of 
 Sonnets : 
 
 Advertisement 289 
 
 Part First : From the Introduction of Chris- 
 tianity into Britain, to the Consummation 
 of the Papal Dominion : 
 
 Introduction 290 
 
 Conjectures 290 
 
 Trepidation of the Druids 290 
 
 Druidical Excommunication 290 
 
 Uncertainty 291 
 
 Persecution 291 
 
 Recovery 291 
 
 Temptations from Roman Refinements 291 
 
 Dissensions 291 
 
 Struggle of the Britons against the Barbarians 291 
 
 Saxon Conquest 292 
 
 Monastery of Old Bangor 292 
 
 Casual Incitement 292 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Glad Tidings 292 
 
 Paulinus 293 
 
 Persuasion 293 
 
 Conversion 293 
 
 Apology 293 
 
 Primitive Saxon Clergy 293 
 
 Other Influences 294 
 
 Seclusion 294 
 
 Continued 294 
 
 Reproof 294 
 
 Saxon Monasteries, and Lights and Shades of 
 
 the Religion 294 
 
 Missions and Travels 294 
 
 Alfred 295 
 
 His Descendants 295 
 
 Influence ahused 295 
 
 Danish Conquests 295 
 
 Canute 295 
 
 The Norman Conquest 295 
 
 The Council of Clermont 296 
 
 Crusades 296 
 
 Richard 1 296 
 
 An Interdict 296 
 
 Papal Abuses 296 
 
 Scene in Venice 296 
 
 Papal Dominion 297 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 Pakt Second : To the Close of the Troubles 
 IN THE Reign of Charles I. : 
 
 Cistcrtian Monastery 297 
 
 Relaxations of the Feudal System 297 
 
 Monks and Schoolmen 297 
 
 Other Benefits 297 
 
 Continued 298 
 
 Crusaders 298 
 
 Transubstantiation 298 
 
 The Vaudois 298 
 
 Continued 298 
 
 Waldenses 298 
 
 Archbishop Chichcly to Henry V 299 
 
 Wars of York and Lancaster 299 
 
 Wicliffe 299 
 
 Corruptions of the higher Clergy 299 
 
 Abuse of Monastic Power 299 
 
 Monastic Voluptuousness 299 
 
 Dissolution of the Monasteries 300 
 
 The same Subject 300 
 
 Continued 300 
 
 Saints 300 
 
 The Virgin 300 
 
 Apology 300 
 
 Imaginative Regrets 301 
 
 Reflections 301 
 
 Translation of the Bible 301 
 
 The Point at Issue 301 
 
 Edward VI 301 
 
 Edward signing the Warrant for the Execution 
 
 of Joan of Kent 301 
 
 Revival of Popery 302 
 
 Latimer and Ridley 302 
 
 Cranmcr 302 
 
 General View of the Troubles of the Reformation 302 
 
 English Reformers in E.xile 302 
 
 Elizabeth 302 
 
 Eminent Reformers 303 
 
 The same 303 
 
 Distractions 303 
 
 Gunpowder Plot 303 
 
 The Jung-Frau and the Fall of the Rhine near 
 
 Scha3"hausen (an Illustration) 303 
 
 Troubles of Charles the First 304 
 
 Laud 304 
 
 Afflictions of England 304 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 Paiit Third : From the Restoration to the 
 Present Times : 
 
 I saw the figure of a lovely Maid 304 
 
 Patriotic Sympathies 304 
 
 Cliarles tlie .Second 304 
 
 Latitudinarianism 305 
 
 Clerical Integrity 305 
 
 Persecution of the Scottish Covenanters 305 
 
 Acquittal of the Bishops 305 
 
 William the Third 305 
 
 Obligations of Civil to Religious Liberty 305 
 
 Down a swift Stream, thus far, a bold design. . 306 
 
 Walton's Book of Lives 306 
 
 Sachcverell 306 
 
 Places of Worship 306 
 
 Pastoral Character 306 
 
 The Liturgy 306 
 
 Baptism 307 
 
 Sponsors 307 
 
 Catechising 307 
 
 Confirmation 307 
 
 Continued 307 
 
 Sacrament 307 
 
 Rural Ceremony 308 
 
 Regrets 308 
 
 Mutability 308 
 
 Old Abbeys 308 
 
 Emigrant French Clergy 308 
 
 Congratulation 309 
 
 New Churches 309 
 
 Church to be erected 309 
 
 Continued 309 
 
 New Chureli-yard 309 
 
 Cathedrals, &c. : 309 
 
 Inside of King's College Chapel, Cambridge . . 310 
 
 The Same 310 
 
 Continued 310 
 
 Ejaculation 310 
 
 Conclusion 310 
 
 NOTES to Poems of the Imagination 311 
 
 POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES: 
 
 It was an April morning: fresh and clear 327 
 
 To Joanna 327 
 
 There is an Eminence, — of these our hills 328 
 
 A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags 329 
 
 To M. H 329 
 
 When to tlie attractions of the busy World 329 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 xxiu 
 
 INSCRIPTIONS : 
 
 In the Grounds of Coleorton, the Seat of Sir George 
 Beaumont, Bart 331 
 
 In a Garden of the Same 331 
 
 Written at the request of Sir George Beaumont, 
 Bart., and in his name, for an Urn, placed by 
 him at tlie termination of a newly planted 
 avenue 331 
 
 For a Seat in the Groves of Coleorton 331 
 
 Written vpith a pencil upon a Stone in the Wall of 
 the House (an out-house) on the Island of 
 Grasmere 332 
 
 Written with a Slate-pencil on a Stone, on the side 
 
 of the Mountain of Black Comb 332 
 
 Written with a Slate-pencil on a Stone, the largest 
 of a Heap lying near a deserted Quarry, upon 
 one of the Islands at Rydal 332 
 
 Insckiptions supposed to be found in and neak a 
 Hermit's Cell : 
 
 Hopes, what are they ? Beads of morning . . 333 
 
 Inscribed upon a Rock 333 
 
 Hast thou seen, with flash incessant 333 
 
 Near the Spring of the Hermitage 333 
 
 Not seldom, clad in radiant vest 334 
 
 For the Spot where the Hermitage stood on St. 
 
 Herbert's Island, Derwent-Water 334 
 
 Intended for a Stone in the Grounds of Rydal 
 
 Mount 334 
 
 The Massy Ways, carried across these Heights . . 334 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION : 
 
 Expostulation and Reply 337 
 
 Tlie Tables Turned 337 
 
 Written in Germany, on one of the coldest days of 
 
 the Century 337 
 
 Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, &c 338 
 
 Character of the happy Warrior 338 
 
 A Poet's Epitaph 339 
 
 To the Spade of a Friend 340 
 
 To my Sister 340 
 
 To a Young Lady, who had been reproached for 
 
 taking long walks in the Country 341 
 
 Lines written in early Spring 341 
 
 Simon Lee 341 
 
 Incident at Bruges 342 
 
 The Wishing-Gate 343 
 
 Incident characteristic of a favourite Dog 343 
 
 Tribute to the Memory of the same Dog 344 
 
 If Nature, for a favourite Child 344 
 
 Tlie two April Mornings 345 
 
 The Fountain 345 
 
 Lines written while sailing in a Boat at Evening 346 
 
 Remembrance of Collins 346 
 
 If Thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven . . . 347 
 Written in a blank leaf of Macpherson's Ossian . 347 
 
 Vernal Ode- 348 
 
 Ode to Lyeoris 349 
 
 To the same , 349 
 
 Ode, composed on May Morning 350 
 
 To May 351 
 
 Devotional Incitements 351 
 
 The Primrose of the Rock 352 
 
 Thought on the Seasons 353 
 
 To 
 
 " Wait, prithee, wait !" this answer Lesbia threw 353 
 
 Fidelity 353 
 
 The Gleaner 354 . 
 
 The Labourer's Noon- Day Hymn 354 
 
 To the Lady , on seeing the foundation 
 
 preparing for the erection of Chapel, 
 
 Westmoreland 355 
 
 On the same Occasion 356 
 
 The Force of Prayer ; or the Founding of Bolton 
 
 Priory 356 
 
 A Fact, and an Imagination ; or, Canute and Al- 
 fred on the Sea-shore 357 
 
 A little onward lend thy guiding hand 357 
 
 September 1819 358 
 
 Upon the same Occasion 358 
 
 The Pillar of Trajan 359 
 
 Dion 359 
 
 Presentiments 361 
 
 Lines written in the Album of the Countess of 
 
 ; November 5, 1834 362 
 
 To 
 
 On the Birth of her first-born Child, March 
 
 1833 363 
 
 The Warning, a Sequel to the Foregoing 363 
 
 If this great world of joy and pain 365 
 
 Humanity, written in 1829 365 
 
 Lines suggested by a Portrait 366 
 
 The Foregoing Subject Resumed 367 
 
 Memory 368 
 
 Ode to Duty 368 
 
 EVENING VOLUNTARIES: 
 
 Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose 369 
 
 Not in the lucid Intervals of Life 369 
 
 By the side of Rydal Mere 369 
 
 Sofl as a cloud is yon blue Ridge 370 
 
 The Leaves that rustled on this Oak-crowned 
 
 Hill 370 
 
 The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire 370 
 
 By the Sea-side 371 
 
 The Sun has long been set 371 
 
 Throned in the Sun's descending Car 371 
 
 NOTES TO Poems of Sentiment and Reflection 372 
 
 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF 
 OLD AGE : 
 The Old Cumberland Beggar 377 
 
 I . mn. Farmer of Tilsbury Vale 379 
 
 The Small Celandine 380 
 
 The two Thieves ; 380 
 
 Animal Tranquillity and Decay 380 
 
 EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC POEMS: 
 
 Epitaphs, Translated from Chiabrera — 
 
 Perhaps some needful service 381 
 
 O Thou who movest onward with a mind . . 381 
 There never breathed a man who, when his life 381 
 
 Destined to war from very infancy 382 
 
 Not without heavy grief of heart did He . . . 382 
 Pause, courteous Spirit ! — Balbi supplicates . 382 
 
XXIV 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Lines written on the expected death of Mr. Fox . 382 
 Lines written on hearing of the death of the late 
 
 Vicar of Kendal 383 
 
 Elegiac Stanzas, suggested by a Picture 383 
 
 To the Daisy 383 
 
 Once I could hail (howe'er serene the sky) 384 
 
 Elegiac Stanzas, 1824 385 
 
 Invocation to the Eartli, February 1816 385 
 
 Sonnet on the late General Fast, March 1832 386 
 
 Epitaph 386 
 
 Elegiac Musings in the Grounds of Coleorton Hall, 
 
 the seat of the late Sir George Beaumont, Bart. 386 
 
 Lines on the Death of the Ettrick Shepherd 387 
 
 Ode. Intimations of Immortality from Recol- 
 
 LEOTIO.NS OF EaRLY ChILDHOOD 387 
 
 THE EXCURSION : 
 
 Dedication 392 
 
 Preface 393 
 
 Book I : 
 
 The Wanderer 395 
 
 Book II : 
 
 The Solitary 404 
 
 Book III : 
 
 Despondency 413 
 
 Book IV: 
 
 DESro.NDE.NCY CORRECTED 422 
 
 Book V: 
 
 The Pastor 435 
 
 Book VI : 
 
 The Church- YARD among the Mountains 445 
 
 Book VII: 
 
 continued 456 
 
 Book VIII : 
 
 The Parsonage 466 
 
 Book IX: 
 
 Discourse of the Wanderer and an Evening 
 
 Visit to the Lake 472 
 
 NOTES to the Excursion 480 
 
 APPENDIX: 
 
 I. Essay Supplementary to the Preface 485 
 
 II. Observations prefixed to the Second Edi- 
 
 tion OF several OF the FOREGOING POEMS 
 
 published under the title of " lvrical 
 Ballads " 496 
 
 III. Memoir of the Ret. Robert Walker 508 
 
 IV. Topographical Description op the Country 
 
 OF THE Lakes in the North of England. 515 
 
 V. Essay upon Epitaphs 536 
 
 VI. Postscript to the volume entitled " Yar- 
 
 row Revisited and other poems " 543 
 
POEMS 
 
 REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Pof: 
 
 T> 
 
POEMS 
 REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD 
 
 Mt heart leaps up when I hehold 
 
 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* 
 
 TO A BUTTERFLY. - 
 
 Stat 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 bringest, 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, 
 
 l\Iy 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. 
 
 FORESIGHT, 
 
 OR THE CHARGE OF A CHILD TO HIS YOUNGER 
 COMPANION. 
 
 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. 
 
 ♦See Note 1, p. 36. 
 
 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 Daflbdil 
 
 Make your bed, and 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 : 
 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. 
 When the months of Spring are fled 
 Hither let us bend our walk ; 
 Lurking berries, ripe and red. 
 Then will hang on every stalk, 
 Each within its leafy bower ; 
 And for that promise spare the Flower ! 
 
 CHARACTERISTICS 
 OF A CHILD THREE YEARSOLD. 
 
 Loving she is, and tractable, though wild ; 
 
 And Innocence hath privilege in her 
 
 To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes ; 
 
 And feats of cunning; and the pretty round 
 
 Of trespasses, afl%cted to provoke 
 
 Mock-chastisement and partnership in play. 
 
 And, as a fagot sparkles on the hearth, 
 
 Not less if unattended and alone 
 
 Than when both young and old sit gathered round 
 
 And take delight in its activity. 
 
 Even so this happy creature of herself 
 
 Is all-sufficient ; solitude to her 
 
 Is blithe society, who fills the air 
 
 With gladness and involuntary songs. 
 
 Light are her sallies as the tripping Fawn's 
 
28 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Forth-startled from the fern where she lay couched ; 
 
 Unthought of, unexpected, as the stir 
 
 Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow flowers ; 
 
 Or from before it chasing wantonly 
 
 The many-coloured images impressed 
 
 Upon the bosom of a placid lake. 
 
 ADDRESS TO A CHILD, 
 
 DURING A BOISTEROUS WINTER EVENING. 
 By a female Friend of the Author. 
 
 What way does the Wind come 1 What way does he gol 
 He rides over the water, and over the snow. 
 Through wood, and through vale ; and o'er rocky 
 
 height. 
 Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight ; 
 He tosses about in every bare tree. 
 As, if you look up, you plainly may see ; 
 But how he will come, and whither he goes, 
 There 's never a Scholar in England knows. 
 
 He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook. 
 
 And rings a sharp 'larum ; — but, if you should look, 
 
 There 's nothing to see but a cushion of snow 
 
 Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk, 
 
 And softer than if it were cover'd with silk. 
 
 Sometimes he '11 hide in the cave of a rock, 
 
 Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock ; 
 
 — Yet seek him, — and what shall you find in the place] 
 
 Nothing but silence and empty space ; 
 
 Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves. 
 
 That he 's left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves ! 
 
 As soon as 't is daylight, to-morrow with me, 
 You shall go the orchard, and then you will see 
 That he has been there, and made a great rout. 
 And cracked the branches, and strewn them about ; 
 Heaven grant that he spare but tliat one upright twig 
 That looked up at the sky so proud and big 
 All last summer, as well you know. 
 Studded with apples, a beautiful show ! 
 
 Hark ! over the roof he makes a pause. 
 And growls as if he would fix his claws 
 Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle 
 Drive them down, like men in a battle : 
 
 — But let him range round ; he does us no harm. 
 We build up the fire, we 're snug and warm ; 
 Untouched by his breath see the candle shines bright, 
 And burns with a clear and steady light ; 
 
 Books have we to read, — but that half stifled knell, 
 Alas ! 't is the sound of the eight o'clock bell. 
 
 — Come now we'll to bed ! and when we are there 
 He may work his own will, and what shall we care? 
 
 He may knock at the door, — we'll not let him in ; 
 May drive at the windows, — we'll laugh at his din ; 
 Let him seek his own home wherever it be ; 
 Here 's a cozie warm house for Edward and me. 
 
 THE MOTHER'S RETURN. 
 
 By the same. 
 
 A MOJJTH, sweet Little-ones, is passed 
 Since your dear Mother went away, — 
 And she to-morrow will return ; 
 To-morrow is the happy day. 
 
 blessed tidings ! thought of joy ! 
 The eldest heard with steady glee ; 
 Silent he stood ; then laughed amain, — 
 And shouted, " Mother, come to me !" 
 
 Louder and louder did he shout. 
 With witless hope to bring her near; 
 " Nay, patience ! patience, little boy ! 
 Y'our tender mother cannot hear." 
 
 1 told of hills, and far-ofl" towns. 
 
 And long, long vales to travel through; 
 He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed, 
 But he submits; what can he do? 
 
 No strife disturbs his Sister's breast ; 
 She wars not with the mystery 
 Of time and distance, night and day. 
 The bonds of our humanity. 
 
 Her joy is like an instinct, joy 
 Of kitten, bird, or summer fly ; 
 She dances, runs, without an aim, 
 She chatters in her ecstasy. 
 
 Her brother now takes up the note. 
 And echoes back his Sister's glee ; 
 They hug the Infant in my arms, 
 As if to force his S3rmpathy. 
 
 Then, settling into fond discourse, 
 We rested in the garden bower ; 
 While sweetly shone the evening sun 
 In his departing hour. 
 
 We told o'er all that we had done, — 
 Our rambles by the swift brook's side 
 Far as the willow-skirted pool, 
 Where two fair swans together glide. 
 
 We talked of change, of v/inter gone. 
 Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray. 
 Of birds that build their nests and sing, 
 And " all since Mother went away !" 
 
POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 29 
 
 To her these tales they will repeat, 
 To her our new-born tribes will show, 
 The goslings green, the ass's colt, 
 The lambs that in the meadow go. 
 
 — But, see, the Evening Star comes forth ! 
 To bed the Children must depart ; 
 A moment's heaviness they feel, 
 A sadness at the heart : 
 
 'T is gone — and in a merry fit 
 
 They run up stairs in gamesome race ; 
 
 I, too, infected by their mood, 
 
 I could have joined the wanton chase. 
 
 Five minutes past — and, O the change ! 
 Asleep upon their beds they lie ; 
 Their busy limbs in perfect rest, 
 And closed the sparkling eye. 
 
 LOVING AND LIKING: 
 
 IRREGULAR VERSES, ADDRESSED TO A CHILD. 
 By the same (a few lines excepted.) 
 
 There 's more in words than I can teach : 
 Yet listen. Child ! — I would not preach ; 
 But only give some plain directions 
 To guide your speech and your affections. 
 Say not you love a roasted Fowl, 
 But you may love a screaming Owl, 
 And if you can, the unwieldy Toad 
 That crawls from his secure abode 
 Within the mossy garden wall 
 When evening dews begin to fall. 
 Oh, mark the beauty of his eye: 
 What wonders in that circle lie ! 
 So clear, so bright, our fathers said 
 He wears a jewel in his head ! 
 And when, upon some showery day. 
 Into a path or public way, 
 A Frog leaps out from bordering grass, 
 Startling the timid as they pass, 
 Do you observe him, and endeavour 
 To take the intruder into favour ; 
 Learning from him to find a reason 
 For a light heart in a dull season. 
 And you may love him in the pool. 
 That is for him a happy school. 
 In which he swims, as taught by nature, 
 A pattern for a human creature. 
 Glancing amid the water briglit, 
 And sending upward sparkling light. 
 Nor blush if o'er your heart be stealing 
 A love for things that have no feeling ; 
 The spring's first Rose, by you espied, 
 May fill your breast with joyful pride ; 
 
 And you may love the Strawberry Flower, 
 And love the Strawberry in its bower ; 
 But when the fruit, so often praised 
 For beauty, to your lip is raised. 
 Say not you love the delicate treat. 
 But like it, enjoy it, and thanlcfully eat. 
 Long may you love your pensioner Mouse, 
 Though one of a tribe that torment the house : 
 Nor dislike for her cruel sport the Cat, 
 That deadly foe of both mouse and rat : 
 Remember she follows the law of her kind, 
 And Instinct is neither wayward nor blind. 
 Then think of her beautiful gliding form. 
 Her tread that would not crush a worm. 
 And her soothing song by the winter fire, 
 Soft as the dying throb of the lyre. 
 
 I would not circumscribe your love : 
 
 It may soar with the Eagle and brood with the Dove, 
 
 May pierce the earth with the patient Mole, 
 
 Or track the Hedgehog to his hole. 
 
 Loving and liking are the solace of life. 
 
 They foster all joy, and extinguish all strife. 
 
 You love your father and your mother. 
 
 Your grown-up and your baby-brother ; 
 
 You love your sister, and your friends. 
 
 And countless blessings which God sends : 
 
 And while these right affections play, 
 
 You live each moment of your day ; 
 
 They lead you on to full content. 
 
 And likings fresh and innocent. 
 
 That store the mind, the memory feed. 
 
 And prompt to many a gentle deed : 
 
 But likings come, and pass away ; 
 
 'T is love that remains till our latest day : 
 
 Our heavenward guide is holy love. 
 
 And it will be our bliss with saints above. 
 
 LUCY GRAY; 
 OR, SOLITUDE. 
 
 Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray ; 
 And, when I crossed the Wild, 
 I chanced to see at break of day 
 The solitary Child. 
 
 No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew ; 
 She dwelt on a wide Moor, 
 — The sweetest thing that ever grew 
 Beside a human door ! 
 
 You yet may spy the Fawn at play. 
 The Hare upon the Green ; 
 But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
 Will never more be seen. 
 3* 
 
30 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 " To-night will be a stormy night — 
 You to the Town mnst go ; 
 And take a lantern, Child, to light 
 Your mother through the snow." 
 
 " That, Father ! will I gladly do ; 
 'T is scarcely afternoon — 
 The Minster-clock has just struck two, 
 And yonder is the Bloon." 
 
 At this the Father raised his hook, 
 And snapped a fagot-band ; 
 He plied his work ; — and Lucy took 
 The lantern in her hand. 
 
 Not blitlier is the mountain roe : 
 With many a wanton stroke 
 Her feet disperse the powdery snow 
 That rises up like smoke. 
 
 The storm came on before its time : 
 She wandered up and down ; 
 And many a hill did Lucy climb; 
 But never reached the town. 
 
 Tlie wretched parents all that night 
 Went shouting far and wide ; 
 But there was neither sound nor sight 
 To serve them for a guide. 
 
 At day-break on a hill they stood 
 That overlooked the Moor ; 
 And thence they saw the Bridge of wood, 
 A furlong from their door. 
 
 They wept — and turning homeward, cried, 
 " In Heaven we all shall meet :" 
 — When in the snow the mother spied 
 The print of Lucy's feet. 
 
 Half breathless from the steep hill's edge 
 They tracked the foot-marks small ; 
 And tlirough the broken hawthorn-hedge, 
 And by tlie long stone-wall ; 
 
 And then an open field they crossed : 
 The marks were still the same ; 
 They tracked tliem on, nor ever lost ; 
 And to the bridge they came. 
 
 They followed from tlie snowy bank 
 Those foot-marks one by one, 
 Into the middle of the plank; 
 And further there were none ! 
 
 — Yet some maintain that to this day 
 She is a living Child ; 
 That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
 Upon the lonesome Wild. 
 
 O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
 And never looks behind; 
 And sings a solitary song 
 That whistles in the wind. 
 
 WE ARE SEVEN. 
 
 • A SIMPLE Child, 
 
 That lightly draws its breath. 
 And feels its life in every limb, 
 What should it know of death ■! 
 
 I met a little cottage Girl ; 
 She was eight years old, she said ; 
 Her hair was thick with many a curl 
 That clustered round her head. 
 
 She had a rustic, woodland air. 
 And she was wildly clad : 
 Her eyes were fair, and very fair; 
 — Her beauty made me glad. 
 
 " Sisters and brothers, little Maid, 
 How many may you be ?" 
 " How many ! Seven in all," she said, 
 And wondering looked at me. 
 
 " And where are they ? I pray you tell." 
 She answered, " Seven are we ; 
 And two of us at Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea. 
 
 Two of us in the church-yard lie. 
 My sister and my brother ; 
 And, in the church-yard cottage, I 
 Dwell near them with my mother." 
 
 " You say that two at Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea. 
 Yet ye are seven ! — I pray you tell. 
 Sweet Maid, how this may be." 
 
 Then did the little Maid reply, 
 " Seven boys and girls are we ; 
 Two of us in the church-yard lie, 
 Beneath the church-yard tree." 
 
 "You run about, my little Maid, 
 Your limbs they are alive; 
 If two are in the church-yard laid, 
 Then ye are only five." 
 
 " Their graves are green, they may be seen," 
 The little Maid replied, 
 
 " Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, 
 And tliey are side by side. 
 
POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 31 
 
 BIy stockings there I often knit, 
 My kerchief there I hem ; 
 And there upon the ground I sit — 
 I sit and sing to them. 
 
 And often after sunset, Sir, 
 When it is liglit and fair, 
 I take my little porringer. 
 And eat my supper there. 
 
 The first that died was little Jane ; 
 In bed she moaning lay, 
 Till God released her of her pain ; 
 And then she went away. 
 
 So in the church-yard she was laid ; 
 And, when the grass was dry, 
 Together round her grave we played, 
 My brother John and I. 
 
 And when the ground was white with snow, 
 
 And I could run and slide. 
 
 My brother John was forced to go. 
 
 And he lies by her side." 
 
 " How many are you, then," said I, 
 " If they two are in Heaven ■!" 
 The little Maiden did reply, 
 " O Master ! we are seven." 
 
 " But they are dead, those two are dead ! 
 Their spirits are in Heaven !" 
 'T was throwing words away : for still 
 The little Maid would have her will, 
 And said, " Nay, we are seven ! 
 
 ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS, 
 
 SHOWING HOW THE PRACTICE OF LYING MAY 
 BE TAUGHT 
 
 I HAVE a boy of five years old ; 
 His face is fair and fresh to see ; 
 His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, 
 And dearly he loves me. 
 
 One morn we strolled on our dry walk. 
 Our quiet home all full in view. 
 And held such intermitted talk 
 As we are wont to do. 
 
 My thoughts on former pleasures ran ; 
 I thought of Kilve's delightftil shore. 
 Our pleasant home when Spring began, 
 A long, long year before. 
 
 A day it was when I could bear 
 Some fond regrets to entertain ; 
 With so much happiness to spare, 
 I could not feel a pain. 
 
 The green earth echoed to the feet 
 Of lambs that bounded through the glade. 
 From shade to sunshine, and as fleet 
 From sunshine back to shade. 
 
 Birds warbled round me — every trace 
 Of inward sadness had its charm ; 
 " Kilve," said I, " was a favoured place, 
 And so is Liswyn farm." 
 
 My boy was by my side, so slim 
 And gracefiil in his rustic dress ! 
 And, as we talked, I questioned him. 
 In very idleness. 
 
 " Now tell me, had you rather be," 
 
 I said, and took him by the arm, 
 
 " On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea. 
 
 Or here at Liswyn farm V 
 
 In careless mood he looked at me. 
 While still I held him by the arm. 
 And said, " At Kilve I 'd rather be 
 Than here at Liswyn farm." 
 
 " Now, little Edward, say why so ; 
 My little Edward, tell me why." — 
 " I cannot tell, I do not know." — 
 " Why, this is strange," said I ; 
 
 " For, here are woods, and green-hills warm : 
 There surely must some reason be 
 Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm 
 For Kilve by the green sea." 
 
 At this, my Boy hung down his head. 
 He blushed with shame, nor made reply ; 
 And five times to the Child I said, 
 "Why, Edward, tell me why^' 
 
 His head he raised — there was in sight. 
 It caught his eye, he saw it plain — 
 Upon the house-top, glittering bright, 
 A broad and gilded Vane. 
 
 Then did the Boy his tongue unlock ; 
 And thus to me he made reply : 
 " At Kilve there was no weather-cock, 
 And that's the reason why." 
 
 O dearest, dearest Boy ! my heart 
 For better lore would seldom yearn. 
 Could I but teach the hundredth part 
 Of what from thee I learn. 
 
 RURAL ARCHITECTURE. 
 
 There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Regi- 
 nald Shore, 
 Three rosy-cheeked School-boys, the highest not more 
 
33 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Than the height of a Counsellor's hag ; 
 To the top of Great How* did it please them to climb : 
 And there they built up, vvitliout mortar or lime, 
 A Man on the peak of the crag. 
 
 They built him of stones gathered up as they lay : 
 They built him and christened him all in one day. 
 An Urchin both vigorous and hale; 
 And so without scruple tliey called him Ralph Jones. 
 Now Ralph is renowned for the length of his bones ; 
 
 Just half a week after, the wind sallied forth. 
 And, in anger or merriment, out of the North, 
 Coming on with a terrible pother, 
 From the peak of the crag blew tlie Giant away. 
 And what did these School-boys ! — The very ne,xt day 
 They went and they built up another. 
 
 — Some little I've seen of blind boisterous works 
 By Christian Disturbers more savage than Turks, 
 Spirits busy to do and undo : 
 
 At remembrance whereof my blood sometimes will flag ; 
 Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the crag ; 
 And I'll build up a Giant with you. 
 
 THE PET-LAMB. 
 
 A PASTORAl,. 
 
 The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; 
 I heard a voice ; it said, " Drink, pretty Creature, 
 
 drink !" 
 And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied 
 A snow-white mountain Lamb with a Maiden at its side. 
 
 No other sheep were near, the Lamb was all alone, 
 And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone ; 
 With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel. 
 While to that Mountain Lamb she gave its evening meal. 
 
 The Lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper 
 
 took. 
 Seemed to feast with head and ears ; and his tail with 
 
 pleasure shook. 
 " Drink, pretty Creature, drink," she said in such a tone 
 That I almost received her heart into my own. 
 
 'T was little Barbara Lewthwaite, a Child of beauty 
 
 rare ! 
 I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair. 
 Now with her empty Can the Maiden turned away : 
 But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay. 
 
 * Great How is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises 
 towards the foot of Thirlmere, on the western side of the beau- 
 tiful dale of Lcgberlhwaite, along the high road between Kes- 
 w^ck and Ambleside. 
 
 Towards the Lamb she look ; and from that shady 
 
 place 
 I unobserved could see the workings of her face: 
 If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring, 
 Thus, thought I, to her Lamb that little Maid might 
 
 sing: 
 
 " What ails thee. Young One "i what 1 Wiiy pull so at 
 
 thy cord 1 
 Is it not well with thee f well both for bed and board ? 
 Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be ; 
 Rest, little Young One, rest ; what is't that aileth thee 1 
 
 " What is it thou wouldst seek ] What is wanting to 
 
 thy heart! 
 Thy limbs are they not strong"! And beautiful thou art ; 
 This grass is tender grass ; these flowers they have no 
 
 peers ; 
 And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears ! 
 
 "If the Sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen 
 
 chain. 
 This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain ; 
 For rain and mountain storms ! the like thou needest 
 
 not fear — 
 The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come 
 
 here. 
 
 " Rest, little Young One, rest ; thou hast forgot the day 
 When my Father found thee first in places far away ; 
 Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by 
 
 none. 
 And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone. 
 
 " He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee 
 
 home : 
 A blessed day for thee ! then whither wouldst thou 
 
 roaml 
 A faithful Nurse thou hast ; the dam that did thee yean 
 Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have been. 
 
 " Thou knowest that twice a day I brought thee in this 
 
 Can 
 Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran ; 
 And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with 
 
 dew, 
 I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new. 
 
 " Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are 
 
 now, 
 Then I '11 yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the 
 
 plough ; 
 My Playmate thou shalt be ; and w'hen the wind is cold 
 Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold. 
 
 " It will not, will not rest ! — Poor Creature, can it be 
 That 't is thy mother's heart which is working so in 
 
 theel 
 Things tliat I know not of belike to thee are dear. 
 And dreams of things w- hich thou canst neither see nor 
 
 hear. 
 
POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDFIOOD. 33 
 
 " Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and fair ! 
 
 IIL 
 
 I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come 
 
 Along the river's stony marge 
 
 there ; 
 
 The Sand-lark chants a joyous song ; 
 
 The little hrooks that seem all pastime and all play, 
 
 The Thrush is busy in the wood. 
 
 When they are angry, roar like Lions for their prey. 
 
 And carols loud and strong. 
 
 
 A thousand Lambs are on the rocks. 
 
 " Here thou needest not dread the raven in the sky ; 
 
 All newly born ! both earth and sky 
 Keep jubilee, and more than all, 
 
 Night and day thou art safe, — our cottage is hard by. 
 
 Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain? 
 
 Those Boys with their green Coronal ; 
 They never hear the cry, 
 
 Sleep — and at break of day I will come to thee again 1" 
 
 — As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet. 
 
 That plaintive cry ! which up the hill 
 
 This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat; 
 
 Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll. 
 
 And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line. 
 
 IV. 
 
 That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was 
 
 
 Said Walter, leaping from the ground 
 
 7tl%UQ, 
 
 " Down to the stump of yon old yew 
 
 Again, and once again, did I repeat the song ; 
 
 We '11 for our Whistles run a race." 
 
 "Nay," said I, "more than half to the Damsel must 
 
 Away the Shepherds flew: 
 
 belong, 
 
 They leapt — they ran— and when they came 
 
 For she looked with such a look, and she spake with 
 
 Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll, 
 
 such a tone. 
 
 Seeing that he should lose the prize, 
 
 That I almost received her heart into my own." 
 
 " Stop !" to his comrade Walter cries — 
 
 
 He stopped with no good will : 
 
 
 Said Walter then, " Your task is here, 
 
 
 'Twill baffle you for half a year. 
 
 THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS; 
 
 V. 
 
 "Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross — 
 
 OR, DUNGEON-GHYLL FORCE.* 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 Come on, and in my footsteps tread !" 
 
 I. 
 
 The other took him at his word, 
 
 The valley rings with mirth and joy ; 
 
 And followed as he led. 
 
 Among the hills the echoes play 
 
 It was a spot which you may see 
 
 A never, never ending song. 
 
 If ever you to Langdale go ; 
 
 To welcome in the May. 
 
 Into a chasm a mighty Block 
 
 The Magpie chatters with delight ; 
 
 Hath fallen, and made a Bridge of rock : 
 
 The mountain Raven's youngling brood 
 
 The gulf is deep below ; 
 
 Have left the Mother and the Nest ; 
 
 And in a basin black and small 
 
 And they go rambling east and west 
 
 Receives a lofty Waterfall. 
 
 In search of their own food ; 
 
 VI. 
 
 Or through the glittering Vapours dart 
 
 With staff in hand across the cleft 
 
 In very wantonness of heart. 
 
 The Challenger pursued his march ; 
 
 II. 
 
 And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained 
 
 
 The middle of the arch. 
 
 Beneath a rock, upon the grass. 
 
 
 
 When list ! he hears a piteous moan — 
 
 Two Boys are sitting in the sun ; 
 Boys that have had no work to do, 
 Or work that now is done. 
 
 
 Again! — his heart within him dies — 
 
 His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost, 
 
 On pipes of sycamore they play 
 
 He totters, pallid as a ghost. 
 
 The fragments of a Christmas Hymn; 
 
 And, looking down, espies 
 
 Or with that plant which in our dale 
 
 A Lamb, that in the pool is pent 
 
 We call Stag-horn, or Fox's Tail, 
 
 Within that black and frightful Rent. 
 
 Their rusty Hats they trim : 
 
 VIL 
 
 And thus, as happy as the Day, 
 
 The Lamb had slipped into the stream. 
 
 Those Shepherds wear the time away. 
 
 And safe without a bruise or wound 
 
 
 The Cataract had bortle him down 
 
 • GhijU, in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland, is 
 
 
 a short, and, for the most part, a steep narrow valley, with a 
 
 Into the gulf profound. 
 
 Stream running through it. Force is the word universally em- 
 
 His Dam had seen him when he fell. 
 
 ployed in these dialects for Waterfall 
 E 
 
 She saw him down the torrent borne ; 
 
34 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And, while with all a mother's love 
 
 She from the lofty rocks above 
 
 Sent forth a cry forlorn, 
 
 The Lamb, still swimming round and round, 
 
 Made answer to that plaintive sound. 
 
 vni. 
 
 When he had learnt what thing it was, 
 
 That sent this rueful cry ; I ween 
 
 The Boy recovered heart, and told 
 
 The sight which he had seen. 
 
 Both gladly now deferred their task ; 
 
 Nor was there wanting other aid — 
 
 A Poet, one who loves the brooks 
 
 Far better than the sages' books, 
 
 By chance had hither strayed ; 
 
 And there the helpless Lamb ho found 
 
 By those huge rocks encompassed round. 
 
 IX. 
 
 He drew it gently from the pool. 
 
 And brought it forth into the liglit: 
 
 The Shepherds met him with his charge, 
 
 An unexpected sight ! 
 
 Into their arms the Lamb they took, 
 
 Said they, " He's neither maimed nor scarred." 
 
 Tlien up the steep ascent they hied. 
 
 And placed him at his Mother's side; 
 
 And gently did the Bard 
 
 Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid, 
 
 And bade them better mind their trade. 
 
 To H. C. 
 
 SIX YEARS OLD. 
 
 O THOC ! whose fancies from afar are brought ; 
 
 Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, 
 
 And fittest to unutterable tiiought 
 
 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! 
 That 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. 
 O too industrious folly ! 
 O vain and causeless melancholy ! 
 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 fSrowarning gives ; 
 
 But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife 
 
 Slips in a moment out of life. 
 
 INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS 
 
 IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHENING THE IMAGINA- 
 TION IN BOYHOOD AND EARLY YOUTH. 
 
 From an unpublished Poem. 
 
 (Tliis extract is reprinted from "The Friend.") 
 
 Wisdom and Spirit of tlie Universe 
 
 Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought ! 
 
 And givest to forms and images a breath 
 
 And everlasting motion ! not in vain, 
 
 By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn 
 
 Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me 
 
 The passions that build up our human soul ; 
 
 Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man, — 
 
 But with high objects, with enduring things, 
 
 With life and nature; purifying thus 
 
 The elements of feeling and of thought, 
 
 And sanctifying by such discipline 
 
 Both pain and fear, — until we recognise 
 
 A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 
 
 Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me 
 
 With stinted kindness. In November days. 
 
 When vapours rolling down the valleys made 
 
 A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods 
 
 At noon ; and 'mid the calm of summer nights, 
 
 When, by the margin of the trembling Lake, 
 
 Beneath the gloomy hills, I homeward went 
 
 In solitude, such intercourse was mine : 
 
 'T was mine among the fields both day and night, 
 
 And by the waters, all the summer long. 
 
 And in the frosty season, when the sun 
 
 Was set, and, visible for many a mile. 
 
 The cottage windows through the twilight blazed, 
 
 I heeded not the summons ;— happy time 
 
 It was indeed for all of us ; for me 
 
 It was a time of rapture ! — Clear and loud 
 
 The village clock tolled six — I wheeled about, 
 
 Proud and exulting like an untired horse 
 
 That cares not for his home. — All shod with steel. 
 
 We hissed along tlie polished ice, in games 
 
 Confederate, imitative of tlic Chase 
 
 And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn, 
 
POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 85 
 
 The Pack loud-bellowing, and the hunted hare. 
 So through the darkness and the cold we flew, 
 And not a voice was idle : with the din 
 Meanwhile the precipices rang aloud ; 
 The leafless trees and every icy crag 
 Tinkled like iron; while the distant hills 
 Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
 Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the stars. 
 Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west 
 The orange sky of evening died away. 
 
 Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
 
 Into a silent bay, — or sportively 
 
 Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng. 
 
 To cut across the reflex of a Star, 
 
 Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed 
 
 Upon the glassy plain : and oftentimes, 
 
 When we had given our bodies to the wind. 
 
 And all the shadowy banks on either side 
 
 Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still 
 
 The rapid line of motion, then at once 
 
 Have I, reclining back upon my heels. 
 
 Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliifs 
 
 Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had rolled 
 
 With visible motion her diurnal round ! 
 
 Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, 
 
 Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched 
 
 Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.* 
 
 THE LONGEST DAY. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO . 
 
 Let us quit the leafy Arbour, 
 And the torrent murmuring by : 
 Sol has dropped into his harbour, 
 Weary of the open sl^. 
 
 Evening now unbinds the fetters 
 Fashioned by the glowing light ; 
 All that breathe are thankful debtors 
 To the harbinger of night. 
 
 Yet by some grave thoughts attended 
 Eve renews her calm career ; 
 For the day that now is ended, 
 Is the Longest of the Year. 
 
 Laura ! sport, as now thou sportest. 
 On this platform, light and free ; 
 Take thy bliss, while longest, shortest, 
 Are indifierent to thee ! 
 
 Who would check the happy feeling 
 That inspires the linnet's song f 
 Who would stop the swallow, wheeling 
 On her pinions swift and strong"! 
 
 * See note 3, p. 36 
 
 Yet at this impressive season. 
 Words which tenderness can speak 
 From the truths of homely reason, 
 Might exalt the loveliest cheek ; 
 
 And, while shades to shades succeeding, 
 Steal the landscape from the sight, 
 I would urge this moral pleading. 
 Last forerunner of " Good night !" 
 
 Summer ebbs ; — each day that follows 
 Is a reflux from on high. 
 Tending to the darksome hollows 
 Where the frosts of winter lie. 
 
 He who governs the creation. 
 In His providence, assigned 
 Such a gradual declination 
 To the life of human kind. 
 
 Yet we mark it not ; — fruits redden. 
 Fresh flowers blow, as flowers have blown, 
 ■' And the heart is loth to deaden 
 Hopes that she so long hath known. 
 
 Be thou wiser, youthful Maiden ! 
 And, when thy decline shall come. 
 Let not flowers, or boughs firuit-laden. 
 Hide the knowledge of thy doom. 
 
 Now, even now, ere wrapped in slumber. 
 Fix thine eyes upon the sea 
 That absorbs time, space, and number ; 
 Look towards Eternity. 
 
 Follow thou the flowing River 
 On whose breast are thither borne 
 All Deceived, and each Deceiver, 
 Through the gates of Night and Morn ; 
 
 Through the year's successive portals ; 
 Through the bounds which many a star 
 Marks, not mindless of frail mortals. 
 When his light returns from far. 
 
 Thus when Thou with Time hast travelled 
 Toward the mighty gulf of things. 
 And the mazy Stream unravelled 
 With thy best imaginings ; 
 
 Think, if thou on beauty leanest. 
 Think how pitiful that stay. 
 Did not virtue give the meanest 
 Charms superior to decay. 
 
 Duty, like a strict preceptor. 
 Sometimes frowns, or seems to frown ; 
 Choose her thistle for thy sceptre. 
 While thy brow youth's roses crown. 
 
36 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Grasp it, — if tliou shrink and tremble, 
 Fairest Damsel of the green. 
 Thou wilt lack the only symbol 
 That proclaims a genume Queen ; 
 
 And ensures those palms of honour 
 Which selected spirits wear, 
 Bending low before the Donor, 
 Lord of Heaven's unchanging Year ! 
 
 NOTES 
 
 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Note 1, p. 27. 
 [These lines are quoted by Coleridge in ' The 
 Friend,' to illustrate a principle expressed in a passage 
 of that work, which may be here inserted as a recipro- 
 cal illustration. " Blen laugh at the falsehoods imposed 
 on them during their childhood, because they are not 
 good and wise enough to contemplate the past in the 
 present, and so to produce by a virtuous and thoughtful 
 sensibility that continuity in their self-consciousness, 
 which Nature has made the law of their animal life. 
 Ingratitude, sensuality, and hardness of heart, all flow 
 from this source. Men are ungrateful to others only 
 when they have ceased to look back on their former 
 selves with joy and tenderness. They exist in frag- 
 ments. Annihilated as to the Past, they are dead to 
 the Future, or seek for the proofs of it everywhere, 
 only not (where alone it can be found) in themselves. 
 A contemporary Poet has expressed and illustrated this 
 sentiment with equal fineness of thought and tender- 
 ness of feeling : 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 
 
 A rain-bow in the sky! 
 So was it when my life began ; 
 So is it now I am a man : 
 So let it be, when I grow old, 
 
 Or let me die. 
 The Child is Father of the iinn. 
 And I vmtdd wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 
 WORDSWORTU. 
 
 " I am informed, that these very lines have been cited 
 as a specimen of despicable puerility. So much the 
 worse for the citer: Not willingly in his presence 
 would I behold the sun setting behind our mountains, 
 or listen to a tale of distress or virtue ; I should be 
 ashamed of the quiet tear on my own cheek. But let 
 the dead bury the dead ! The Poet sang for the Living 
 
 I was always pleased with the motto placed 
 
 under the figure of the Rosemary in old Herbals : 
 *Sus, apape! Ilaud tibi spiro.'" 
 
 ' The Friend; Vol. I. p. 58.— H. R.] 
 
 Note 2, p. 35. 
 [The impression made by the poem referred to 
 upon the mind of Coleridge is in some measure shown 
 by the fact that this extract and another on the French 
 Revolution were first published in ' The Friend.' A 
 record of his feelings — of the manner in whicli his spi- 
 rit was moved by the perusal — may be found in his 
 Poetical Works ; and it forms so precious a comment 
 — the best of all kinds — poet responding to poet — that 
 I have appended it in this note. It is due to a poem so 
 worthy of its lofty theme, and of liim who wrote and 
 him who is addressed. In thus appending it, I cannot 
 but hope that I am rendering a grateful service to every 
 reflective reader of this volurne — a service too, which 
 a restraining modesty might prevent Mr. Wordsworth 
 from rendering in his own edition. — II. R. 
 
 TO WILLI.'VM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Composed on the Night after his recitation of a Poem on the 
 Growth of an Individual Mind. 
 
 Friend of the Wise ! and Teacher of the Good ! 
 
 Into my heart have I received that lay 
 
 More than historic, that prophetic lay, 
 
 Wherein (high theme by tlice first sung aright) 
 
 Of the fonndaiions and the building up 
 
 Of a Human Spirit thou host dared to tell 
 
 What may be told, to the understanding mind 
 
 Revealable; and what within the mind, 
 
 By vital breathings secret as the soul 
 
 Of vernal growth, oft quickens in die heart 
 
 Thoughts all too deep lor words ! 
 
 Theme hard as high ! 
 Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears 
 (The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth), 
 Of tides obedient to external force, 
 And currents sell-determined, as might seem. 
 Or by some inner Power ; of momeiiis awful 
 Now in thy life, and now abroad, 
 When power streamed from thee, and thy soul received 
 The liglit reflected, as a light bestowed — • 
 Of Fancies fair, and milder hours oi* youth, 
 Hyblcan murnnirs of poetic thought 
 Industrious in its joy, in Vales and Glens 
 
NOTES TO POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 37 
 
 Native or outland, Lakes and famous Hills ! 
 Or on the lonely High-road, when the Stars 
 Were rising ; or by secret Mountain-streams, 
 The Guides and the Companions of thy way ! 
 
 Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense 
 Distending wide, and Man beloved as Man, 
 Where France in all her towns lay vibrating 
 Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst 
 Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud 
 Is visible, or shadow on the Main. 
 For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded, 
 Amid the tremor of a realm aglow, 
 Amid a mighty nation jubilant, 
 When from the general heart of human-kind 
 Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity ! 
 
 ■ Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down, 
 
 So summon'd homeward, thenceforth, calm and sure. 
 
 From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute Self, 
 
 With light unvvaning on her eyes, to look 
 
 Far on — herself a glory to behold. 
 
 The Angel of the vision ! Then (last strain) 
 
 Of Duty, chosen laws controlling choice, 
 
 Action and Joy ! — An orphic song indeed, 
 
 A song divine of high and passionate thoughts, 
 
 To their own music chanted! 
 
 O great bard ! 
 Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air, 
 With steadfast eye I view'd thee in the choir 
 Of ever enduring men. The truly Great 
 Have all one age, and from one visible space 
 Shed influence ! They, both in power and act, 
 Are permanent, and Time is not with Ihem, 
 Save as it worketh /or them, they in it. 
 Nor less a sacred roll, than those of old. 
 And to be placed, as they, with gradual Fame 
 Among the archives of mankind, thy work 
 Makes audible a linked lay of Truth, 
 Of Truth profound a svv-eet continuous lay. 
 Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes ! 
 Ah ! as I listened with a heart forlorn. 
 The pulses of my being beat anew : 
 And even as life returns upon the drown'd. 
 Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains — 
 Keen Pangs of Love, awakening as a babe 
 Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart ; 
 And Fears selfwill'd, that shunn'd the eye of Hope; 
 And Hope that scarce would know itself from Fear, 
 Sense of past Youth, and Manhood come in vain. 
 And Genius given, and Knowledge won in vain ; 
 And all which I had cuU'd in wood-walks wild, 
 And all which patient toil had rear'd, and all, 
 
 Commune with ihee had open'd out-— but flowers 
 Strew'd on my corse, and borne upon my bier. 
 In the same coffin, for the selfsame grave ! 
 
 That way no more ! and ill beseems it me, 
 WIio came a welcomer m herald's guise. 
 Singing of Glory, and Futurity, 
 To wander back on such unhealthful road. 
 Plucking the poisons of self-harm I And ill 
 Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths 
 Strew'd before iluj advancing ! 
 
 Nor do thou. 
 Sage Bard, impair the memory of that hour 
 Of my communion with thy nobler mind 
 By Pity or Grief, already felt loo long! 
 Nor let my words import more blame than needs. 
 The tumult rose and ceased : for Peace is nigh 
 Where Wisdom's voice has found a listening heart 
 Amid the howl of more than wintry storms. 
 The Halcyon hears the voice of vernal hours 
 Already on the wing. 
 
 Eve following eve. 
 Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home 
 Is sweetest ! moments for their own sake hail'd^ 
 And more desired, more precious for thy song. 
 In silence listening, like a devout child, 
 My soul lay passive, by the various strain 
 Driven as in surges now beneath the stars. 
 With momentary Stars of my own birth. 
 Fair constellated Foam,* still darting otF 
 Into the darkness ; now a tranquil sea. 
 Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the Moon. 
 
 And when — O Friend ! my comforter and guide ! 
 Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength! — 
 Thy long sustained song finally closed. 
 And thy deep voice had ceased — yet thou thyself 
 Wert still before my eyes, and round us both 
 That happy vision of beloved faces — 
 Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close 
 I sate, my being blended in one thought 
 (Thought was it ? or Aspiration ? or Resolve ?) 
 Absorb'd, yet hanging still upon the sound — 
 And when I rose, I found myself in prayer.] 
 
 * " A beautiful white cloud of foam at momentary intervals 
 coursed by the side of the vessel with a roar, and little stars of 
 flame danced and sparkled and went out in it: and every now 
 and then light detachments of this white cloud-like foam darted off 
 from the vessel's side, each with its own small constellation, over 
 the sea, and scoured out of sight hke a Tartar troop over a wilder, 
 ness."— r/ie Friend, p. 220.] 
 
JUVENILE PIECES. 
 

 Of the Poems in this class, "I^e Evening Walk" and "Descriptive Sketches" were 
 first published in 1793. They are reprinted with some unimportant alterations that were chiefly- 
 made very soon after their publication. It would have been easy to amend them, in many 
 passages, both as to sentiment and expression, and I have not been altogether able to resist the 
 temptation: but attempts of this kind are made at the risk of injuring those characteristic features 
 which, after all, will be regarded as the principal recommendatior of juvenile poems. 
 
 a 
 
JUVENILE PIECES. 
 
 EXTRACT 
 
 FROM THE CONCLUSION OF A POEM, COMPOSED 
 UPON LEAVING SCHOOL. 
 
 Dear native Regions, I foretell, 
 From what I feel at this farewell. 
 That, wheresoe'er my steps may tend, 
 And whensoe'er my course shall end. 
 If in that hour a single tie 
 Survive of local sympathy, 
 My soul will cast the backward view, 
 The longing look alone on you. 
 
 Thus, from the precincts of the West, 
 
 The Sun, when sinking down to rest. 
 
 Though his departing radiance fail 
 
 To illuminate the hollow Vale, 
 
 A lingering lustre fondly throws 
 
 On the dear mountain-tops where first he rose. 
 
 AN EVENING WALK, 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 General Sketch of the Lakes — Author's Regret of 
 his Youth passed among them — Short description 
 of Noon T- Cascade Scene — Noon-tide Retreat — 
 Precipice and sloping Lights — Face of Nature 
 as the Sun declines — Mountain Farm, and the 
 Cock — Slate Quarry — Sunset — Superstition of 
 the Country, connected with that Moment — Swans 
 — Female Beggar — Twilight Sounds — Western 
 Lights — Spirits — Night — Moonlight — Hope — 
 Night Sounds — Conclusion. 
 
 Fas. from my dearest Friend, 't is mine to rove 
 Through bare gray dell, high wood, and pastoral cove ; 
 Where Derwent stops his course to hear the roar 
 That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lodore ; 
 Where silver rocks the savage prospect cheer 
 Of giant yews that frown on Rydal's mere ; 
 Where peace to Grasmere's lonely island leads, 
 To willowy hedgerows, and to emerald meads ; 
 Leads to her bridge, rude church, and cottaged grounds, 
 Her rocky sheepwalks, and her woodland bounds; 
 F 
 
 Where, deep embosomed, shy* Winander peeps 
 'Mid clustering isles, and holly-sprinkled steeps ; 
 Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite's shoire, 
 And memory of departed pleasures, more. 
 
 Fair scenes ! with other eyes, than once, I gaze 
 Upon the varying charm your round displays. 
 Than when, erewhile, I taught, " a happy child," 
 The echoes of your rocks my carols wild : 
 Then did no ebb of cheerfulness demand 
 Sad tides of joy from Melancholy's hand ; 
 In youth's keen eye the livelong day was bright, 
 The sun at morning, and the stars of night, 
 Alike, when heard the bittern's hollow bill. 
 Or the first woodcocksf roamed the moonlight hill. 
 
 In thoughtless gaiety I coursed the plain, 
 And hope itself was all I knew of pain. 
 For then, even then, the little heart would beat 
 At times, while young Content forsook her seat. 
 And wild Impatience, panting upward, showed 
 Where, tipped with gold, the mountain-summits glowed. 
 Alas ! the idle tale of man is found 
 Depicted in the dial's moral round ; 
 With Hope Reflection blends her social rays 
 To gild the total tablet of his days ; 
 Yet still, the sport of some malignant Power, 
 He knows but from its shade the present hour. 
 
 But why, ungrateful, dwell on idle pain 1 
 To show what pleasures yet to me remain. 
 Say, will my Friend, with unreluctant ear, 
 The history of a poet's evening hear 1 
 
 When, in the south, the wan noon, brooding still, 
 Breathed a pale steam around the glaring hill. 
 And shades of deep-embattled clouds were seen, 
 Spotting the northern cliffs with lights between ; 
 When, at the barren wall's unsheltered end. 
 Where long rails far into the lake extend. 
 Crowded the shortened herds, and beat the tides 
 With their quick tails, and lashed their speckled sides ; 
 When school- boys stretched their length upon the 
 
 green ; 
 And round the humming elm, a glimmering scene ! 
 
 * These fines are only applicable to the middle part of that 
 lake. 
 
 t In the beginning of winter, these mountains are frequented 
 by woodcocks, wliich in dark nights retire into llie woods. 
 4* 4' 
 
42 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 In the brown park, in herds, the troubled deer 
 
 Shook the still-twinkling tail and glancing ear; 
 
 When horses in the sunburnt intake* stood, 
 
 And vainly eyed below the tempting flood, 
 
 Or tracked the Passenger, in mute distress. 
 
 With forward neck the closing gate to press — 
 
 Then, while I wandered up the huddling rill 
 
 Brightening with water-breaks the sombrous ghyll,t 
 
 As by enchantment, an obscure retreat 
 
 Opened at once, and stayed my devious feet. 
 
 While tliick above the rill the branches close, 
 
 In rocky basin its wild waves repose. 
 
 Inverted shrubs, and moss of gloomy green. 
 
 Cling from the rocks, with pale wood-weeds between ; 
 
 Save that aloft the subtle sunbeam shine 
 
 On withered briars that o'er the crags recline, 
 
 Sole light admitted here, a small cascade. 
 
 Illumes with sparkling foam the impervious shade; 
 
 Beyond, along the vista of the brook. 
 
 Where antique roots its bustling course o'erlook. 
 
 The eye reposes on a secret bridgej 
 
 Half gray, half shagged with ivy to its ridge; 
 
 Whence hangs, in the cool shade, the listless swain 
 
 Lingering behind his disappearing wain. 
 
 — Did Sabine grace adorn my living line, 
 
 Bandusia's praise, wild Stream, should yield to thine ! 
 
 Never shall ruthless minister of Death 
 
 'Mid thy soft glooms the glittering steel unsheath; 
 
 No goblets shall, for thee, be crowned with flowers. 
 
 No kid with piteous outcry thrill thy bowers ; 
 
 The mystic shapes that by thy margin rove 
 
 A more benignant sacrifice approve ; 
 
 A Mind, that, in a calm angelic mood 
 
 Of happy wisdom, meditating good. 
 
 Beholds, of all from her high powers required. 
 
 Much done, and much designed, and more desired, — 
 
 Harmonious thoughts, a soul by truth refined. 
 
 Entire affection for all human kind. 
 
 — Sweet rill, farewell ! To-morrow's noon again 
 Shall hide me, wooing long thy wildwood strain ; 
 But now the sun has gained his western road, 
 And eve's mild hour invites my steps abroad. 
 
 While, near the midway clifl', the silvered kite 
 In many a whistling circle wheels her flight; 
 Slant watery lights, from parting clouds, apace 
 Travel along the precipice's base ; 
 Cheering its naked waste of scattered stone, 
 By lichens gray, and scanty moss, o'ergrown ; 
 Where scarce the fox-glove peeps, or thistle's beard : 
 And desert stone-chat, all day long, is heard. 
 
 * The word intake is local, and signifies a mountain inclosure. 
 i t Ghyll is also, I believe, a term confined to this country : 
 ' Glen, ghyll, and Jingle, have the same meaning. 
 i } The reader who has made the tour of this country will 
 ' recognise, in this description, the fcanires which characterise 
 j tlie lower waterfall in the grounds of Rydale. 
 
 How pleasant, as the sun declines, to view 
 The spacious landscape changed in form and hue ! 
 Here, vanish, as in mist, before a flood 
 Of bright obscurity, hill, lawn, and wood ; 
 There, objects, by the searching beams betrayed, 
 Come forth, and here retire in purple shade ; 
 Even the white stems of birch, the cottage white, 
 Soften their glare before the mellow light ; 
 The skifl^s, at anchor where with umbrage wide 
 Yon chestnuts half the latticed boat-house hide. 
 Shed from their sides, that face the sun's slant beam, , 
 Strong flakes of radiance on the tremulous stream : 
 Raised by yon travelling flock, a dusty cloud 
 Mounts from the road, and spreads its moving shroud; 
 The shepherd, all involved in wreaths of fire. 
 Now shows a shadowy speck, and now is lost entire. 
 
 Into a gradual calm the zephyrs sink, 
 A blue rim borders all the lake's still brink : 
 And now, on every side, the surface breaks 
 Into blue spots, and slowly lengthening streaks ; 
 Here, plots of sparkling water tremble bright 
 With thousand thousand twinkling points of light ; 
 There, waves that, hardly weltering, die away, 
 Tip their smooth ridges with a softer ray. 
 And now the universal tides repose. 
 And, brightly blue, the burnished mirror glows, 
 Save where, along the shady western marge, 
 Coasts, with industrious oar, the charcoal barge ; 
 The sails are dropped, the poplar's foliage sleeps, 
 And insects clothe, like dust, the glassy deeps. 
 
 Their panniered train a group of potters goad, 
 Winding from side to side up the steep road ; 
 The peasant, from yon cliff of fearful edge, 
 Shot, down the headlong path darts with his sledge; 
 Bright beams the lonely mountain horse illume. 
 Feeding 'mid purple heath, " green ringsj," and broom ; 
 While the sharp slope the slackened team confounds. 
 Downward the ponderous timber-wain resounds|| ; 
 In foamy breaks the rill, with merry song. 
 Dashed o'er the rough rock, lightly leaps along; 
 From lonesome chapel at the mountain's feet. 
 Three humble bells their rustic chime repeat : 
 Sounds from the water-side the hammered boat; 
 And blasted quarry thunders, heard remote ! 
 
 Even here, amid the sweep of endless woods. 
 Blue pomp of lakes, high cliffs, and falling floods, 
 Not undelightful are the simplest charms. 
 Found by the verdant door of mountain farms. 
 
 Sweetly ferociousIT, round his native walks, 
 Pride of his sister-wives, the monarch stalks ; 
 
 V Vivid rings of green." — Greenwood's Poem on Shooting. 
 
 11 " Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon riiigsi" — 
 Beattie. 
 
 IT " Polcemcnie feroc-e." — Tasso. ■ — In this dcscriplion of the 
 cock, I remembered a spirited one of the same animal in 1' Agri- 
 culture, ou Les Georgiques Francoises, of M Rossuet. 
 
JUVENILE PIECEf; 
 
 13 
 
 Anon, in order mounts a gorgeous show 
 
 Of horsemen shadows winding to and fro; 
 
 At intervals imperial banners stream, 
 
 And now the van reflects the solar beam. 
 
 The rear through iron brown betrays a sullen gleam ; 
 
 Lost gradual, o'er the heights in pomp they go, 
 
 While silent stands the admiring vale below ; 
 
 Till, save the lonely beacon, all is fled. 
 
 That tips with eve's last gleam his spiry head.f 
 
 Now, while the solemn evening shadows sail 
 On red slow-waving pinions, down the vale ; 
 And, fronting the bright west, yon oak entwines. 
 Its darkening boughs and leaves, in stronger lines, 
 How pleasant near the tranquil lal;e to stray 
 Where winds the road along a secret bay ; 
 By rills that tumble down the woody steeps, 
 And run in transport to the dimpling deeps ; 
 Along the " wild meandering shore" to view 
 Obsequious Grace the winding Swan pursue : 
 He swells his lifted chest, and backward flings 
 His bridling neck between his towering wings ; 
 In all the majesty of ease, divides 
 And, glorying, looks around the silent tides ; 
 On as he floats, the silvered waters glow. 
 Proud of the varying arch and moveless form of snow, 
 While tender cares and mild domestic Loves, 
 With furtive watch, pursue her as she moves; 
 The female with a meeker charm succeeds, 
 And her brown little-ones around her leads. 
 Nibbling the water-lilies as they pass. 
 Or playing wanton with the floating grass. 
 She, in a mother's care, her beauty's pride 
 Forgets, unwearied watching every side ; 
 She calls them near, and with aflfection sweet 
 Alternately relieves their weary feet; 
 Alternately they mount her back, and rest 
 Close by her mantling wings' embraces prest. 
 
 Long may ye float upon these floods serene ; 
 Yours be these holms untrodden, still, and green, 
 Whose leafy shades fence off' the blustering gale, 
 Where breathes in peace the lily of the vale. 
 Yon Isle, which feels not even the milk-maid's feet. 
 Yet hears her song, " by distance made more sweet," 
 Yon isle conceals your home, your cottage bower. 
 Fresh water-rushes strew the verdant floor ; 
 Long grass and willows form the woven wall, 
 And swings above the roof the poplar tall. 
 Thence issuing often with unwieldy stalk. 
 With broad black feet ye crusli your flowery walk: 
 Or, fi'om the neighbouring water, hear at morn 
 The hound, the horses' tread, and mellow horn ; 
 Involve your serpent necks in changeful rings. 
 Rolled wantonly between your slippery wings, 
 
 Spur-clad his nervous feet, and firm his tread ; 
 
 A crest of purple tops his warrior head. 
 
 Bright sparks his black and haggard eye-ball hurls 
 
 Afar, his tail he closes and unfurls ; 
 
 Whose state, like pine-trees, waving to and fro, 
 
 Droops, and o'er-canopies his regal brow ; 
 
 On tiptoe reared, he strains his clarion throat. 
 
 Threatened by faintly-answering farms remote : 
 
 Again with his shrill voice the mountain rings. 
 
 While, flapped with conscious pride, resound his wings ! 
 
 Brightening the cliffs between, where sombrous pine 
 And yew-trees o'er the silver rocks recline ; 
 I love to mark the quarry's moving trains, 
 Dwarf-panniered steeds, and men, and numerous wains ; 
 How busy the enormous liive within. 
 While Echo dallies with the various din ! 
 Some (hardly heard their chisels' clinking sound) 
 Toil, small as pigmies in the gulf profound ; 
 Some, dim between the aerial cliffs descried, 
 O'erwalk the slender plank from side to side ; 
 These, by the pale-blue rocks that ceaseless ring. 
 Glad from their airy baskets hang and sing. 
 
 Hung o'er a cloud, above the steep that rears 
 An edge all flame, the broadening sun appears ; 
 A long blue bar its cEgis orb divides, 
 And breaks the spreading of its golden tides ; 
 And now it touches on the purple steep 
 That flings its image on the pictured deep. 
 'Cross the calm lake's blue shades the cliffs aspire. 
 With towers and woods a " prospect all on fire ;" 
 The coves and secret hollows, through a ray 
 Of fainter gold, a purple gleam betray ; 
 The gilded turf invests with richer green 
 Each speck of lawn the broken rocks between ; 
 Deep yellow beams the scattered stems illume. 
 Far in the level forest's central gloom ; 
 Waving his hat, the shepherd, from the vale, 
 Directs his winding dog the cliffs to scale. 
 That, barking busy, 'mid the glittering rocks, 
 Hunts, where he points, the intercepted flocks. 
 Where oaks o'erhang the road the radiance shoots 
 On tawny earth, wild weeds, and twisted roots; 
 The Druid stones their lighted fane unfold, 
 And all the babbling brooks are liquid gold ; 
 Sunk to a curve, the day-star lessens still, 
 Gives one bright glance, and drops behind the hill.* 
 
 In these secluded vales, if village fame, 
 Confirmed by silver hairs, belief may claim ; 
 When up the hills, as now, retired the light. 
 Strange apparitions mocked the gazer's sight. 
 
 A desperate form appears, that spurs his steed 
 Along the midway cliffs with violent speed ; 
 Unhurt pursues his lengthened flight, while all 
 Attend, at every stretch, his headlong fall. 
 
 *From Thomson.— See Scott's Critical Essaj'S. 
 
 + See a description of an appearance of this land in Clarice's 
 Survey of the Lakes, accompanied by vouchcra of ils veracity, 
 that may amuse the reader. 
 
44 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Or, starting up with noise and rude deliglit, 
 Force half upon the wave your cumbrous flight. 
 
 Fair Swan ! by all a mother's joys caressed, 
 Haply some wretch has eyed, and called thee blessed ; 
 The while upon some sultry summer's day 
 She dragged her babes along this weary way ; 
 Or taught their limbs along the burning road 
 A few short steps to totter with their load. 
 
 I see her now, denied to lay her head, 
 On cold blue nights, in hut or straw-built shed. 
 Turn to a silent smile their sleepy cry. 
 By pointing to a shooting star on high ; 
 I hear, while in tlie forest depth, he sees 
 The Moon's fixed gaze between the opening trees, 
 In broken sounds Iier elder grief demand, 
 And skyward lift, like one that prays, his hand, 
 If, in that country, where he dwells afar, 
 His father views that good, tliat kindly star ; 
 — Ah me ! all light is mute amid the gloom. 
 The interlunar cavern, of the tomb. 
 — When low-hung clouds each star of summer hide. 
 And fireless are the valleys far and wide, 
 Where the brook brawls along the painful road, 
 Dark with bat-haunted ashes stretching broad, 
 Oft has she taught them on her lap to play 
 Delighted, with the glaw-worm's harmless ray 
 Tossed light from hand to hand ; while on the ground 
 Small circles of green radiance gleam around. 
 
 Oh ! when the sleety showers her path assail. 
 And roars between the hills the torrent gale. 
 — No more her breath can thaw their fingers cold. 
 Their frozen arms her neck no more can fold ; 
 Weak roof a cowering form two babes to shield, 
 And faint the fire a dying heart can yield ! 
 Press the sad kiss, fond mother ! vainly fears 
 Thy flooded cheek to wet them with its tears ; 
 No tears can chill them, and no bosom warms. 
 Thy breast their death-bed, coffined in thine arms. 
 
 Sweet are the sounds that mingle from afar, 
 Heard by calm lakes, as peeps the folding star, 
 Where the duck dabbles 'mid the rustling sedge, 
 And feeding pike starts from the water's edge. 
 Or the swan stirs the reeds, his neck and bill 
 Wetting, that drip upon the water still ; 
 And heron, as resounds the trodden shore, 
 Shoots upward, darting his long neck before. 
 
 Now, with religious awe, the farewell light 
 Blends with the solemn colouring of the night ; 
 
 ! 'Mid groves of clouds that crest the mountain's brow, 
 
 ! And round the West's proud lodge their shadows 
 
 ' throw, 
 
 ' Like Una shining on lier gloomy way, 
 
 The half-seen form of Twilight roams astray ; 
 Shedding, through paly loopholes mild and small. 
 Gleams that upon the lake's still boeom fall, 
 
 Soft o'er the surface creep those lustres pale 
 Tracking the fitful motions of the gale. 
 With restless interchange at once the bright 
 Wins on the shade, the shade upon the light. 
 No favoured eye was e'er allowed to gaze 
 On lovelier spectacle in faery days ; 
 When gentle Spirits urged a sportive chase, 
 Brushing with lucid wands the water's face ; 
 While music, stealing round the glimmering deeps, 
 Charmed the tall circle of the enchanted steeps. 
 — The lights are vanished from the watery plains : 
 No wreck of all the pageantry remains. 
 Unheeded night has overcome the vales : 
 On the dark earth, the baffled vision fails ; 
 The latest lingerer of the forest train. 
 The lone black fir, forsakes the faded plain ; 
 Last evening sight, the cottage smoke, no more. 
 Lost in the thickened darkness, glimmers hoar; 
 And, towering from the sullen dark-brown mere, 
 Like a black wall, tlie mountain steeps appear. 
 
 Now o'er the soothed accordant heart we feel 
 A sympathetic twilight slowly steal. 
 And ever, as we fondly muse, we find 
 The soft gloom deepening on the tranquil mind. 
 Stay ! pensive, sadly-pleasing visions, stay ! 
 Ah no ! as fades the vale, tliey fade away : 
 Yet still the tender, vacant gloom remains ; 
 Still the cold cheek its shuddering tear retains. 
 
 The bird, who ceased, with fading light, to thread 
 Silent the hedge or steaming rivulet's bed. 
 From his gray re-appearing tower shall soon 
 Salute with boding note the rising moon. 
 Frosting with hoary light the pearly ground. 
 And pouring deeper blue to jEther's bound ; 
 And pleased her solemn pomp of clouds to fold 
 In robes of azure, fleecy-white, and gold. 
 
 See, o'er the eastern hill, wliere darkness broods 
 O'er all its vanished dells, and lawns, and woods ; 
 Where but a mass of shade the sight can trace. 
 She lifts in silence up her lovely face: 
 Above the gloomy valley flings her light. 
 Far to the western slopes with liamlcts white 
 And gives, where woods the chequered upland strew. 
 To the green corn of summer autumn's hue. 
 
 Thus Hope, first pouring from her blessed horn 
 Her dawn, far lovelier than the Moon's own morn; 
 Till higher mounted, strives in vain to cheer 
 The weary hills, impervious, blackening near ; 
 — Yet does she still, undaunted, throw the while 
 On darling spots remote her tempting smile. 
 
 — Even now she decks for me a distant scene, 
 (For dark and broad the gulf of time between) 
 Gilding that cottage with her fondest ray, 
 (Sole bourn, sole wish, sole object of my way ; 
 
JUVENILE PIECES. 
 
 45 
 
 How fair its lawns and sheltering woods appear ! 
 How sweet its streamlet murmurs in mine ear ! 
 Where we, my Friend, to happy days shall rise, 
 'Till our small share of hardly-paining sighs 
 (For sighs will ever trouble human breath) 
 Creep hushed into the tranquil breast of Death. 
 
 But now the clear bright Moon her zenith gains, 
 And rimy without speck extend the plains ; 
 The deepest dell the mountain's front displays 
 Scarce hides a shadow from her searching rays ; 
 From the dark-blue " faint silvery threads" divide 
 The hills, while gleams below the azure tide ; 
 The scene is wakened, yet its peace unbroke, 
 By silvery wreaths of quiet charcoal smoke. 
 That, o'er the ruins of the fallen wood. 
 Steal down the hills, and spread along the flood. 
 
 The song of mountain streams, unheard by day, 
 Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way. 
 Air listens, as the sleeping water still, 
 To catch the spiritual music of the hill. 
 Broke only by the slow clock tolling deep, 
 Or shout that wakes the ferry-man from sleep, 
 Soon followed by his hollow-parting oar, 
 And echoed hoof approaching the far shore ; 
 Sound of closed gate, across the water borne. 
 Hurrying the feeding hare through rustling corn ; 
 The tremulous sob of the complaining owl : 
 And at long intervals the mill-dog's howl ; 
 The distant forge's swinging thump profound ; 
 Or yell, in the deep woods, of lonely hound. 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES, 
 
 TAKEN DURING A PEDESTRIAN TOUR AMONG 
 THK ALPS. 
 
 TO THE REV. ROBERT JONES, 
 FELLOW OP ST. John's collegi:, Cambridge. 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 However desirous I might have been of giving you 
 proofs of the high place you hold in my esteem, I 
 should have been cautious of wounding your delicacy 
 by thus publicly addressing you, had not the circum- 
 stance of my having accompanied you among the Alps, 
 seemed to give this dedication a propriety sufficient to 
 do away any scruples which your modesty might other- 
 wise have suggested. 
 
 In inscribing this little work to you, I consult my 
 heart. You know well how great is the difference be- 
 tween two companions lolling in a post-chaise, and two 
 travellers plodding slowly along the road, side by side, 
 each with his little knapsack of necessaries upon his 
 shoulders. How much more of heart between the two 
 latter ! 
 
 I am happy in being conscious I shall have one 
 reader who will approach the conclusion of these few 
 pages with regret. You they must certainly interest, 
 in reminding you of moments to which you can hardly 
 look back without a pleasure not the less dear from a 
 shade of melancholy. You will meet with few images 
 without recollecting the spot where we observed them 
 together ; consequently, whatever is feeble in my de- 
 sign, or spiritless in my colouring, will be amply sup- 
 plied by your own memory. 
 
 With still greater propriety I might have inscribed 
 to you a description of some of the features of your 
 native mountains, through which we have wandered 
 together, in the same manner, with so much pleasure. 
 But the sea-sunsets, which give such splendour to the 
 vale of Clwyd, Snowdon, the chair of Idris, the quiet 
 village of Bethgelert, Menai and her Druids, the Al- 
 pine steeps of the Conway, and the still more interest- 
 ing windings of the wizard stream of the Dee, remain 
 yet untouched. Apprehensive that my pencil may 
 never be exercised on these subjects, I cannot let slip 
 this opportunity of thus publicly assuring you with 
 how much affection and esteem 
 
 I am, dear Sir, 
 
 Most sincerely yours, 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 
 London, 1793. 
 
 Happiness (if she had been to be found on Earth) 
 amongst the Charms of Nature — Pleasures of 
 the pedestrian Traveller — Author crosses France 
 to the Alps — Present State of the Grande Char- 
 treuse — Lake of Como — Time, Sunset — Same 
 Scene, Twilight — Same Scene, Morning, its vo- 
 luptuous Character ; Old Man and Forest Cottage 
 Music — River Tusa — Via Mala and Grison 
 Gipsy — Sckellenen-thal — Lake of Vri — Stormy 
 Sunset — Chapel of William Tell — Force of 
 Local Emotion — Chamois-chaser — View of the 
 higher Alps — Manner of Life of a Swiss Moun- 
 taineer, interspersed with Views of the higher 
 Alps — Golden Age of the Alps — Life and 
 Views continued — Ranz des Vaches, famous 
 Swiss Air — • Abbey of Einsiedlen and its Pilgrims 
 — Valley of Chamouny — Mont Blanc — Slavery 
 of Savoy — Infuence of Liberty on Cottage Hap- 
 piness — France — Wish for the Extirpation of 
 Slavery — Conclusion. 
 
 Were there, below, a spot of holy ground 
 Where from distress a refuge might be found, 
 And solitude prepare the soul for heaven ; 
 Sure, Nature's God that spot to man had given 
 Where falls the purple morning far and wide 
 In flakes of light upon the mountain side; 
 Where with loud voice the power of water shakes 
 The leafy wood, or sleeps in quiet lakes. 
 
46 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 1 
 
 Yet not unrecompensed the man shall roam, 
 Who at the call of summer quits his home, 
 And plods through some far realm o'er vale and height. 
 Though seeking only holiday delight; ^ 
 At least, not owning to himself an aim 
 To which the Sage would give a prouder name. 
 No gains too cheaply earned his fancy cloy. 
 Though every passing zephyr whispers joy ; 
 Brisk toil, alternating with ready ease. 
 Feeds the clear current of his sympatliies. 
 For him sod seats the cottage door adorn ; 
 And peeps the far-off spire, his evening bourn ! 
 Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head, 
 And dear the velvet green-sward to his tread: 
 Moves there a cloud o'er mid-day's flaming eye 1 
 Upward he looks — "and calls it luxury;" 
 Kind Nature's charities his steps attend ; 
 In every babbling brook lie finds a friend ; 
 While chastening thouglits of sweetest use, bestowed 
 By Wisdom, moralize his pensive road. 
 Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide bower, 
 To his spare meal he calls the passing poor; 
 He views the Sun uplift his golden fire, 
 Or sink, with heart alive like Memnon's lyre ;* 
 Blesses the Moon that comes with kindly ray, 
 To light him shaken by his rugged way ; 
 With bashful fear no cottage children steal 
 From him, a brother at the cottage meal ; 
 His humble looks no shy restraint impart, 
 Around him plays at will the virgin heart. 
 While unsuspended wheels the village dance. 
 The maidens eye him with enquiring -glance. 
 Much wondering what sad stroke of crazing Care 
 Or desperate Love could lead a Wanderer there. 
 
 Me, lured by hope its sorrows to remove, 
 A heart that could not much itself approve 
 O'er Gallia's wastes of corn dejected led, 
 Her road elms rustling high above my head, 
 Or through her truant pathways' native charms. 
 By secret villages and lonely farms. 
 To where the Alps ascending white in air, 
 Toy with the sun, and glitter from afar. 
 
 Even now, emerging from the forest's gloom, 
 I heave a sigh at hoary Chartreuse' doom. 
 Where now is fled that Power whose frown severe 
 Tamed " sober Reason" till she crouched in fear 1 
 The cloister startles at the gleam of arms. 
 And Blasphemy the shuddering fane alarms ; 
 Nod the cloud-piercing pines their troubled heads ; 
 Spires, rocks, and lawns, a browner night o'erspreads ; 
 Strong terror checks the female peasant's sighs. 
 And start the astonished shades at female eyes. 
 
 * The lyre of Memnon is reported to have emitted melan- 
 choly or cheerful tones, as it was touched by the sun's evening 
 or niornijig rays. 
 
 That thundering tube the aged angler hears. 
 And swells the groaning torrent with his tears ; 
 From Bruno's forest screams the alTrighted jay, 
 And slow the insulted eagle wliecls av.'ay. 
 The cross, by angels on the aerial rock 
 Plantedf, a flight of laughing demons mock. 
 The " parting Genius" sighs with hollow breath 
 Along the mystic streams of Life and Death.J 
 Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds 
 Portentous througli her old woods' trackless bounds, 
 VallombreJ, 'mid her falling fanes, deplores, 
 For ever broke, the sabbath of her bowers. 
 
 More pleased, my foot the hidden margin roves 
 Of Como, bosomed deep in chestnut groves. 
 No meadows thrown between, the giddy steeps 
 Tower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow deeps. 
 — To towns, whose shades of no rude sound complain. 
 To ringing team unknown and grating wain. 
 To flat-roofed towns, that touch the water's bound. 
 Or lurk in woody sunless glens profound. 
 Or, from the bending rocks, obtrusive cling. 
 And o'er the whitened wave their shadows fling, 
 The pathway leads, as round the steeps it twines. 
 And Silence loves its purple roof of vines; 
 The viewless lingerer hence, at evening, sees 
 From rock-hewn steps the sail between the trees ; 
 Or marks, 'mid opening cliffs, fair dark-eyed maids 
 Tend the small harvest of their garden glades. 
 Or stops the solemn mountain-shades to view 
 Stretch, o'er the pictured mirror, broad and blue. 
 Tracking the yellow sun from steep to steep. 
 As up the opposing hills with tortoise foot they creep. 
 Here, half a village shines, in gold arrayed. 
 Bright as the moon ; half hides itself in shade : 
 While, from amid the darkened roofs, the spire, 
 Restlessly flashing, seems to mount like fire : 
 There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw 
 Rich golden verdure on the waves below. 
 Slow glides the sail along the illumined shore. 
 And steals into the shade the lazy oar ; 
 Sofl bosoms breathe around contagious sighs, 
 And amorous music on the water dies. 
 
 How blessed, delicious scene ! the eye that greets 
 Thy open beauties, or thy lone retreats ; 
 The unwearied sweep of wood thy cliff that scales; 
 The never-ending waters of thy vales; 
 The cots, those dim religious groves embower. 
 Or, under rocks that from the water tower. 
 Insinuated, sprinkling all the shore ; 
 Each with his household boat beside the door, 
 
 t Alluding to crosses seen on the tops of the spiry rocks of 
 Chartreuse, which have every appearance of being inacces- 
 sible. 
 
 } Names of Rivers at the Chartreuse. 
 
 § Name of one of the valleys of the Chartreuse. 
 
JUVENILE PIECES. 
 
 47 
 
 Whose flaccid sails in forms fantastic droop, 
 Brightening the gloom where thick the forests stoop ; 
 — Thy torrents shooting from the clear blue sky, 
 Thy towns, that cleave like swallows' nests, on high ; 
 That glimmer hoar in eve's last light, descried 
 Dim from the twilight water's shaggy side, 
 Whence lutes and voices down the enchanted woods 
 Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten floods ; 
 — Thy lake, 'mid smoking woods, that blue and gray 
 Gleams, streaked or dappled, hid from morning's ray, 
 Slow travelling down the western hills, to fold 
 Its green-tinged margin in a blaze of gold ; 
 From tliickly-glitteving spires, the matin bell 
 Calling the woodman from his desert cell, 
 A summons to the sound of oars that pass, 
 Spotting the steaming deeps, to early mass ; 
 Slow swells the service, o'er the water borne, 
 While fill each pause the ringing woods of morn. 
 Farewell those forms that in thy noon-tide shade 
 Rest near their little plots of wheaten glade ; 
 Those charms that bind the soul in powerless trance. 
 Lip-dewing song, and ringlet-tossing dance. 
 Where sparkling eyes and breaking smiles illume 
 The sylvan cabin's lute-enlivened gloom. 
 — Alas! the very murmur of the streams 
 Breathes o'er the failing soul voluptuous dreams, 
 While Slavery, forcing the sunk mind to dwell 
 On joys that might disgrace the captive's cell. 
 Her shameless timbrel shakes on Como's marge. 
 And winds, from bay to bay, the vocal barge. 
 
 Yet arts are thine that soothe the unquiet heart, 
 And smiles to Solitude and Want impart. 
 I loved by silent cottage-doors to roam. 
 The far-oiF peasant's day-deserted home ; 
 And once I pierced the mazes of a wood. 
 Where, far from public haunt, a cabin stood ; 
 There by the door a hoary-headed Sire 
 Touched with his withered hand «n ancient lyre ; 
 Beneath an old gray oak, as violets lie. 
 Stretched at his feet with steadfast, upward eye, 
 His children's children joined the holy sound ; 
 — A Hermit with his family around ! 
 
 But let us hence, for fair Locarno smiles 
 Embowered in walnut slopes and citron isles; 
 Or seek at eve the banks of Tusa's stream, 
 While, 'mid dim towers and woods, her* waters gleam ; 
 From the bright wave, in solemn gloom, retire 
 The dull-red steeps, and, darkening still, aspire 
 To where afar rich orange lustres glow 
 Round undistinguished clouds, and rocks, and snow; 
 Or, led v/here Via Mala's chasms confine 
 The indignant waters of the infant Rhine, 
 Hang o'er the abyss : — the else impervious gloom 
 His burning eyes with fearful light illume. 
 
 *Tiie river along whose banlvs you descend in crossing the 
 Alps by the Simplon pass. 
 
 The Grison gipsy here her tent hath placed, 
 Sole human tenant of the piny waste ; 
 Her tawny skin, dark eyes, and glossy locks, 
 Bend o'er the smoke that curls beneath the rocks. 
 — -The mind condemned, without reprieve, to go 
 O'er life's long deserts with its charge of woe, 
 With sad congratulation joins the train. 
 Where beasts and men together o'er the plain 
 Move on — a mighty caravan of pain ; 
 Hope, strength, and courage, social suflfering brings, 
 Freshening the waste of sand with shades and springs. 
 She, solitary, through the desert drear 
 Spontaneous wanders, hand in hand with Fear. 
 
 A giant moan along the forest swells 
 Protracted, and the twilight storm foretells, 
 And ruining from the cliiTs, their deafening load 
 Tumbles, — the wildering Thunder slips abroad ; 
 On the high summits Darkness comes and goes. 
 Hiding their fiery clouds, their rocks, and snows ; 
 The torrent, traversed by the lustre broad, 
 Starts, like a horse beside the flashing road ; 
 In the roofed bridge,! ^i that terrific hour. 
 She seeks a shelter from the battering shower. 
 — Fierce comes the river down; the crashing wood 
 Gives way, and half its pines torment the flood ; 
 Fearful, beneath, the Water-spirits call,| 
 And the bridge vibrates, tottering to its fall. 
 
 — Heavy, and dull, and cloudy is the night 
 No star supplies the comfort of its light, 
 A single taper in the vale profound 
 Shifts, while the Alps dilated glimmer round ; 
 And, opposite, the waning Moon hangs still 
 And red, above her melancholy hill. 
 By the deep quiet gloom appalled, she sighs. 
 Stoops her sick head, and shuts hor weary eyes. 
 She hears, upon the mountain forest's brow, 
 The death-dog, howling loud and long below ; 
 On viewless fingers counts the valley-clock. 
 Followed by drowsy crow of midnight cock. 
 The dry leaves stir as with a serpent's walk. 
 And, far beneath. Banditti voices talk ; 
 Behind her hill, the Moon, all crimson, rides. 
 And his red eyes the slinking water hides. 
 — Vexed by the darkness, from the piny gulf 
 Ascending, nearer howls the famished wolf. 
 While through the stillness scatters wild dismay 
 Her babe's small cry, that leads him to his prey. 
 
 Now, passing Urseren's open vale serene. 
 Her quiet streams, and hills of downy green, 
 
 t iVIost of the bridges among the Alps are of wood, and co- 
 vered ; these bridges have a heavy appearance, and railier 
 injure the effect of the scenery in some places. 
 
 X" Red came the river down, and loud and ofl 
 The angry Spirit of the water shrieked." 
 
 Home's Douglas. 
 
48 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Plunge with the Russ embrowned by Terror's breath ; 
 Where danger roofs the narrow walks of death ; 
 By floods, that, thundering from their dizzy height, 
 Swell more gigantic on the steadfast sight ; 
 Black drizzling crags, that, beaten by the din, 
 Vibrate, as if a voice complained within ; 
 Bare steeps, where Desolation stalks, afraid, 
 Unsteadfast, by a blasted yew upstayed ; 
 By cells* whose image, trembling as he prays, 
 Awe-struck, the kneeling peasant scarce surveys ; 
 Loose-hanging rocks the Day's blessed eye that hide, 
 And Grossest reared to Death on every side, 
 Which with cold kiss Devotion planted near, 
 And, bending, watered with the human tear, 
 That faded " silent" from her upward eye. 
 Unmoved with each rude form of Danger nigh, 
 Fixed on the anchor left by Him who saves 
 Alike in whelming snows and roaring waves. 
 
 On as we move, a softer prospect opes. 
 Calm huts, and lawns between, and sylvan slopes. 
 While mists, suspended on the expiring gale. 
 Moveless o'erhang the deep secluded vale. 
 The beams of evening, slipping soft between. 
 Gently illuminate a sober scene ; 
 Winding its dark-green wood and emerald glade. 
 The still vale lengthens underneath the shade ; 
 While in soft gloom the scattering bowers recede. 
 Green dewy lights adorn the freshened mead. 
 On the low brown wood-hutsj delighted sleep 
 Along the brightened gloom reposing deep : 
 While pastoral pipes and streams tlie landscape lull. 
 And bells of passing mules that tinkle dull. 
 In solemn shapes before the admiring eye 
 Dilated hang the misty pines on high. 
 Huge convent domes with pinnacles and towers. 
 And antique castles seen through drizzling showers. 
 
 From such romantic dreams, my soul, awake ! 
 Lo ! Fear looks silent down on Uri's lake. 
 Where, by the unpathwayed margin, still and dread. 
 Was never heard the plodding peasant's tread. 
 Tower like a wall the naked rocks, or reach 
 Far o'er the secret water dark with beech ; 
 More high, to where creation seems to end, 
 Shade above shade, the aerial pines ascend. 
 Yet with his infants Man undaunted creeps 
 And hangs his small wood-cabin on the steeps 
 Where'er below amid the savage scene 
 Peeps out a little speck of smiling green, 
 
 * The Catholic religion prevails here : these cells are, as is 
 well known, very common in the Catholic countries, planted, 
 like the Roman tombs, along the road side. 
 
 t Crosses commemorative of the deatlis of travellers by the 
 fall of snow and other accidenls are very common along this 
 dreadful road. 
 
 t The houses in the more retired Swiss valleys are all built 
 of wood. 
 
 A garden-plot the desert air perfumes, 
 'Mid the dark pines a little orchard blooms; 
 A zig-zag path from the domestic skifi", 
 Thridding the painful crag, surmounts the cliff. 
 
 — Before those hermit doors, that never know 
 The face of traveller passing to and fro, 
 
 No peasant leans upon his pole, to tell 
 For whom at morning tolled the funeral bell; 
 Their watch-dog ne'er his angry bark foregoes, 
 Touched by the beggar's moan of human woes ; 
 The grassy seat beneath their casement shade 
 The pilgrim's wistful eye hath never stayed. 
 
 — Tliere, did the iron Genius not disdain 
 
 The gentle Power that haunts the myrtle plain. 
 There, might the love-sick maiden sit, and chide 
 The insuperable rocks and severing tide ; 
 There, watch at eve her lover's sun-gilt sail 
 Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale ; 
 There, list at midnight till is heard no more, 
 Below, the echo of his parting oar. 
 
 'Mid stormy vapours ever driving by. 
 Where ospreys, cormorants, and herons cry, 
 Hovering o'er rugged wastes too bleak to rear 
 That common growth of earth, the foodful ear; 
 Where the green apple shrivels on the spray. 
 And pines the unripened pear in summer's kindliest ray ; 
 Even here Content has fixed her smiling reign 
 With Independence, child of high Disdain. 
 Exulting 'mid the winter of the skies. 
 Shy as the jealous chamois. Freedom flies. 
 And often grasps her sword, and often eyes ; 
 Her crest a bough of Winter's bleakest pine, 
 Strange " weeds" and Alpine plants her helm entwine ; 
 And, wildly pausing, oft she hangs aghast. 
 While thrills the " Spartan fife" between the blast. 
 
 'T is storm ; and, hid in mist from hour to hour, 
 All day the floods a deepening murmur pour; 
 The sky is veiled, and every cheerful sight: 
 Dark is the region as with coining night ; 
 But what a stidden burst of overpowering light ! 
 Triumphant on- the bosom of the storm. 
 Glances the fire-clad eagle's wheeling form ; 
 Eastward, in long perspective glittering, shine 
 The wood-crowned cliffs that o'er the lake recline; 
 Wide o'er the Alps a hundred streams unfold. 
 At once to pillars turned that flame with gold: 
 Behind his sail the peasant strives to shun 
 The west, that burns like one dilated sun, 
 Where in a mighty crucible expire 
 The mountains, glowing hot, like coals of fire. 
 
 But, lo ! the Boatman, overawed, before 
 The pictured fane of Tell suspends his oar ; 
 Confused the Marathonian tale appears, 
 While burn in his full eyes the glorious tears. 
 
JUVENILE PIECES. 
 
 49 
 
 And who that walks where men of ancient days 
 Have wrought with godlike arm the deeds of praise, 
 Feels not the spirit of the place control, 
 Exalt, and agitate, his labouring soall 
 Say, who, by thinking on Canadian hills, 
 Or wild Aosta lulled by Alpine rills. 
 On Zutphen's plain ; or where, with softened gaze. 
 The old gray stones the plaided chief surveys ; 
 Can guess the high resolve, the cherished pain. 
 Of him whom passion rivets to the plain, 
 Where breathed the gale that caught Wolfe's hap- 
 piest sigh. 
 And the last sunbeam fell on Bayard's eye ; 
 Where bleeding Sidney from the cup retired. 
 And glad Dundee in " faint huzzas" expired 1 
 
 But now with other mind I stand alone 
 Upon the summit of this naked cone. 
 And watch, from pike to pike*, amid the sky. 
 Small as a bird the chamois-chaser fly, 
 fThrough vacant worlds where Nature never gave 
 A brook to murmur or a bough to wave. 
 Which unsubstantial Phantoms sacred keep ; 
 Through worlds where Life, and Sound, and Motion 
 
 sleep ; 
 Where Silence still her death-like reign extends. 
 Save when the startling clifi" unfrequent rends ; 
 In the deep snow the mighty ruin drowned. 
 Mocks the dull ear of Time with deaf abortive sound. 
 — 'T is his while wandering on, from height to height. 
 To see a planet's pomp and steady light 
 In the least star of scarce-appearing night. 
 While the near Moon, that coasts the vast profound. 
 Wheels pale and silent her diminished round. 
 And far and wide the icy summits blaze. 
 Rejoicing in the glory of her rays : 
 To liim the day-star glitters small and bright. 
 Shorn of its beams, insufferably white. 
 And he can look beyond the sun, and view 
 Those fast-receding depths of sable blue. 
 Flying till vision can no more pursue ! 
 — At once bewildering mists around him close, 
 And cold and hunger are his least of woes ; 
 The Demon of the Snow, with angry roar 
 Descending, shuts for aye his prison door. 
 Then with Despair's whole weight his spirits sink 
 No bread to feed him, and the snow his drink. 
 While, ere his eyes can close upon the day, 
 The eagle of the Alps o'ershades her prey. 
 
 Hence shall we turn where, heard with fear afar. 
 Thunders through echoing pines the headlong Aar ] 
 
 * Pike IS a word very commonly used in the north of Eng- 
 land, to signify a high mountain of the conic form, as Langdale 
 pike, &c. 
 
 t For most of the images in the next sixteen verses I am in- 
 debted to M. Raymond's interesting observations annexed to 
 his translation of Coxe's Tour in Switzerland. 
 G 
 
 Or rather stay to taste the mild delights 
 
 Of pensive Underwalden's| pastoral heights'! 
 
 — Is there who 'mid these awful wilds has seen 
 The native Genii walk the mountain green ? 
 
 Or heard, while other worlds their charms reveal, 
 
 Soft music from the aerial summit steal 1 
 
 While o'er the desert, answering every close. 
 
 Rich stream of sweetest perfume comes and goes. 
 
 — And sure there is a secret power that reigns 
 
 Here, where no trace of man the spot profanes, 
 
 Nought but the herds that, pasturing upward, creepj, 
 
 Hung dim discovered from the dangerous steep. 
 
 Or summer hamlet, flat and bare, on high 
 
 Suspended, 'mid the quiet of the sky. 
 
 How still ! no irreligious sound or sight 
 
 Rouses the soul from her severe delight. 
 
 An idle voice the sabbath region fills 
 
 Of Deep that calls to Deep across the hills, 
 
 Broke only by the melancholy sound 
 
 Of Drowsy bells, for ever tinkling round ; 
 
 Faint wail of eagle melting into blue 
 
 Beneath the cliffs, and pine-woods' steady suffh \\ ; 
 
 The solitary heifer's deepened low. 
 
 Or rumbling, heard remote, of falling snow ; 
 
 Save when, a stranger seen below, the boy 
 
 Shouts from the echoing hills with savage joy. 
 
 When warm from myrtle bays and tranquil seas, 
 Comes on, to whisper hope, the vernal breeze, 
 When hums the mountain bee in May's glad ear. 
 And emerald isles to spot the heights appear. 
 When shouts and lowing herds the valley fill. 
 And louder torrents stun the noon-tide hill. 
 When fragrant scents beneath the enchanted tread 
 Spring up, his choicest wealth around him spread. 
 The pastoral Swiss begins the clifl% to scale. 
 To silence leaving the deserted vale ; 
 Mounts, where the verdure leads, from stage to stage. 
 And pastures on, as in the Patriarchs' age : 
 O'er lofty heights serene and still they go, 
 And hear the rattling thunder far below ; 
 They cross the chasmy torrent's foam-lit bed. 
 Rocked on the dizzy larch's narrow tread ; 
 Or steal beneath loose mountains, half deterred. 
 That sigh and shudder to the lowing herd. 
 
 — I see him, up the midway cliff' he creeps 
 To where a scanty knot of verdure peeps, 
 Thence down the steep a pile of grass he throws, 
 The fodder of his herds in winter snows. 
 
 Far different life to what tradition hoar 
 Transmits of days more blest in times of yore ; 
 
 IThe people of this Canton are supposed to be of a more 
 melancholy disposition than the other inhabitants of the Alps : 
 this, if true, may proceed from their living more secluded. 
 
 $ This picture is from the middle region of the Alps. 
 
 li Sugb, a Scotch word expressive of the sound of the wind 
 through the trees. 
 
50 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Then Summer lengthened out his season bland, 
 And with rock-honey flowed the happy land. 
 Continual fountains welling cheered the waste, 
 And plants were wholesome, now of deadly taste. 
 Nor Winter yet his frozen stores had piled. 
 Usurping where the fairest herbage smiled : 
 Nor Hunger forced the herds from pastures bare 
 For scanty fiiod the treacherous cliflfs to dare. 
 Then the milli-thistle bade those herds demand 
 Three times a day tlie pail and welcome hand. 
 But human vices have provoked the rod 
 Of angry Nature to avenge her God. 
 Thus does the father to his sons relate, 
 On the lone mountain-top, their changed estate. 
 Still, Nature, ever just, to him imparts 
 Joys only given to uncorrupted hearts. 
 
 'T is morn : with gold the verdant mountain glows ; 
 More high, the snowy peaks with hues of rose. 
 Far-stretched beneath the many-tinted hills, 
 A mighty waste of mist the valley fills, 
 A solemn sea ! whose vales and mountains round 
 Stand motionless, to awful silence bound: 
 A gulf of gloomy blue, that opens wide 
 And bottomless, divides the midway tide : 
 Like leaning masts of stranded ships appear 
 The pines that near the coast their summits rear; 
 Of cabins, woods, and lawns, a pleasant shore 
 Bounds calm and clear the chaos still and hoar ; 
 Loud through that midway gulf ascending, sound 
 Unnumbered streams with hollow roar profound : 
 Mount tlirough the nearer mist the chant of birds, 
 And talking voices, and the low of herds, 
 The bark of dogs, the drowsy tinkling bell. 
 And wild-wood mountain lutes of saddest swell. 
 Think not, suspended from the cliff on high, 
 He looks below with undelighted eye. 
 — No vulgar joy is his, at even-tide 
 Stretched on the scented mountain's purple side : 
 For as the pleasures of his simple day 
 Beyond his native valley seldom stray. 
 Nought round its darling precincts can he find 
 But brings some past enjoyment to his mind, 
 While Hope, that ceaseless leans on Pleasure's urn. 
 Binds her wild wreaths, and whispers his return. 
 
 Once Man entirely free, alone and wild, 
 Was blessed as free — for he was Nature's child. 
 He, all superior but his God disdained. 
 Walked none restraining, and by none restrained. 
 Confessed no law but what his reason taught. 
 Did all he wished, and wished but what he ought. 
 As Man, in his primeval dower arrayed. 
 The image of his glorious Sire displayed. 
 Even so, by vestal Nature guarded, here 
 The traces of primeval Man appear ; 
 The native dignity no forms debase. 
 The eye sublime, and surly lion-grace. 
 
 The slave of none, of beasts alone the lord 
 His book he prizes, nor neglects the sword ; 
 Well taught by that to feel his rights, prepared 
 With this " the blessings he enjoys to guard." 
 
 And, as liis native hills encircle ground 
 For many a wondrous victory renowned. 
 The work of Freedom daring to oppose. 
 With few in arms*, innumerable foes. 
 When to those glorious fields his steps are led. 
 An unknown power connects him with the dead: 
 For images of other worlds are there ; 
 Awful the light, and holy is the air. 
 Uncertain through his fierce uncultured soul, 
 Like lighted tempests, troubled transports roll ; 
 To viewless realms his Spirit towers amain, 
 Beyond the senses and their little reign. 
 
 And oft, when passed that solemn vision by. 
 He holds with God himself communion high, 
 Where the dread peal of swelling torrents fills 
 The sky-roofed temple of the eternal hills ; 
 Or, when upon the mountain's silent brow 
 Reclined, he sees, above him and below. 
 Bright stars of ice and azure fields of snow ; 
 While needle peaks of granite sliooting bare 
 Tremble in ever-varying tints of air : 
 — Great joy, by horror tamed, dilates his heart. 
 And the near heavens their own delights impart. 
 — When the Sun bids the gorgeous scene farewell, 
 Alps overlooking Alps their state upswell ; 
 Huge Pikes of Darkness named, of Fear and Stormsf 
 Lift, all serene,, their still, illumined forms. 
 In sea-like reach of prospect round him spread. 
 Tinged like an angel's smile all rosy red. 
 
 When downward to his winter hut he goes, 
 Dear and more dear the lessening circle grows ; 
 That hut which from the hills his eye emplo3's 
 So oft, the central point of all his joys. 
 And as a Swift, by tender cares opprest, 
 Peeps often ere she dart into her nest. 
 So to the untrodden floor, where round him looks 
 His father, helpless as the babe he rocks, 
 Oft he descends to nurse the brother pair, 
 Till storm and driving ice blockade him there. 
 There, safely guarded by the woods behind. 
 He hears the chiding of the baffled wind, 
 
 * Alluding to several battles which the Swiss in very small 
 numbers have gained over their oppressors, the house of Aus- 
 tria; and, in particular, to one fought at NaBffels, near Glarus, 
 where three hundred and thirty men defeated an army of be- 
 tween fifteen and twenty thousand Austrians. Scattered over 
 the valley are to be tbund eleven stones, with this inscription, 
 1388, the year the battle was fought, marking out, as I was told 
 upon the spot, the several places where the Austrians attcmp^ 
 ing to make a stand were repulsed anew. 
 
 t As Schreck-Horn, the pike of terror; Wetter-Horn, the pike 
 of storms, (to. d:c. 
 
JUVENILE PIECES. 
 
 51 
 
 Hears Winter, calling all his terrors round, 
 
 Rush down the living rocks with whirlwind sound. 
 
 Through Nature's vale his homely pleasures glide, 
 
 Unstained by envy, discontent, and pride ; 
 
 The bound of all his vanity, to deck. 
 
 With one bright bell, a favourite Heifer's neck ; 
 
 Well pleased upon some simple annual feast, 
 
 Remembered half the year and hoped the rest. 
 
 If dairy produce from his inner hoard 
 
 Of thrice ten summers consecrate the board. 
 
 — Alas! in every clime a flying ray 
 
 Is all we have to cheer our wintry way 
 
 " Here," cried a thoughtful Swain, upon whose head 
 
 The " blossoms of the grave" were thinly spread, 
 
 Last night, while by his dying fire, as closed 
 
 The day, in luxury my limbs reposed, 
 
 " Here Penury oft from Misery's mount will guide 
 
 Even to the summer door his icy tide. 
 
 And here the avalanche of Death destroy 
 
 The little cottage of domestic joy. 
 
 But, ah ! the unwilling mind may more than trace 
 
 The general sorrows of the human race : 
 
 The churlish gales, that unremitting blow 
 
 Cold from necessity's continual snow, 
 
 To us the gentle groups of bliss deny 
 
 That on the noon-day bank of leisure lie. 
 
 Yet more ; — compelled by Powers which only deign 
 
 That solitary man disturb their reign. 
 
 Powers that support a never-ceasing strife 
 
 With all the tender charities of life. 
 
 The father, as his sons of strength become 
 
 To pay the filial debt, for food to roam. 
 
 From his bare nest amid the storms of heaven 
 
 Drives, eagle-like, those sons as he was driven ; 
 
 His last dread pleasure watches to the plain — 
 
 And never, eagle-like, beholds again !" 
 
 When the poor heart has all its joys resigned. 
 Why does their sad remembrance cleave behind ) 
 Lo ! where through flat Batavia's willowy groves, 
 Or by the lazy Seine, the exile roves ; 
 Soft o'er the waters mournful measures swell. 
 Unlocking tender thought's " memorial cell;" 
 Past pleasures are transformed to mortal pains, 
 While poison spreads along the listener's veins, 
 Poison, which not a fi-ame of steel can brave, 
 Bows his young head with sorrow to the grave.* 
 
 Gay lark of hope, thy silent song resume ! 
 Fair smiling lights the purpled hills illume ! 
 Soft gales and dews of life's delicious morn. 
 And thou, lost fragrance of the heart, return ! 
 Soon flies the little joy to man allowed. 
 And grief before him travels like a cloud ; 
 For come Diseases on, and Penury's rage. 
 Labour, and Care, and Pain, and dismal Age, 
 
 * The effect of the famous ^ir, called in French Ranz des 
 Vaches, upon the Swiss troops. 
 
 Till, Hope-deserted, long in vain his breath 
 
 Implores the dreadful untried sleep of Death. 
 
 — 'Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow that shine 
 
 Between interminable tracts of pine, 
 
 A Temple stands, which holds an awful shrine. 
 
 By an uncertain light revealed, that falls 
 
 On the mute Image and the troubled walls : 
 
 Pale, dreadful faces round the Shrine appear, 
 
 Abortive Joy, and Hope that works in fear ; 
 
 While strives a secret Power to hush the crowd. 
 
 Pain's wild rebellious burst proclaims her rights aloud. 
 
 Oh ! give me not that eye of hard disdain 
 That views undimmed Ensiedlen'sf wretched fane. 
 'Mid muttering prayers all sounds of torment meet. 
 Dire clap of hands, distracted chafe of feet ; 
 While, loud and dull, ascends the weeping cry. 
 Surely in other thoughts contempt may die. 
 If the sad grave of human ignorance bear 
 One flower of hope — oh, pass and leave it there ! 
 — The tall Sun, tiptoe on an Alpine spire. 
 Flings o'er the wilderness a stream of fire; 
 Now let us meet the pilgrims, ere the day 
 Close on the remnant of their weary way ; 
 While they are drawing towards the sacred floor 
 Where the charmed worm of pain shall gnaw no more. 
 How gaily murmur and how sweetly taste 
 The fountains]: reared for them amid the waste ! 
 There some with tearful kiss each other greet. 
 And some, with reverence, wash their toil-worn feet. 
 Yes, I will see you when ye first beliold 
 Those holy turrets tipped with evening gold, 
 In that glad moment when the hands are prest 
 In mute devotion on the thankful breast. 
 
 Last let us turn to where Chamouny5 shields 
 With rocks and gloomy woods her fertile fields: 
 Five streams of ice amid her cots descend, 
 And with wild flowers and blooming orchards blend ; — 
 A scene more fair than what the Grecian feigns 
 Of purple lights and ever-vernal plains ; 
 Here lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fanned, 
 Plere all the Seasons revel hand in hand. 
 — Red stream the cottage-liglits; the landscape fades, 
 Erroneous wavering 'mid the twilight shades. 
 Alone ascends that Hill of matchless height||. 
 That holds no commerce with the summer Night ; 
 From age to age, amid his lonely bounds 
 The crash of ruin fitfully resounds ; 
 
 + This shrine is resorted to, from a hope of relief, by multi- 
 tudes, from every corner of the Catholic world, labouring under 
 mental or bodily afflictions. 
 
 t Rude fountains built and covered with sheds for the ac- 
 commodation of the Pilgrims, in their ascent of the mountain. 
 
 5 This word is pronounced upon the spot Chamouny : I have 
 taUen the liberty of changing the accent. 
 
 II It is only from the higher part of tho valley of Chimouny 
 that Mont Blanc is visible. 
 
1 
 
 6-2 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Mysterious havoc ! but serene his brow, 
 Where dnylight lingers 'mid perpetual snow; 
 Glitter the stars above, and all is black below. 
 
 At such an hour I heaved a pensive sigh. 
 When roared the sullen Arve in anger by. 
 That not for thy reward, delicious Vale ! 
 Waves the ripe harvest in the autumnal gale ; 
 That thou, the slave of "Slaves, art doomed to pine ; 
 Hard lot ! — for no Italian arts are thine, 
 To soothe or cheer, to soften or refine. 
 
 Beloved Freedom ! were it mine to stray, 
 With shrill winds roaring round my lonely way. 
 O'er the bleak sides of Cumbria's heath-clad moors. 
 Or where dank sea-weed lashes Scotland's shores ; 
 To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breathing rose. 
 And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows; 
 In the wide range of many a varied round, 
 Fleet as my passage was, I still have found 
 That where despotic courts their gems display, 
 The lillies of domestic joy decay. 
 While the remotest hamlets blessings share. 
 In thy dear presence known, and only there ! 
 The casement's shed more luscious woodbine binds. 
 And to the door a neater pathway winds ; 
 At early morn, the careful housewife, led 
 To cull her dinner from its garden bed. 
 Of weedless herbs a healthier prospect sees. 
 While hum with busier joy her happy bees ; 
 In brighter rows her table wealth aspires. 
 And laugh with merrier blaze her evening fires ; 
 Her infants' cheeks with fresher roses glow, 
 And wilder graces sport around their brow ; 
 By clearer taper lit, a cleanlier board 
 Receives at supper hour her tempting hoard ; 
 The chamber hearth with fresher boughs is spread, 
 And whiter is the hospitable bed. 
 
 And oh, fair France ! though now along the shade, 
 Where erst at will the gray-clad peasant strayed. 
 Gleam war's discordant vestments through the trees, 
 And the red banner fluctuates in the breeze ; 
 Thougli martial songs have banished songs of love, 
 And nightingales forsake the village grove. 
 Scared by the fife and rumbling drum's alarms. 
 And the short thunder, and the flash of arms ; 
 While, as Night bids the startling uproar die. 
 Sole sound, the Sourd* renews his mournful cry ! 
 
 Yet, hast thou found that Freedom spreads her 
 
 power 
 Beyond the cottage hearth, the cottage door : 
 All nature smiles, and owns beneath her eyes 
 Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies. 
 Yes, as I roamed where Loiret's waters glide 
 Through rustling aspens heard from side to side, 
 
 When from October clouds a milder light 
 Fell, whore the blue flood rippled into white, 
 Methought from every cot the watchful bird 
 Crowed with ear-piercing power till then unheard; 
 Each clacking mill, that broke the murmuring streams. 
 Rocked the charmed thought in more delightful 
 
 dreams ; 
 Chasing those long, long dreams, the falling leaf 
 Awoke a fainter pang of moral grief; 
 The measured echo of the distant flail 
 Wound in more welcome cadence down the vale ; 
 A more majestic tidef the water rolled. 
 And glowed the sun-gilt groves in richer gold. 
 
 — Though Liberty shall soon, indignant, raise 
 Red on the hills his beacon's comet blaze ; 
 Bid from on high his lonely cannon sound. 
 And on ten thousand hearths his shout rebound ; 
 His larum-bell from village tower to tower 
 Swing on the astounded ear its dull undying roar; 
 Yet, yet rejoice, though Pride's perverted ire 
 Rouse Hell's own aid, and wrap thy hills in fire ! 
 Lo ! from the innocuous flames, a lovely birth. 
 With its own Virtues springs another earth : 
 Nature, as in her prime, her virgin reign 
 Begins, and Love and Truth compose her train ; 
 While, with a pulseless hand, and steadfast gaze, 
 Unbreathing Justice her still beam surveys. 
 
 Oh give, great God, to Freedom's waves to ride 
 Sublime o'er Conquest, Avarice, and Pride, 
 To sweep where Pleasure decks her guilty bowers, 
 And dark Oppression builds her thick-ribbed towers 
 
 — Give them, beneath their breast while gladness 
 
 springs. 
 To brood the nations o'er with Nile-like wings; 
 And grant that every sceptred Child of clay. 
 Who cries, presumptuous, " Here their tides shall stay," 
 Swept in their anger from the affrighted shore. 
 With all his creatures sink — to rise no more ! 
 
 To-night,' my friend, within this humble cot 
 Be the dead load of mortal ills forgot 
 In timely sleep ; and, when at break of day. 
 On the tall peaks the glistening sunbeams play. 
 With lighter heart our course we may renew, 
 The first whose footsteps print the mountain dew. 
 
 * An insect is so called, which emits a short, melancholy cry, 
 heard at the close of the summer evenings, on the banks of the 
 Loire. 
 
 THE FEMALE VAGRANT. 
 
 My Father was a good and pious man. 
 An honest man by honest parents bred; 
 And I believe that, soon as I began 
 
 t The duties upon many parts of the French rivers were so 
 exorbitant, that the poorer people, deprived of tlie benefit of 
 water carriage^ were obliged to transport their goods by land. 
 
JUVENILE PIECES. 
 
 53 
 
 To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, 
 And in his hearing there my prayers I said : 
 And afterwards, by my good father taught, 
 I read, and loved the books in which I read ; 
 For books in every neighbouring house I sought. 
 And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought. 
 
 Can I forget what charms did once adorn 
 
 My garden, stored with peas, and mint, and thyme, 
 
 And rose, and lily, for the sabbath morn "i 
 
 The sabbath bells, and their delightful chime ; 
 
 The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time ; 
 
 My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied ; 
 
 The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime ; 
 
 The swans, that, when I sought the water-side. 
 
 From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride 7 
 
 The staff I yet remember which upbore 
 The bending body of my active Sire ; 
 His seat beneath the honeyed sycamore 
 Where the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire ; 
 When market-morning came, the neat attire 
 With which, though bent on haste, myself I decked ; 
 BIy watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire, 
 When stranger passed, so often I have checked ; 
 The red-breast, known for years, which at my case- 
 ment pecked. 
 
 The suns of twenty summers danced along, — 
 Ah ! little marked how fast they rolled away : 
 But, through severe mischance, and cruel wrong, 
 My father's substance fell into decay : 
 We toiled, and struggled — hoping for a day 
 When Fortune should put on a kinder look ; 
 But vain were vifishes — efforts vain as they ; 
 He fror^ his old hereditary nook 
 Must part, — the summons came, — our final leave we 
 took. 
 
 It was indeed a miserable hour 
 
 When, from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed, 
 
 Peering above the trees, the steeple tower 
 
 That on his marriage day sweet music made ! 
 
 Till then, he hoped his bones might there be laid. 
 
 Close by my mother in their native bowers : 
 
 Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed, — 
 
 I could not pray : — through tears that fell in showers. 
 
 Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas ! no longer ours ! 
 
 There was a Youth whom I had loved so long, 
 
 That when I loved him not I cannot say : 
 
 'Mid the green mountains many a thoughtless song 
 
 We two had sung, like gladsome birds in May ; 
 
 When we began to tire of childish play, 
 
 We seemed still more and more to prize each other ; 
 
 We talked of marriage and our marriage day ; 
 
 And I in truth did love him like a brother, 
 
 For never could I hope to meet with such another. 
 
 Two years were passed since to a distant town 
 He had repaired to ply the artist's trade. 
 What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown ! 
 What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed ! 
 To him we turned: — we had no other aid: 
 Like one revived, upon his neck I wept. 
 And her whom he had loved in joy, he said. 
 He well could love in grief; his faith he kept; 
 And in a quiet home once more my father slept 
 
 We lived in peace and comfort ; and were blest 
 With daily bread, by constant toil supplied. 
 Three lovely infants lay upon my breast ; 
 And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed. 
 And knew not why. My happy Father died. 
 When sad distress reduced the children's meal : 
 Thrice happy ! that for him the grave did hide 
 The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel. 
 And tears that flowed for ills which patience could not 
 heal. 
 
 'T was a hard change, an evil time was come ; 
 We had no hope, and no relief could gain. 
 But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum 
 Beat round, to sweep the streets of want and pain. 
 My husband's arms now only served to strain 
 Me and his children hungering in his view ; 
 In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain : 
 To join those miserable men he flew ; 
 And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we 
 drew. 
 
 There long were we neglected, and we bore 
 Much sorrow, ere the fleet its anchor weighed ; 
 Green fields before us, and our native shore, 
 We breathed a pestilential air, that made 
 Ravage for which no knell was heard. We prayed 
 For our departure ; wished and wished — nor knew 
 'Mid that long sickness, and those hopes delayed. 
 That happier days we never more must view : 
 The parting signal streamed, at last the land withdrew. 
 
 But the calm summer season now was past. 
 
 On as we drove, the equinoctial deep 
 
 Ran mountains-high before the howling blast; 
 
 And many perished in the whirlwind's sweep. 
 
 We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep, 
 
 Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue, 
 
 Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap. 
 
 That we the mercy of the waves should rue : 
 
 We reached the western world, a poor, devoted crew. 
 
 The pains and plagues that on our heads came down, 
 Disease and famine, agony and fear. 
 In wood or wilderness, in camp or town. 
 It would thy brain unsettle even to hear. 
 
 5* 
 
54 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 All perished — all, in one remorseless year, 
 
 Husband and Children ! one by one, by sword 
 
 And ravenous plague, all perished : every tear 
 
 Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board 
 
 A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored. 
 
 Peaceful as some immeasurable plain 
 
 By the first beams of dawning light imprest. 
 
 In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main. 
 
 The very ocean hath its hour of rest. 
 
 I too forgot the heavings of my breast. 
 
 Oh me, how quiet sky and ocean were ! 
 
 As quiet all within me. I was blest! 
 
 And looked, and looked along the silent air 
 
 Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. 
 
 Ah ! how unlike those late terrific sleeps, 
 
 And groans, that rage of racking famine spoke ! 
 
 The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps ! 
 
 The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke! 
 
 The shriek that from the distant battle broke ! 
 
 The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid host 
 
 Driven by the bomb's incessant thunder-stroke 
 
 To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish tossed, 
 
 Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost ! 
 
 Some mighty gulf of separation past, 
 I seemed transported to another world : — 
 A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast 
 The impatient mariner the sail unfurled, 
 And, whistling, called the wind that hardly curled 
 The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home 
 And from all hope I was for ever hurled. 
 For me — farthest from earthly port to roam 
 Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might 
 com.e. 
 
 And oft I thought (my fancy was so strong) 
 
 That I, at last, a resting-place had found ; 
 
 "Here will I dwell," said I, "my whole life long, 
 
 Roaming the illimitable waters round: 
 
 Here will I live, — of every friend disowned, — 
 
 And end my days upon the ocean flood." — 
 
 To break my dream the vessel reached its bound : 
 
 And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, 
 
 And near a thousand tables pined, and wanted food. 
 
 By grief enfeebled, was I turned adrift. 
 
 Helpless as sailor cast on desert rock; 
 
 Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift, 
 
 Nor dared my hand at any door to knock. 
 
 I lay where, with his drowsy Blates, the Cock 
 
 From the cross timber of an out-house hung : 
 
 Dismally tolled, that night, the city clock ! 
 
 At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung. 
 
 Nor to the beggar's language could I fit my tongue. 
 
 So passed another day, and so the third ; 
 
 Then did I try in vain the crowd's resort. 
 
 — In deep despair, by frightful wishes stirred, 
 
 Near the sea-side I reached a ruined Fort; 
 There, pains which nature could no more support. 
 With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall. 
 And after many interruptions short 
 Of hideous sense, I sank, nor step could crawl ; 
 Unsought for was the help that did my life recall. 
 
 Borne to an hospital, I lay with brain 
 Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory ; 
 I heard my neighbours, in their beds, complain 
 Of many things which never troubled me; 
 Of feet still bustling round with busy glee ; 
 Of looks where common kindness had no part ; 
 Of service done with careless cruelty. 
 Fretting the fever round the languid heart ; 
 And groans which, as they said, might make a dead man 
 start. 
 
 These things just served to stir the torpid sense. 
 Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. 
 With strength did memory return ; and, thence 
 Dismissed, again on open day I gazed. 
 At houses, men, and common light amazed. 
 The lanes I sought, and, as the sun retired. 
 Came where beneath the trees a fagot blazed ; 
 The Travellers saw me weep, my fate enquired, 
 And gave me food, — and rest, more welcome, more 
 desired. 
 
 They, with their panniered Asses, semblance made 
 
 Of Potters wandering on from door to door ; 
 
 But life of happier sort to me pourtrayed. 
 
 And other joys my fancy to allure ; 
 
 The bag-pipe, dinning on the midnight moor, 
 
 In barn uplighted ; and companions boon 
 
 Well met from far with revelry secure. 
 
 Among the forest glades, when jocund June 
 
 Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon. 
 
 But ill they suited me — those journeys dark 
 O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch ! 
 To charm the surly House-dog's faithful bark. 
 Or hang on tiptoe at the lifted latch. 
 The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match. 
 The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, 
 And ear still busy on its nightly watch. 
 Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill ; 
 Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding 
 still. 
 
 What could I do, unaided and unblesf! 
 
 My Father ! gone was every friend of thine : 
 
 And kindred of dead husband are at best 
 
 Small help; and, after marriage such as mine, 
 
 With little kindness would to me incline. 
 
 Ill was I then for toil or service fit: 
 
 With tears whose course no efllbrt could confine, 
 
 By the road-side forgetful would I sit 
 
 Whole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit. 
 
JUVENILE PIECES. 
 
 55 
 
 I led a wandering life among the fields ; 
 
 Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused, 
 
 I lived upon what casual bounty yields, 
 
 Now coldly given, now utterly refused. 
 
 The ground I for my bed have often used : 
 
 But, what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth 
 
 Is, that I have my inner self abused, 
 
 Foregone the home delight of constant truth. 
 
 And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth. 
 
 Three years thus wandering, often have I viewed. 
 In tears, the sun towards that country tend 
 Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude ; 
 And now across this moor my steps I bend — 
 Oh ! tell me whither — for no earthly friend 
 
 Have I." She ceased, and weeping turned away ; 
 
 As if because her tale was at an end 
 
 She wept ; — because she had no more to say 
 
 Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay. 
 
POEMS 
 
 FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Sj 
 
I 
 
POEMS 
 FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 THE BROTHERS.* 
 
 "These Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must 
 
 live 
 A profitable life : some glance along, 
 Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, 
 And tliey were butterflies to wheel about 
 Long as tlie summer lasted : some, as wise, 
 Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag, 
 Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, 
 Will look and scribble, scribble on and look,. 
 Until a man might travel twelve stout miles. 
 Or reap an acre of his neighbour's com. 
 But, for that moping Son of Idleness, 
 Why can he tarry yonder ? — In our church-yard 
 Is neither epitaph nor monument. 
 Tombstone nor name — only the turf we tread 
 And a few natural graves." To Jane, his wife. 
 Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. 
 It was a July evening ; and he sate 
 Upon the long stone-seat beneath the, eaves ^ 
 Of his old cottage, — as it chanced, that day, 
 Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone 
 His Wife sate near him, teasing matted wool. 
 While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering 
 
 wire. 
 He fed the spindle of his youngest Child, 
 Who turned her large round wheel in the open air 
 With back and forward steps. Towards the field 
 In which the Parish Chapel stood alone. 
 Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, 
 While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent 
 Many a long look of wonder ; and at last. 
 Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge 
 Of carded wool which the old man had piled 
 He laid his implements with gentle care. 
 Each in the other locked ; and, down the path 
 That from his cottage to the church-yard led. 
 He took his way, impatient to accost 
 The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there. 
 
 'T was one well known to him in former days, 
 A Shepherd-lad ; — who ere his sixteenth year 
 Had left that calling, tempted to entrust 
 
 * This Poem was intended to conclude a series of pastorals, 
 the scene of which was laid among the mountains of Cumber- 
 land and Westmoreland. I mention this to apologise for the ab- 
 ruptness with which the poem begins. 
 
 His expectations to the fickle winds 
 
 And perilous waters, — with the mariners 
 
 A fellow-mariner, — and so had fared 
 
 Through twenty seasons ; but he had been reared 
 
 Among the mountains, and he in his heart 
 
 Was half a Shepherd on the stormy seas. 
 
 Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard 
 
 The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds 
 
 Of caves and trees: — and, when the regular wind 
 
 Between the tropics filled the steady sail. 
 
 And blew with the same breath through days and 
 
 weeks, , 
 
 Lengthening invisibly its weary line 
 Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours 
 Of tiresome indolence, would often hang 
 Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze ; 
 And, while the broad green wave and sparkling foam 
 Flashed round him images and hues that wrought 
 In union with the employment of his heart, 
 He, thus by feverish passion overcome. 
 Even with the organs of his bodily eye, 
 Below him, in the bosom of the deep, 
 Saw mountains, — saw the forms of sheep that grazed 
 On verdant hills — with dwellings among trees, 
 And shepherds clad in the same country gray 
 Which he himself had worn.f 
 
 And now, at last. 
 From perils manifold, with some small wealth 
 Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, 
 To his paternal home he is returned. 
 With a determined purpose to resume 
 The life he had lived there ; both for the sake 
 Of many darling pleasures, and the love 
 Which to an only brother he has borne 
 In all his hardships, since that happy time 
 When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two 
 Were brother Shepherds on their native hills. 
 — They were the last of all their race : and now. 
 When Leonard had approached his home, his heart 
 Failed in him ; and, not venturing to enquire 
 Tidings of one whom he so dearly loved, 
 Towards the churcli-yard he had turned aside ; 
 That, as he knew in what particular spot 
 His family were laid, he thence might learn 
 
 t This description of the Calenture is sketched from an im- 
 perfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gil- 
 bert, author of The Hurricane. 
 
60 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 If still his Brother lived, or to the file 
 
 Another grave was added. — He had found 
 
 Another grave, — near which a fhll half-hour 
 
 He had remained ; but, rfs he gazed, there grew 
 
 Such a confusion in his memory. 
 
 That he began to doubt ; and hope was his 
 
 That he had seen this heap of turf before. 
 
 That it was not another grave ; but one 
 
 He had forgotten. He had lost his path. 
 
 As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked 
 
 Through fields which once had been well known to him : 
 
 And oh what joy the recollection now 
 
 Sent to his heart ! He lifted up his eyes, 
 
 And, looking round, imagined that he saw 
 
 Strange alteration wrought on every side 
 
 Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks 
 
 And everlasting hills themselves were changed. 
 
 By this the Priest, who down the field had come, 
 Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate 
 Stopped short, — and thence, at leisure, limb by limb 
 Perused him with a gay complacency. 
 Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, 
 'T is one of those who needs must leave the path 
 Of the world's business to go wild alone : 
 His arms have a perpetual holiday ; 
 The happy man will creep about the fields, 
 Following his fancies by the hour, to bring 
 Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles 
 Into his face, until the setting sun 
 Write Fool upon his forehead. Planted thus 
 Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate 
 Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared 
 The good Man might have communed with himself. 
 But that the Stranger, who had left the grave. 
 Approached ; he recognised the Priest at once. 
 And, after greetings interchanged, and given 
 By Leonard to the Vicar as to one 
 Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. 
 
 You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life : 
 
 Your years make up one peaceful family; 
 
 And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come 
 
 And welcome gone, they are so like each other. 
 
 They cannot be remembered 1 Scarce a funeral 
 
 Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months; 
 
 And yet, some changes must take place among you : 
 
 And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks. 
 
 Can trace the finger of mortality. 
 
 And see, that with our threescore years and ten 
 
 We are not all that perish. 1 remember, 
 
 (For many years ago I passed this road) 
 
 There was a foot-way all along the fields 
 
 By the brook-side — 't is gone — and that dark cleft ! 
 
 To me it does not seem to wear the face 
 
 Which then it had. 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Nay, Sir, for aught I know, 
 That chasm is much the same — 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 But, surely, yonder — 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend 
 
 That does not play you false. — On that tall pike 
 
 (It is the loneliest place of all these hills) 
 
 There were two Springs which bubbled side by side. 
 
 As if they had been made that they might be 
 
 Companions for each other : the huge crag 
 
 Was rent with lightning — one hath disappeared; 
 
 The other, left behind, is flowing still.* 
 
 For accidents and changes such as these. 
 
 We want not store of them ; — a water-spout 
 
 Will bring down half a mountain ; what a feast 
 
 For folks that wander up and down like you. 
 
 To see an acre's breadth of that wide clifl" 
 
 One roaring cataract! — a sharp May-storm 
 
 Will come with loads of January snow. 
 
 And in one night send twenty-score of sheep 
 
 To feed the ravens ; or a Shepherd dies 
 
 By some untoward death among the rocks : ' 
 
 The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge — 
 
 A wood is felled : — and then for our own homes ! 
 
 A Child is born or christened, a Field ploughed, 
 
 A Daughter sent to service, a Web spun. 
 
 The old House-clock is decked with a new face ; 
 
 And hence, so far from wanting fects or dates 
 
 To chronicle the time, we all have here 
 
 A pair of diaries, — one serving, Sir, 
 
 For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side — 
 
 Yours was a stranger's judgment : for Historians, 
 
 Commend me to these valleys ! 
 
 LEONASD. 
 
 Yet your Church-yard 
 Seems, if such freedom may be used with you. 
 To say that you are heedless of the past : 
 An orphan could not find his mother's grave : 
 Here 's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass. 
 Cross-bones nor skull, — type of our earthly state 
 Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home 
 Is but a fellow to that pasture field. 
 
 TRIEST. 
 
 Why, there. Sir, is a thought that 's new to me ! 
 
 The Stone-cutters, 't is true, might beg their bread 
 
 If every English Church-yard were like ours; 
 
 Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth : 
 
 We have no need of names and epitaphs ; 
 
 We talk about the dead by our fire-sides. 
 
 And then, for our immortal part ! we want 
 
 No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale : 
 
 The thought of death sits easy on the man 
 
 Who has been born and dies among the mountains. 
 
 * This actually took place upon Kidstow Pike at the head of 
 Haweswater. 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 61 
 
 LEONAKD. 
 
 Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts 
 Possess a kind of second life : no doubt 
 You, Sir, could help me to the history 
 Of half tliese Graves. 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 For eight-score winters past. 
 With what I 've witnessed, and with what I 've heard. 
 Perhaps I might ; and, on a winter-evening. 
 If you were seated at my chimney's nook, 
 By turning o'er these hillocks one by one. 
 We two could travel. Sir, through a strange round ; 
 Yet all in the broad highway of the world. 
 Now there's a grave — your foot is half upon it, — 
 It looks just like the rest ; and yet that Man 
 Died broken-hearted. 
 
 LEONA£D. 
 
 'T is a common case. 
 We '11 take another : who is he that lies 
 Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves T 
 It touches on that piece of native rock 
 Left in the church-yard wall. 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 That's Walter Ewbank. 
 He had as white a head and fresh a cheek 
 As ever were produced by youth and age 
 Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. 
 Through five long generations had the heart 
 Of Walter's forefathers o'erflowed the bounds 
 Of their inheritance, that single cottage — 
 You see it yonder ! — and those few green fields. 
 They toiled and wrought, and still, from Sire to Son, 
 Each struggled, and each yielded as before 
 A little — yet a little — and old Walter, 
 They left to him the family heart, and land 
 With other burthens than the crop it bore. 
 Year after year the old man still kept up 
 A cheerfiil mind, — and buflfeted with bond, 
 Interest, and mortgages ; at last he sank. 
 And went into his grave before his time. 
 Poor Walter ! whether it was care that spurred him 
 God only knows, but to the very last 
 He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale : 
 His pace was never that of an old man : 
 I almost see him tripping down the path 
 With his two Grandsons after him : — but You, 
 Unless our Landlord be your host to-night. 
 Have far to travel, — and on these rough paths 
 Even in the longest day of midsummer — 
 
 LEON 
 
 But those two Orphans'! 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Orphans ! — Such they were — 
 Yet not while Walter lived : — for, though their pa- 
 rents 
 Lay buried side by side as now they lie. 
 
 The old man was a father to the boys, 
 
 Two fathers in one father : and if tears. 
 
 Shed when he talked of them where they were not, 
 
 And haunting from the infirmity of love, 
 
 Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart. 
 
 This old Man, in the day of his old age. 
 
 Was half a mother to them. — If you weep. Sir, 
 
 To hear a Stranger talking about Strangers, 
 
 Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred ! 
 
 Ay — you may turn that way — it is a grave 
 
 Which will bear looking at. 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 These Boys — I hope 
 They loved this good old Man "i — 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 They did — and truly: 
 But that was what we almost overlooked. 
 They were such darlings of each other. For, 
 Though from their cradles they had lived with Walter, 
 The only Kinsman near them, and though he 
 Inclined to them by reason of his age. 
 With a more fond, familiar tenderness, 
 They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare, 
 And it all went into each other's hearts. 
 Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months. 
 Was two years taller : 't was a joy to see, 
 To hear, to meet them ! — From their house the School 
 Is distant three short miles — and in the time 
 Of storm and thaw, when every water-course 
 And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed 
 Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, 
 Was swoln into a noisy rivulet, 
 Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps 
 Remained at home, go staggering through the fords. 
 Bearing his Brother on his back. I have seen him. 
 On windy days, in one of those stray brooks. 
 Ay, more than once I have seen him, mid-leg deep, 
 Their two books lying both on a dry stone. 
 Upon the hither side : and once I said, 
 As I remember, looking round these rocks 
 And hills on which we all of us were born, 
 That God who made the great book of the world 
 Would bless such piety — 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 It may be then — 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Never did worthier lads break English bread ; 
 The finest Sunday that the Autumn saw 
 With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts. 
 Could never keep these boys away from church. 
 Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach. 
 Leonard and James ! I warrant, every corner 
 Among these rocks, and every hollow place 
 Where foot could come, to one or both of them 
 Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there. 
 Like Roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the bills ; 
 They played like two young Ravens on the crags : 
 6 
 
62 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Then they could write, ay and speak too, as well 
 As many of their betters — and for Leonard! 
 The very night before he went away, 
 In my own house I put into his hand 
 A Bible, and I'd wager house and field 
 That, if he is alive, he has it yet. 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be 
 A comfort to each other — 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 That they might 
 Live to such end, is what both old and young 
 In this our valley all of us have wished, 
 And what, for my part, I have often prayed : 
 But Leonard — 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 Then James still is left among yoa'i 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 'T is of the elder Brother I am speaking : 
 
 They had an Uncle ; — he was at that time 
 
 A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas : 
 
 And, but for that same Uncle, to this hour 
 
 Leonard had never handled rope or shroud : 
 
 For the Boy loved the life which we lead here ; 
 
 And though of unripe years, a stripling only, 
 
 His soul was knit to this his native soil. 
 
 But, as I said, old Walter was too weak 
 
 To strive with such a torrent; when he died. 
 
 The Estate and House were sold; and all their Sheep, 
 
 A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know. 
 
 Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years: — 
 
 Well all was gone, and they were destitute. 
 
 And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake, 
 
 Resolved to try his fortune on the seas. 
 
 Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him. 
 
 If there was one among us who had heard 
 
 That Leonard Ewbank was come home again. 
 
 From the great Gavel*, down by Leeza's Banks, 
 
 And down the Enna, far as Egremont, 
 
 The day would be a very festival-; 
 
 And those two bells of ours, which there you see — 
 
 Hanging in the open air — but, O good Sir! 
 
 This is sad talk — they'll never sound for him — 
 
 Living or dead. — When last we heard of him. 
 
 He was in slavery among the Moors 
 
 Upon the Barbary Coast. — 'T was not a little 
 
 That would bring down his spirit ; and no doubt, 
 
 Before it ended in his death, the Youth 
 
 Was sadly crossed — Poor Leonard ! when we parted. 
 
 He took me by the hand, and said to me. 
 
 If e'er he should grow rich, he would return, 
 To live in peace upon his Father's Land, 
 And lay his bones among us. 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 If that day 
 Should come, 't would needs be a glad day for him ; 
 He would himself, no doubt, be happy then 
 As any that should meet him — 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Happy! Sir — 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 You said his kindred all were in their graves, 
 
 And that he had one Brother — 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 That is but 
 A fellow tale of sorrow. From his youth 
 James, though not sickly, yet was delicate 
 And Leonard being always by his side 
 Had done so many offices about him. 
 That, though he was not of a timid nature. 
 Yet still the spirit of a Mountain Boy 
 In him was somewhat checked ; and, when his Brother 
 Was gone to sea, and he was left alone, 
 The little colour that he had was soon 
 Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and 
 pined — 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 But these are all the graves of full-grown men I 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Ay, Sir, that passed away : we took him to us ; 
 
 He was the child of all the dale — he lived 
 
 Three months with one, and si.x months with another; 
 
 And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love : 
 
 And many, many happy days were his. 
 
 But, whether blithe or sad, 't is my belief 
 
 His absent Brother still was at his heart. 
 
 And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found 
 
 (A practice till this time unknown to him) 
 
 That often, rising from his bed at night. 
 
 He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping 
 
 He sought his brother Leonard. — You are moved ! 
 
 Forgive me, Sir : before I spoke to you, 
 
 I judged you most unkindly. 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 But this Youth, 
 
 How did he die at lastl 
 
 • The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resemblance 
 to the Gable end of a house, is one of the highest of the Cum- 
 berland mountains. It stands at the head of the several vales 
 of Ennerdale, Watsdale, and Borrowdale. 
 
 The Leeza is a river which flows into the Lake of Ennerdale: 
 on issuing from the Lake, it changes its name, and is called the 
 End, Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the sea a little below Egremont. 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 One sweet May morning, 
 (It will be twelve years since when Spring returns) 
 He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs, 
 With two or three companions, whom their course 
 Of occupation led from lieight to height 
 Under a cloudless sun, till he, at length. 
 Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge 
 The humour of the moment, lagged behind. 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 63 
 
 You see yon precipice ; — it wears the siiape 
 
 Of a vast building made of many crags ; 
 
 And in the midst is one particular rock 
 
 That rises like a column from the vale, 
 
 Whence by our shepherds it is called The Pillar. 
 
 Upon its aery summit crowned with heath, 
 
 The Loiterer, not unnoticed by his Comrades, 
 
 Lay stretched at ease ; but, passing by the place 
 
 On their return, they found that he was gone. 
 
 No ill was feared ; but one of them hy chance 
 
 Entering, when evening was far spent, the house 
 
 Which at that time was James's home, there learned 
 
 That nobody had seen him all that day : 
 
 The morning came, and still he was unheard of: 
 
 The neighbours were alarmed, and to the Brook 
 
 Some hastened, some towards the Lake : ere noon 
 
 They found him at the foot of that same Rock 
 
 Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after 
 
 I huried him, poor Youth, and there he lies ! 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 And that then is his grave ! — Before his death 
 You say that he saw many happy years 1 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Ay, that he did ! — 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 And all went well with him'! — 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 If he had one, the youth had twenty homes. 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 And you believe, then, that his mind was easy t — 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Yes, long before he died, he found that time 
 Is a true friend to sorrow ; and unless 
 His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless for- 
 tune, 
 He talked about him with a cheerfiil love. 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 He could not come to an unhallowed end ! 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Nay, God forbid ! — You recollect I mentioned 
 
 A habit which disquietude and grief 
 
 Had brought upon him ; and we all conjectured 
 
 That, as the day was warm, he had lain down 
 
 Upon the grass, — and waiting for his comrades, 
 
 He there had fallen asleep ; that in his sleep 
 
 He to the margin of the precipice 
 
 Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong. 
 
 And so, no doubt, he perished ; at the time. 
 
 We guess, that in his hand he must have held 
 
 His Shepherd's staff; for midway in the cliff 
 
 It had been caught ; and there for many years 
 
 It hung — and mouldered there. 
 
 The Priest here ended — 
 The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt 
 A gushing from his heart that took away 
 
 The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence ; 
 
 And Leonard, when they reached the church-yard gate, 
 
 As the Priest lifted up the latch turned round, — 
 
 And, looking at the grave, he said, " My Brother !" 
 
 The Vicar did not hear the words : and now. 
 
 Pointing towards the Cottage, he entreated 
 
 That Leonard would partake his homely fare : 
 
 The other thanked him with a fervent voice ; 
 
 But added, that, the evening being calm, 
 
 He would pursue his journey. So they parted. 
 
 It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove 
 
 That overhung the road : he there stopped short, 
 
 And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed 
 
 All that the Priest had said : his early years 
 
 Were with him in his heart : his cherished hopes. 
 
 And thoughts which had been his an hour before. 
 
 All pressed on him with such a weight, that now. 
 
 This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed 
 
 A place in which he could not bear to live : 
 
 So he relinquished all his purposes. 
 
 He travelled on to Egremont : and thence. 
 
 That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, 
 
 Reminding him of what had passed between them ; 
 
 And adding, with a hope to be forgiven, 
 
 That it was from the weakness of his heart 
 
 He had not dared to tell him who he was. 
 
 This done, he went on shipboard, and is now 
 A Seaman, a gray-headed Mariner. 
 
 ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE. 
 
 [See the Chronicle of Geoffrey of Monmouth, and Milton's History of England.] 
 
 Where be the Temples which, in Britain's Isle, 
 For his paternal Gods, the Trojan raised 1 
 Gone like a morning dream, or like a pile 
 Of clouds that in cerulean ether blazed ! — 
 Ere Julius landed on her white-cliffed shore, 
 
 They sank, delivered o'er 
 To fatal dissolution ; and, I ween, 
 No vestige then was left that such had ever been. 
 
 Nathless, a British record (long concealed 
 In old Armorica, whose secret springs 
 No Gothic conqueror ever drank) revealed 
 The wondrous current of forgotten things ; 
 How Brutus came, by oracles impelled. 
 
 And Albion's giants quelled — 
 A brood whom no civility could melt, 
 " Who never tasted grace, and goodness ne'er had felt." 
 
 By brave Corineus aided, he subdued, 
 And rooted out the intolerable kind ; 
 And this too-long-polluted land imbued 
 With goodly arts and usages refined ; 
 Whence golden harvests, cities, warlike towers, 
 And Pleasure's sumptuous bowers ; 
 
64 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Whence all the fixed delights of house and home, 
 Friendships that will not break, and love that cannot 
 roam. 
 
 O, happy Britain ! region all too fair 
 For self-delighting fancy to endure 
 That silence only should inhabit there. 
 Wild beasts, or uncouth savages impure ! 
 But, intermingled with the generous seed, 
 
 Grew many a poisonous weed ; 
 Thus fares it still with all that takes its birth 
 From human care, or grows upon the breast of earth. 
 
 Hence, and how soon ! that war of vengeance waged 
 
 By Guendolen against her faithless lord ; 
 
 Till she, in jealous fury unassuaged, 
 
 Had slain his Paramour with ruthless sword: 
 
 Then, into Severn hideously defiled. 
 
 She flung her blameless child, 
 Sabrina — vowing that the stream should bear 
 That name through every age, her hatred to declare. 
 
 So speaks the Chronicle, and tells of Lear 
 
 By his ungrateful daughters turned adrift. 
 
 Ye lightnings, hear his voice! — they cannot hear. 
 
 Nor can the winds restore his simple gift. 
 
 But One there is, a Child of nature meek, 
 
 Who comes her Sire to seek ; 
 And he, recovering sense, upon her breast 
 Leans smilingly, and sinks into a perfect rest 
 
 There too we read of Spenser's faery themes. 
 And those that Milton loved in youthful years; 
 The sage enchanter Merlin's subtle schemes ; 
 The feats of Arthur and his knightly peers ; 
 Of Arthur, — who, to upper light restored. 
 
 With that terrific sword 
 Which yet he wields in subterranean war, 
 Shall lift his country's fame above the polar star ! 
 
 What wonder, then, if in such ample field 
 Of old tradition, one particular flower 
 Doth seemingly in vain its fragrance yield, 
 And bloom unnoticed even to this late hourl 
 Now, gentle Muses, your assistance grant. 
 
 While I this flower transplant 
 Into a garden stored with Poesy ; 
 Where flowers and herbs unite, and haply some 
 
 weeds be. 
 That, wanting not wild grace, are fi-om all mischief 
 
 free ! 
 
 A Kino more worthy of respect and love 
 Than wise Gorbonian ruled not in his day ; 
 And grateful Britain prospered far above 
 All neighbouring countries through his righteous sway ; 
 He poured rewards and honours on the good ; 
 The Oppressor he withstood ; 
 
 And while he served the gods with reverence due, 
 Fields smiled, and temples rose, and towns and cities 
 grew. 
 
 He died, whom Artegal succeeds — his son ; 
 
 But how unworthy of such sire was he ! 
 
 A hopeful reign, auspiciously begun. 
 
 Was darkened soon by foul iniquity. 
 
 From crime to crime he mounted, till at length 
 
 The nobles leagued their strength . 
 With a vexed people, and the tyrant chased ; 
 And, on the vacant throne, his worthier Brother 
 
 placed. 
 
 From realm to realm the humbled Exile went, 
 Suppliant for aid his kingdom to regain ; 
 In many a court, and many a warrior's tent, 
 He urged his persevering suit in vain. 
 Him, in whose wretched heart ambition failed, 
 
 Dire poverty assailed ; 
 And, tired with slights which he no more could brook 
 Towards his native soil he cast a longing look. 
 
 Fair blew tlie wished-for wind — the voyage sped ; 
 
 He landed ; and, by many dangers scared, 
 
 " Poorly provided, poorly followed," 
 
 To Calaterium's forest he repaired. 
 
 How changed from him who, born to highest place, 
 
 Had swayed the royal mace. 
 Flattered and feared, despised yet deified, 
 In Troynovant, his seat by silver Thames's side ! 
 
 EVom that wild region where the crownless king 
 Lay in concealment with his scanty train. 
 Supporting life by water from the spring. 
 And such chance food as outlaws can obtain, 
 Unto the few whom he esteems his friends 
 
 A messenger he sends ; 
 And from their secret loyalty requires 
 Shelter and daily bread, — the amount of his desires. 
 
 While he the issue waits, at early morn 
 Wandering by stealth abroad, he chanced to hear 
 A startling outcry made by hound and horn. 
 From which the tusky boar hath fled in fear ; 
 And, scouring toward him o'er the grassy plain, 
 
 Behold the hunter train 
 He bids his little company advance 
 With seeming unconcern and steady countenance. 
 
 The royal Elidure, who leads the chase. 
 Hath checked his foaming courser — Can it be ! 
 Methinks that I should recognise that face, 
 Though much disguised by long adversity ! 
 He gazed rejoicing, and again he gazed. 
 
 Confounded and amazed — 
 " It is the king, my brother !" and, by sound 
 Of his own voice confirmed, he leaps upon the ground. 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 65 
 
 Long, strict, and tender was the embrace he gave, 
 Feebly returned by daunted Artegal ; 
 Whose natural affection doubts enslave, 
 And apprehensions dark and criminal. 
 Loth to restrain the moving interview, 
 
 The attendant lords withdrew ; 
 And, while they stood upon the plain apart. 
 Thus Elidure, by words, relieved his struggling heart. 
 
 " By heavenly Powers conducted, we have met ; 
 — O Brother ! to my knowledge lost so long. 
 But neither lost to love, nor to regret, 
 Nor to my wishes lost; — forgive the wrong, 
 (Such it may seem) if I thy crown have borne. 
 
 Thy royal mantle worn : 
 I was their natural guardian ; and 'tis just 
 That now I should restore what hath been held in 
 
 trust." 
 
 Awhile the astonished Artegal stood mute, 
 Then thus exclaimed — "To me, of titles shorn. 
 And stripped of power ! — me, feeble, destitute. 
 To me a kingdom ! — spare the bitter scorn ! 
 If justice ruled the breast of foreign kings, 
 
 Then, on the wide-spread wings 
 Of war, had I returned to claim my right ; 
 This will I here avow, not dreading thy despite." 
 
 " I do not blame thee," Elidure replied ; 
 " But, if my looks did with my words agree, 
 I should at once be trusted, not defied. 
 And thou from all disquietude be free. 
 May the unsullied Goddess of the chase. 
 
 Who to this blessed place 
 At this blest moment led me, if I speak 
 With insincere intent, on me her vengeance wreak ! 
 
 " Were this same spear, which in my hand I grasp. 
 The British sceptre, here would I to thee 
 The symbol yield ; and would undo this clasp. 
 If it confined the robe of sovereignty. 
 Odious to me the pomp of regal court, 
 
 And joyless sylvan sport. 
 While thou art roving, wretched and forlorn. 
 Thy couch the dewy earth, thy roof the forest thorn!" 
 
 Then Artegal thus spake — " I only sought, 
 Within this realm, a place of safe retreat ; 
 Beware of rousing an ambitious thought ; 
 Beware of kindling hopes, for me unmeet ! 
 Thou art reputed wise, but in my mind 
 
 Art pitiably blind ; 
 Full soon this generous purpose thou mayst rue, 
 When that which has been done no wishes can undo. 
 
 " Who, when a crown is fixed upon his head. 
 Would balance claim with claim, and right with right 1 
 But thou — I know not how inspired, how led — - 
 Wouldst change the course of things in all men's sight! 
 
 And this for one who cannot imitate 
 
 Thy virtue, who may hate : 
 For, if, by such strange sacrifice restored. 
 He reign, thou still must be his king, and sovereign lord. 
 
 "Lifted in magnanimity above 
 Aught that my feeble nature could perform, 
 Or even conceive ; surpassing me in love 
 Far as in power the eagle doth the worm ; 
 I, Brother ! only should be king in name, 
 
 And govern to my shame ; 
 A shadow in a hated land, while all 
 Of glad or willing service to thy share would fall." 
 
 " Believe it not," said Elidure ; " respect 
 Awaits on virtuous life, and ever most 
 Attends on goodness with dominion decked. 
 Which stands the universal empire's boast ; 
 This can thy own experience testify : 
 
 Nor shall thy foes deny 
 That, in the gracious opening of thy reign. 
 Our Father's spirit seemed in thee to breathe again. 
 
 " And what if o'er that bright unbosoming 
 Clouds of disgrace and envious fortune past ! 
 Have we not seen the glories of the spring 
 By veil of noontide darkness overcast 1 
 The frith that glittered like a warrior's shield. 
 
 The sky, the gay green field, 
 Are vanished ; — gladness ceases in the groves. 
 And trepidation strikes the blackened mountain coves. 
 
 " But is that gloom dissolved 1 how passing clear 
 Seems the wide world — far brighter than before ! 
 Even so thy latent worth will re-appear, 
 Gladdening the people's heart from shore to shore; 
 For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone ; 
 
 Re-seated on thy throne. 
 Proof shalt thou furnish that misfortune, pain, 
 And sorrow, have confirmed thy native right to reign. 
 
 " But, not to overlook what thou mayst know. 
 
 Thy enemies are neither weak nor few ; 
 
 And circumspect must be our course, and slow, 
 
 Or from my purpose ruin may ensue. 
 
 Dismiss thy followers ; — let them calmly wait 
 
 Such change in thy estate 
 As I already have in thought devised ; 
 And which, with caution due, may soon be realised." 
 
 The Story tells what courses were pursued, 
 Until King Elidure, with full consent 
 Of all his Peers, before the multitude. 
 Rose, — and, to consummate this just intent. 
 Did place upon his Brother's head the Crown, 
 
 Relinquished by his own ; 
 Then to his people cried, " Receive your Lord, 
 Gorbonian's first-born Son, your rightful King restored !" 
 6* 
 
WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 The People answered with a loud acclaim : 
 Yet more ; — heart-smitten by the heroic deed, 
 The reinstated Artegal became 
 Earth's noblest penitent ; from bondage freed 
 Of vice — thenceforth unable to subvert 
 
 Or shake his high desert.* 
 Long did he reign ; and, when he died, the tear 
 Of universal grief bedewed his honoured bier. 
 
 Thus was a Brother by a Brother saved ; 
 With whom a crown (temptation that hath set 
 Discord in hearts of men till they have braved 
 Their nearest kin with deadly purpose met) 
 'Gainst duty weighed, and faithful love, did seem 
 
 A thing of no esteem ; 
 And, from this triumph of affection pure, 
 He bore the lasting name of " pious Elidure !" 
 
 THE SPARROW'S NEST. 
 
 Behold, within the leafy shade, 
 Those bright blue eggs together laid! 
 On me the chance-discovered sight 
 Gleamed like a vision of delight. 
 1 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 as if she feared it ; 
 Still wishing, dreading, to be near it: 
 Such heart was in her, being then 
 A little Prattler among men. 
 The Blessing of my later years 
 Was with me when a Boy: 
 She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; 
 And humble cares, and delicate fears; 
 A heart, the fountain of sweet tears ; 
 
 And love, and thought, and joy. 
 
 TO A BUTTERFLY. 
 
 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. 
 
 ♦[•Thenceforth, vice itself dissolving in him, and forgetting 
 her firmest hold, with the admiration of a deed so heroic, he 
 became a true converted man ; ruled worthily ten years, died 
 and was buried at Caerier. Thus was a brother saved by a 
 brother, to whom love of a crown, the thing that so often daz- 
 zles and vitiates mortal men, for which thousands of nearest 
 blood have destroyed each other, was in respect of brotherly 
 dearness, a contemptible thing.' 
 
 Milton, Hist, of England. — II. R.] 
 
 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'll 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. 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 COMPOSED IN THE YEAR 1802. 
 
 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 safely will she ride when we are gone ; 
 The flowering shrubs that decorate our door 
 AVill 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 ; 
 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. 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 67 
 
 Dear Spot ! which we have watched with tender heed, 
 Brino-ing 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, 
 Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need. 
 
 And O most constant, yet most fickle Place, 
 That hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show 
 To them who look not daily on thy face ; 
 Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know, 
 And sayest, 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 ; 
 
 Arid in this Bush our Sparrow built her nest. 
 
 Of which I sang one Song that will not die. 
 
 O happy Garden ! whose seclusion deep 
 Hath been so friendly to industrious Iiours ; 
 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. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 WRITTEN IN MY POCKET-COPY OF THOMSON'S 
 CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 
 
 Within our happy Castle there dwelt One 
 
 Whom without blame I may not overlook ; 
 
 For never sun on 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 did we see him driving full in view 
 At mid-day when tlie 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 strengtli 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. 
 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 forefend ! 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 hira 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. 
 
 He would entice that other Man to hear 
 His music, and to view his imagery : 
 And, sooth, these two did love each other dear. 
 As far as love in such a place could be ; 
 
68 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 There did they dwell — from earthly labour free, 
 
 In one of those sweet dreams I slept. 
 
 As happy spirits as were ever seen; 
 
 Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! 
 
 If but a bird, to keep them company, 
 
 And all the while my eyes I kept 
 
 Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween. 
 
 On the descending Moon. 
 
 As pleased as if the same had been a Maiden Queen. 
 
 
 
 My Horse moved on ; lioof after hoof 
 
 
 He raised, and never stopped : 
 
 =" 
 
 When down behind the cottage roof. 
 
 LOUISA. 
 
 At once, the bright Moon dropped. 
 
 I MET Louisa in the shade ; 
 
 What fond and wayward thoughts will slide 
 
 And, having seen that lovely Maid, 
 
 Into a Lover's head ! — 
 
 Why should I fear to say 
 
 " O mercy !" to myself I cried, 
 
 That she is ruddy, fleet, and strong ; 
 
 " If Lucy should be dead !" 
 
 And down the rocks can leap along, 
 
 
 Like rivulets in May! 
 
 
 
 And she hath smiles to earth unknown; 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
 
 Smiles, that with motion of their own 
 
 Beside the springs of Dove, 
 
 Do spread, and sink, and rise; 
 
 A Maid whom there were none to praise. 
 
 That come and go with endless play. 
 
 And very few to love : 
 
 And ever, as they pass away, 
 
 A Violet by a mossy stone 
 
 Are hidden in her eyes. 
 
 Half hidden from the eye ! 
 
 
 — Fair as a star, when only one 
 
 She loves her fire, her Cottage-home ; 
 
 Is shining in the sky. 
 
 Yet o'er the moorland will slie roam 
 
 
 In weather rough and bleak ; 
 
 She lived unknown, and few could know 
 
 And, when against the wind she strains, 
 
 When Lucy ceased to be ; 
 
 Oh ! might I kiss the mountain rains 
 
 But she is in her Grave, and, oh. 
 
 That sparkle on her cheek. 
 
 The diiference to me ! 
 
 Take all that's mine "beneath the moon," 
 
 
 
 If I with her but half a noon 
 
 
 May sit beneath the walls 
 
 I TRAVELLED among unknown Men, 
 
 Of some old cave, or mossy nook. 
 
 In Lands beyond the Sea; 
 
 When up she winds along the brook 
 
 Nor, England ! did I know till then 
 
 To hunt the waterfalls. 
 
 What love I bore to thee. 
 
 
 'T is past, that melancholy dream ! 
 Nor will I quit thy shore 
 
 
 Stranob fits of passion have I known: 
 
 A second time ; for still I seem 
 
 And I will dare to tell. 
 
 To love thee more and more. 
 
 But in the Lover's ear alone, 
 
 
 What once to me befel. 
 
 Among thy mountains did I feel 
 
 
 The joy of my desire ; 
 
 When she I loved was strong and gay. 
 
 And she I cherished turned her wheel 
 
 And like a rose in June, 
 
 Beside an English fire. 
 
 I to her cottage bent my way. 
 
 
 Beneath the evening Moon. 
 
 Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed 
 
 
 The bowers where Lucy played ; 
 
 Upon the Moon I fixed my eye, 
 
 And thine is too the last green field 
 
 All over the wide lea ; 
 
 That Lucy's eyes surveyed. 
 
 My Horse trudged on — and we drew nigh 
 Those paths so dear to me. 
 
 
 
 And now we reached the orchard plot ; 
 
 Ere with cold beads of midnight dew 
 
 And, as we climbed the hill, 
 
 Had mingled tears of thine. 
 
 Towards the roof of Lucy's cot 
 
 I grieved, fond Youth ! that thou shouldst sue 
 
 The Moon descended still. 
 
 To haughty Geraldine. 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 69 
 
 Immoveable by generous sighs, 
 
 She glories in a train 
 Who drag, beneath our native skies. 
 
 An oriental Chain. 
 
 Pine not like them with arms across. 
 
 Forgetting in thy care 
 How the fast-rooted trees can toss 
 
 Their branches in mid air. 
 
 The humblest Rivulet will take 
 
 Its own wild liberties ; 
 And, every day, the imprisoned Lake 
 
 Is flowing in the breeze. 
 
 Then, crouch no more on suppliant knee. 
 But scorn with scorn outbrave ; 
 
 A Briton, even in love, should be 
 A subject, not a slave ! 
 
 To 
 
 Look at the fate of summer Flowers, 
 Which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song : 
 And, grieved for their brief date, confess that ours, 
 Measured by what we are and ought to be. 
 Measured by all that, trembling, we foresee, 
 Is not so long ! 
 
 If human Life do pass away. 
 Perishing yet more swiftly than the Flower, 
 Whose frail existence is but of a day ; 
 What space hath Virgin's Beauty to disclose 
 Her sweets, and- triumph o'er the breathing Rose? 
 Not even an hour! 
 
 The deepest grove whose foliage hid 
 The happiest Lovers Arcady might boast. 
 Could not the entrance of this thought forbid : 
 O be thou wise as they, soul-gitled Maid ! 
 Nor rate too high what must so quickly fade, 
 So soon be lost. 
 
 Then shall Love teach some virtuous Youth 
 " To draw, out of the Object of his eyes," 
 The whilst on Thee they gaze in simple truth, 
 Hues more exalted, " a refined Form," 
 That dreads not age, nor suffers from the worm, 
 And never dies. 
 
 'T IS said, that some have died for love : 
 
 And here and there a church-yard grave is found 
 
 In the cold North's unhallowed ground. 
 
 Because the wretched Man himself had slain, 
 
 His love was such a grievous pain. 
 
 And there is one whom I five years have known ; 
 
 He dwells alone 
 
 Upon Helvellyn's side: 
 
 He loved — the pretty Barbara died. 
 
 And thus he makes his moan: 
 
 Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid 
 
 When thus his moan he made : 
 
 " Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak ! 
 
 Or let the aged tree uprooted lie. 
 
 That in some other way yon smoke 
 
 May mount into the sky ! 
 
 The clouds pass on ; they from the heavens depart ; 
 
 I look — the sky is empty space ; 
 
 I know not what I trace ; 
 
 But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart. 
 
 " O ! what a weight is in these shades ! Ye leaves. 
 
 When will that dying murmur be supprest! 
 
 Your sound my heart of peace bereaves. 
 
 It robs my heart of rest. 
 
 Thou Thrush, that singest loud — and loud and free. 
 
 Into yon row of willows flit. 
 
 Upon that alder sit ; 
 
 Or sing another song, or choose anotlier tree. 
 
 " Roll back, sweet Rill ! back to thy mountain bounds. 
 
 And there for ever be thy waters chained ! 
 
 For thou dost haunt the air with sounds 
 
 That cannot be sustained; 
 
 If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough 
 
 Headlong yon waterfall must come, 
 
 Oh, let it then be dumb ! — 
 
 Be any thing, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now ! 
 
 " Thou Eglantine, whose arch so proudly towers 
 
 (Even like a rainbow spanning half the vale) 
 
 Thou one fair shrub, oh ! shed thy flowers, 
 
 And stir not in the gale. 
 
 For thus to see thee nodding in the air, — 
 
 To see thy arch thus stretch and bend, 
 
 Thus rise and thus descend, — 
 
 Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can bear." 
 
 The man who makes this feverish complaint 
 Is one of giant stature, who could dance 
 Equipped from head to foot in iron mail. 
 Ah, gentle Love ! if ever thought was thine 
 To store up kindred hours for me, thy face 
 Turn from me, gentle Love ! nor let me walk 
 Within the sound of Emma's voice, or know 
 Such happiness as I have known to-day. 
 
 A COMPLAINT. 
 
 There is a change — and I am poor: 
 Your Love hath been, nor long ago, 
 A Fountain at my fond Heart's door, 
 Whose only business was to flow ; 
 And flow it did ; not taking heed 
 Of its own bounty, or my need. 
 
70 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 What happy moments did I count ! 
 Blest was I then all bliss above ! 
 Now, for this consecrated Fount 
 Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, 
 What have 1 1 shall I dare to tell ? 
 A comfortless and hidden WEix. 
 
 A Well of Love — it may be deep — 
 I trust it is, — and never dry: 
 What matter 1 if the waters sleep 
 In silence and obscurity. 
 — Such change, and at the very door 
 Of my fond Heart, hath made me poor. 
 
 To . 
 
 Let other Bards of Angels sing, 
 
 Bright Suns without a spot ; 
 But thou art no such perfect Thing : 
 
 Rejoice that thou art not ! 
 
 Such if thou wert in all men's view, 
 
 A universal show. 
 What would my Fancy have to do f 
 
 My Feelings to bestow 1 
 
 Heed not tho' none should call thee fair ; 
 
 So, Mary, let it be. 
 If nought in loveliness compare 
 
 With what thou art to me. 
 
 True Beauty dwells in deep retreats. 
 
 Whose veil is unremoved 
 Till heart with heart in concord beats, 
 
 And the Lover is beloved. 
 
 How rich that forehead's calm expanse ! 
 
 How bright that Heaven-directed glance ! 
 
 — Waft her to Glory, winged Powers, 
 
 Ere sorrow be renewed, 
 
 And intercourse with mortal hours 
 
 Bring back a humbler mood ! 
 
 So looked Cecilia when she drew 
 
 An Angel from his station ; 
 
 So looked — not ceasing to pursue 
 
 Her tuneful adoration ! 
 
 But hand and voice alike are still ; 
 
 No sound here sweeps away the will 
 
 That gave it birth ; — in service meek 
 
 One upright arm sustains the cheek, 
 
 And one across the bosom lies — 
 
 That rose, and nov/ forgets to rise, 
 
 Subdued by breathless harmonies 
 
 Of meditative feeling ; 
 
 Mute strains from worlds beyond the skies 
 
 Through the pure light of female eyes, 
 
 Their sanctity revealing ! 
 
 To 
 
 O DEARER far than light and life are dear, 
 Full oft our human foresight I deplore ; 
 Trembling, through my unworthiness, with fear 
 That friends, by death disjoined, may meet no more '. 
 
 Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control, 
 Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest ; 
 While all the future, for thy purer soul. 
 With " sober certainties" of love is blest. 
 
 If a faint sigh, not meant for human ear, 
 Tell that these words thy liumbleness offend, 
 Cherish me still — else faltering in the rear 
 Of a steep march : uphold me to tho end. 
 
 Peace settles where the Intellect is meek, 
 And love is dutiful in thought and deed ; 
 Through Thee communion with that Love I seek ; 
 The faith Heaven strengthens where he moulds the 
 creed. 
 
 LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, 
 ON THE EVE OF A NEW YEAR. 
 
 " Smile of the Moon ! — for so I name 
 That silent greeting from above ; 
 A gentle flash of light that came 
 From Her whom drooping Captives love ; 
 Or art thou of still higher birth ^ 
 Thou that didst part the clouds of earth. 
 My torpor to reprove ! 
 
 " Bright boon of pitying Heaven — alas ! 
 I may not trust thy placid cheer ! 
 Pondering that Time to-night will pass 
 The threshold of another year; 
 For years to me are sad and dull ; 
 My very moments are too full 
 Of hopelessness and fear. 
 
 " And yet, the soul-awakening gleam. 
 That struck perchance the farthest cone 
 Of Scotland's rocky wilds, did seem 
 To visit me, and me alone ; 
 Me, unapproached by any friend. 
 Save those who to my sorrows lend 
 Tears due unto their own. 
 
 "To-night the church-tower bells will ring 
 Through these wide realms a festive peal ; 
 To the new year a welcoming ; 
 A tuneful offering for the weal 
 Of happy millions lulled in sleep ; 
 While I am forced to watch and weep, 
 By wounds that may not heal. 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 71 
 
 " Born all too high, by wedlock raised 
 Still higher — to be cast thus low ! 
 Would that mine eyes had never gazed 
 On aught of more ambitious show 
 Than the sweet flowerets of the fields ! 
 — It is my royal state that yields 
 This bitterness of woe. 
 
 " Yet how ^ — for I, if there be truth 
 In the world's voice, was passing fair ; 
 And beauty, for confiding youth, 
 Those shocks of passion can prepare 
 That kill the bloom before its time. 
 And blanch, without the Owner's crime, 
 The most resplendent hair. 
 
 " Unblest distinction ! showered on me 
 To bind a lingering life in chains : — 
 All that could quit my grasp, or flee, 
 Is gone ; — but not the subtle stains 
 Fixed in the spirit ; for even here 
 Can I be proud that jealous fear 
 Of what I was remains. 
 
 " A Woman rules my prison's key ; 
 A sister Queen, against the bent 
 Of law and holiest sympathy, 
 Detains me — doubtful of the event ; 
 Great God, who feelest for my distress. 
 My thoughts are all that I possess, 
 O keep them innocent ! 
 
 " Farewell, desire of human aid, 
 Which abject mortals vainly court ! 
 By friends deceived, by foes betrayed. 
 Of fears the prey, of hopes the sport ; 
 Nought but the world-redeeming Cross 
 Is able to supply my loss. 
 My burthen to support. 
 
 " Hark ! the death-note of the year 
 Sounded by the castle-clock !" 
 From her sunk eyes a stagnant tear 
 Stole forth, unsettled by the shock ; 
 But oft the woods renewed their green. 
 Ere the tired head of Scotland's Queen 
 Reposed upon the block ! 
 
 THE COMPLAINT 
 OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN. 
 
 Desert ; unless he should have the good fortune to fall in with 
 some other Tribes of Indians. The females are equally, or still 
 more, exposed to the same fate. See that very interesting work, 
 Hearne's Journey from Hudson's Bay to the Northern Ocean. 
 In the high Northern Latitudes, as the same writer informs us, 
 when the Northern Lights vary their position in the air, they 
 make a rustling and a crackling noise, as alluded to in the fol- 
 lowing poem.}i 
 
 [When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to con- I 
 tmue his journey witli his companions, he is left behind, covered i 
 over with Deer-skins, and is supplied with water, food, and 
 fuel, if the situation of the place will afford it. He is informed 
 of the track which his companions intend to pursue, and if he i 
 is unable to follow, or overtake them, he perishes alone in the 
 
 Before I see another day, 
 
 Oh let my body die away ! 
 
 In sleep I heard the northern gleams ; 
 
 The stars were mingled with my dreams ; 
 
 In rustling conflict through the skies, 
 
 I heard, I saw the flashes drive. 
 
 And yet they are upon my eyes, 
 
 And yet I am alive ; 
 
 Before I see another day, 
 
 O let my body die away ! 
 
 My fire is dead : it knew no pain ; 
 Yet is it dead, and I remain. 
 All stiff" with ice the ashes lie ; 
 And they are dead, and I will die. 
 When I was well, I wished to live. 
 For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire ; 
 But they to me no joy can give. 
 No pleasure now, and no desire. 
 Then here contented will I lie ! 
 Alone I cannot fear to die. 
 
 Alas ! ye might have dragged me on 
 
 Another day, a single one ! 
 
 Too soon I yielded to despair; 
 
 Why did ye listen to my prayer^ 
 
 When ye were gone my limbs were stronger ; 
 
 And oh how grievously I rue. 
 
 That, afterwards, a little longer, 
 
 My Friends, I did not follow you ! 
 
 For strong and without pain I lay. 
 
 My Friends, when ye were gone away. 
 
 My Child ! they gave thee to another, 
 A woman who was not thy mother. 
 When from my arras my Babe they took. 
 On me how strangely did he look ! 
 Through his whole body something ran, 
 A most strange working did I see; 
 — As if he strove to be a man. 
 That he might pull the sledge for me 
 And then he stretched his arms, how wild ! 
 Oh mercy ! like a helpless child. 
 
 My little joy ! my little pride ! 
 
 In two days more I must have died. 
 
 Then do not weep and grieve for me; 
 
 I feel I must have died with thee. 
 
 O wind, that o'er my head art flying 
 
 The way my Friends their course did bend. 
 
72 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 I should not feel the pain of dying, 
 Could I with thee a message send ; 
 Too soon, my Friends, ye went away; 
 For I had many things to say. 
 
 I '11 follow you across the snow ; 
 
 Ye travel heavily and slow ; 
 
 In spite of all my weary pain, 
 
 I'll look upon your tents again. 
 
 — My fire is dead, and snowy white 
 
 The water which beside it stood ; 
 
 The wolf has come to me to-night, 
 
 And he has stolen away my food. 
 
 For ever left alone am I, 
 
 Then wherefore should I fear to die ! 
 
 THE LAST OF THE FLOCK. 
 
 In distant countries have I been, 
 And yet I have not often seen 
 A healthy Man, a Man full grown. 
 Weep in the public roads alone. 
 But such a one, on English ground, 
 And in the broad highway, I met; 
 Along the broad highway he came. 
 His cheeks with tears were wet : 
 Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad ; 
 And in his arms a Lamb he had. 
 
 He saw me, and he turned aside, 
 
 As if he wished himself to hide: 
 
 Then with his coat he made essay 
 
 To wipe those briny tears away. 
 
 I followed him, and said, " My Friend, 
 
 What ails you ! wherefore weep you sol" 
 
 — " Shame on me. Sir ! this lusty Lamb, 
 
 He makes my tears to flow. 
 
 To-day I fetched him from tlie rock ; 
 
 He is the last of all my flock. 
 
 When I was young, a single Man, 
 
 And after youthful follies ran. 
 
 Though little given to care and thought. 
 
 Yet, so it was, an Ewe I bought ; 
 
 And other sheep from her I raised. 
 
 As healthy sheep as you might see ; 
 
 And then I married, and was rich 
 
 As I could wish to be: 
 
 Of sheep I numbered a full score. 
 
 And every year increased my store. 
 
 Year after year my stock it grew ; 
 And from this one, tliis single Ewe, 
 Full fifty comely sheep I raised, 
 As sweet a flock as ever grazed ! 
 Upon the mountain did they feed ; 
 They throve, and we at home did thrive : 
 
 — This lusty Lamb of all my store 
 Is all that is alive ; 
 And now I care not if we die, 
 And perish all of poverty. 
 
 Six Children, Sir ! had I to feed ; 
 Hard labour in a time of need ! 
 My pride was tamed, and in our grief 
 I of the Parish asked relief 
 They said, I was a wealthy man ; 
 My sheep upon the mountain fed, 
 And it was fit that thence I took 
 Whereof to buy us bread. 
 " Do this : how can we give to you," 
 They cried, " what to the poor is due 1" 
 
 I sold a sheep, as they had said. 
 And bought my little children bread. 
 And they were healthy with their food ; 
 For me — it never did me good. 
 A woeful time it was for me, 
 To see the end of all my gains, 
 The pretty flock which I had reared 
 With all my care and pains. 
 To see it melt like snow away 
 For me it was a woeful day. 
 
 Another still ! and still another ! 
 
 A little lamb, and then its mother! 
 
 It was a vein that never stopped — 
 
 Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped. 
 
 Till thirty were not left alive 
 
 They dwindled, dwindled, one by one, 
 
 And I may say, that many a time 
 
 I wished they all were gone — 
 
 Reckless of what might come at last 
 
 Were but the bitter struggle past. 
 
 To wicked deeds I was inclined. 
 
 And wicked fancies crossed my mind; 
 
 And every man I chanced to see, 
 
 I thought he knew some ill of me : 
 
 No peace, no comfort could I find, 
 
 No ease, within doors or without; 
 
 And crazily and wearily, 
 
 I went my work about. 
 
 Bent oftentimes to flee from home. 
 
 And hide my head where wild beasts roam. 
 
 Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me. 
 As dear as my own children be ; 
 For daily with my growing store 
 I loved my children more and more. 
 Alas! it was an evil time; 
 God cursed me in my sore distress ; 
 I prayed, yet every day I thought 
 I loved my children less; 
 And every week, and every day, 
 My flock it seemed to melt away. 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 73 
 
 They dwindleld; Sir, sad sight to see ! 
 From ten to five, from five to three, 
 A lamb, a wether, and a ewe; 
 And then at last from three to two; 
 And, of my fifty, yesterday 
 I had but only one ; 
 And here it lies upon my arm, 
 Alas! and I have none; — 
 To-day I fetched it from the rock; 
 It is the last of all my floct." 
 
 REPENTANCE. 
 
 A PASTORAL BALLAD. 
 
 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 comej 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 chose 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, 
 With my hand on the latch of the half-opened gate, 
 I look at the fields — but I cannot go in ! 
 
 When I walk by the hedge on a bright summer's day. 
 
 Or sit in the shade of my grandfather's tree, 
 
 A stern face it puts on, as if ready to say, 
 
 " What ails you, that you must come creeping tome !" 
 
 With our pastures about us, we could not be sad ; 
 Our comfort was near, if we ever were crost ; 
 But the comfort, the blessings, and wealth that we had. 
 We slighted them all, — and our birth-right was lost. 
 
 Oh, ill-judging sire of an innocent son 
 
 Who must now be a wanderer ! — but peace to that 
 
 strain ! 
 Think of evening's repose when our labour was done. 
 The Sabbath's return — and its leisure's soft chain ! 
 
 And in sickness, if night had been sparing of sleep. 
 How cheerful, at sunrise, the hill where I stood. 
 Looking down on the kine, and our treasure of sheep 
 That besprinkled the field — 'twas like youth in my 
 blood ! 
 
 K 
 
 Now I cleave to the house, and am dull as a snail ; 
 And, oftentimes, hear the church-bell with a sigh. 
 That follows the thought — We've no land in the vale. 
 Save six feet of earth where our forefathers lie ! 
 
 THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET. 
 
 Where art thou, my beloved Son, 
 Where art thou, worse to me than dead? 
 Oh find me, prosperous or undone ! 
 Or, if the grave be now thy bed, 
 Why am I ignorant of the same 
 That I may rest; and neither blame 
 Nor sorrow may attend thy name ? 
 
 Seven years, alas ! to have received 
 No tidings of an only child ; 
 To have despaired, and have believed, 
 And be for evermore beguiled ; 
 Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss ! 
 I catch at them, and then I miss ; 
 Was ever darkness like to this 1 
 
 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. 
 
 Ah ! little doth the Young-one dream, 
 When full of play and childish cares. 
 What power is in his wildest scream, 
 Heard by his Mother unawares! 
 He knows it not, he cannot guess: 
 Years to a Mother bring distress ; 
 But do not make her love the less. 
 
 Neglect me ! no, I sufl^ered 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. 
 
 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. 
 7 
 
74 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. | 
 
 Alas ! the fowls of Heaven have wings, 
 
 Nay! start not at that sparkling light; 
 
 And blasts of Heaven will aid their flight ; 
 
 'Tis but the moon that shines so bright 
 
 They mount— how short a voyage brings 
 
 On the window pane bedropped with rain : 
 
 The Wanderers back to their delight ! 
 
 Then, little Darling! sleep again, 
 
 Chains tie us down by land and sea ; 
 
 And wake when it is day. 
 
 And wishes, vain as mine, may be 
 
 
 All that is left to comfort thee. 
 
 
 Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan. 
 
 THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. 
 
 Maimed, mangled by inhuman men; 
 
 One morning (raw it was and wet, 
 
 Or thou upon a Desert thrown 
 
 A foggy day in winter time) 
 
 Inheritest the Lion's den ; 
 
 A Woman on the road I met. 
 
 Or hast been summoned to the deep, 
 
 Not old, though something past her prime : 
 
 Thou, Thou and all thy mates, to keep 
 
 Majestic in her person, tall and straight ; 
 
 An incommunicable sleep. 
 
 And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait. 
 
 I look for Ghosts ; but none will force 
 
 The ancient Spirit is not dead ; 
 
 Their way to me: — 'tis falsely said 
 
 Old times, thought I, are breathing there; 
 
 That there was ever intercourse 
 
 Proud was I that my country bred 
 
 Betvi-een the living and the dead ; 
 
 Such strength, a dignity so fair: 
 
 For, surely, then I should have sight 
 
 She begged an alms, like one in poor estate ; 
 
 Of Him I wait for day and night, 
 
 I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate. 
 
 With love and longings infinite. 
 
 When from these lofty thoughts I woke, 
 
 
 " What treasure," said I, " do you bear, 
 
 My apprehensions come in crowds; 
 
 Beneath the covert of your Cloak, 
 
 I dread the rustling of the grass; 
 
 Protected from the cold damp airl" 
 
 The very shadows of the clouds 
 
 She answered, soon as she the question heard. 
 
 Have power to shake me as they pass : 
 
 " A simple burthen. Sir, a little Singing-bird." 
 
 I question things, and do not find 
 
 
 One that will answer to my mind ; 
 
 And, thus continuing, she said, 
 
 And all the world appears unkind. 
 
 " I had a Son, who many a day 
 
 
 Sailed on the seas, but he is dead ; 
 
 Beyond participation lie 
 
 In Denmark he was cast away: 
 
 My troubles, and beyond relief: 
 If any chance to heave a sigh. 
 
 And I have travelled weary miles to see 
 
 If aught which he had owned might still remain 
 
 They pity me, and not my grief 
 
 for me. 
 
 Then come to me, my Son, or send 
 
 " The Bird and Cage they both were his : 
 
 Some tidings tliat my woes may end ; 
 
 'T was my Son's Bird ; and neat and trim 
 
 I have no other earthly friend ! 
 
 He kept it : many voyages 
 
 
 This 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. 
 
 
 THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT. 
 
 " He to a Fellow-lodger's care 
 
 
 Had left it, to be watched and fed. 
 
 BY A FEMALE FEIE.VD. 
 
 And pipe its song in safety; — there 
 
 
 I found it when my Son was dead ; 
 
 The days are cold, the nights are long. 
 
 And now, God help me for my little wit! 
 I bear it with me, Sir, he took so much delight in it." 
 
 The north-wind sings a doleful song; 
 
 Then hush again upon my breast; 
 
 
 All merry things are now at rest, 
 Save thee, my pretty Love ! 
 
 
 
 
 THE CHILDLESS FATHER. 
 
 The kitten sleeps upon the hearth. 
 
 
 The crickets long have ceased their mirth ; 
 
 " Up, Timothy, up witli your Staff and away ! 
 
 There's nothing stirring in the house 
 
 Not a soul in the village this morning will stay ; 
 
 Save one wcc, hungry, nibbling mouse, 
 
 The Hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds, 
 
 Then why so busy thou ? 
 
 And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds." 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 75 
 
 Of coats and of jackets gray, scarlet, and green, 
 
 On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen ; 
 With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow, 
 The girls on the hills made a holiday show. 
 
 Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months be- 
 fore. 
 Filled the funeral basin* at Timothy's door ; 
 A Coffin through Timothy's threshold had past ; 
 One Child did it bear, and that Child was his last. 
 
 Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray. 
 The horse and the horn, and the hark ! hark away ! 
 Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut 
 With a leisurely motion the door of his hut. 
 
 Perhaps to himself at that moment he said, 
 " The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead." 
 But of this in my ears not a word did he speak. 
 And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek. 
 
 THE EMIGRANT MOTHER. 
 
 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 English 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 take with fond embrace, 
 This Infant to herself, I framed a lay. 
 Endeavouring, in my native tongue, to trace 
 Such things as she unto the Child might say : 
 And thus, from what I knew, had heard, and guessed. 
 My song the workings of her heart expressed. 
 
 " Dear Babe, tliou Daughter of another, 
 One moment let me be thy 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 would'st be 
 One little hour a Child to me ! 
 
 Across the waters I am come. 
 And I have left a Babe at home : 
 
 * In several parts of the North of England, when a funeral 
 takes place, a basin full of Sprigs of Box-wood is placed at the 
 door of the house from which the coffin is taken up, and each 
 person who attends the funeral ordinarily takes a Sprig of this 
 Box-wood, and throws it into the grave of the deceased. 
 
 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 1 — thou hast tried, 
 Thou knowest the pillow of my breast ; 
 Good, good art thou : — alas ! to me 
 Far more than I can be to thee. 
 
 Here, little 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. 
 
 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! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 '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 ; 
 Smiles hast Thou, bright ones of thy own ; 
 I cannot keep thee in my arms, 
 By those bewildering glances crost 
 In which the light of his is lost. 
 
 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: 
 
 My Darling, she is not to me 
 
 What thou art! though I love her well: 
 
 Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here ! 
 
 Never was any Child more dear I 
 
 — 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 ; 
 
76 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Thine eyes are on me — they would speak, 
 I think, to help me if they could. 
 Blessings upon that soft, warm face, 
 My heart again is in its place ! 
 
 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 '11 tell him many tales of Thee." 
 
 VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA. 
 
 The following tale was written as an Episode, in a work from 
 which its length may perhaps exclude it. The (iicis are true; 
 no invention as to these has been exercised, as none was needed. 
 
 O HAprv time of youthful lovers (thus 
 
 My story may begin) O 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 Youtli's birth-place. There he wooed a Maid 
 
 Who heard the heart-felt music of his suit 
 
 With answering vows. Plebeian was the stock. 
 
 Plebeian, though ingenuous, the stock. 
 
 From wliich her graces and her honours sprung : 
 
 And hence tlie father of the enamoured Youtli, 
 
 With haughty indignation, spurned the thought 
 
 Of such alliance. — From their cradles up. 
 
 With but a step between their several hoines, 
 
 Twins had they been in pleasure ; after strife 
 
 And petty quarrels, had grown fond again ; 
 
 Each other's advocate, each other's stay ; 
 
 And strangers to content if long apart, 
 
 Or more divided than a sportive pair 
 
 Of sea-fowl, conscious both tliat they are hovering 
 
 Within the eddy of a common blast. 
 
 Or hidden only by the concave depth 
 
 Of neigltbouring billows from each other's sight. 
 
 Thus, not witliout 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 
 
 With half the wonders that were wrouglit 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 I 
 
 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 
 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 Ijerefl, 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. 
 The sequel may be easily 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 ! — tlience a stolen interview, 
 Accomplished under friendly shade of night 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 77 
 
 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 
 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 
 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 baSled 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 Slate. 
 One, did the Youth's ungovernable hand 
 Assault and slay ; — and 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 beheld a tuft of winged seed 
 That, from the dandelion's naked stalk, 
 Mounted aloft, is sufliered not to use 
 Its natural gifts for purposes of rest. 
 Driven by the autumnal whirlwind to and fro 
 Through the wide element 1 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 
 TJie perturbation of each mind : — ah, no ! 
 Desperate the Maid — the Youth is stained with blood ; 
 But 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 unruffled Innocent, — I see thy face. 
 Behold thee, and my misery is complete !" 
 
 " One, are we not V exclaimed the Maiden — " One, 
 For innocence and youth, for weal and woe 1" 
 Then with the Father's name she coupled words 
 Of vehement indignation ; but the Youth 
 Checked her with filial meekness ; for no thought 
 Uncharitable, no presumptuous rising 
 Of hasty censure, modelled in the eclipse 
 Of true domestic loyalty, did e'er 
 Find place within his bosom. — Once again 
 The persevering v/edge 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 vi'ithout ; 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 sufifered — 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 horn. 
 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 
 Too heavily upon the lily'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 ; 
 7* 
 
78 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 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 your 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 ; 
 
 IMy 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 unwccting 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 pillar is no longer to be thine. 
 
 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 1 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 dependant 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 — 
 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, 
 Tlie 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 liim 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 whicli Vaudracour 
 Departed with his Infant; and thus reached 
 His Father's house, where to the innocent Cliild 
 Admittance was denied. The young Man spake 
 No words of indignation or reproof, 
 But of his Father begged, a last request. 
 That a retreat might be assigned to hira 
 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, witli leave given, at the age 
 Of four-and-twenty summers, he withdrew ; 
 And thither took with him his infant 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, 
 i 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 cliance 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 blaster never uttered ^vord 
 To living Thing — not even to her. — Behold ! 
 While they were speaking, Vaudracour approached ; 
 But, seeing some one near, even as his hand 
 Was stretched towards the garden gale, 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 ! 
 
 ._J 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 79 
 
 THE ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE. 
 
 [The subject of the following poem is from the Orlandus of 
 the author's friend, Kenelm Henry Digby ; and the liberty is 
 taken of inscribing it to him, as an acknowledgment, however 
 unworthy, of pleasure and instruction derived from his nume- 
 rous and valuable writings, illustrative of the piety and chivalry 
 of the olden time.] 
 
 1, 
 
 You have heard " a Spanish Lady 
 
 How she wooed an English Man ;* 
 Hear now of a fair Armenian, 
 Daughter of the proud Soldan ; 
 How she loved a Christian Slave, and told her pain 
 By word, look, deed, with hope that he might love again. 
 
 2. 
 
 " Pluck that rose, it moves my liking," 
 
 Said she, lifting up her veil ; 
 " Pluck it for me, gentle Gardener, . 
 
 Ere it wither and grow pale." 
 " Princess fair, I till the ground, but may not take 
 From twig or bed an humbler flower, even for your 
 sake." 
 
 " Grieved am I, submissive Christian ! 
 
 To behold thy captive state ; 
 Women, in your land, may pity 
 (May they not^) the unfortunate." 
 " Yes, kind Lady ! otherwise Man could not boar 
 Life, which to every one that breathes is full of care." 
 
 4. 
 
 " Worse than idle is compassion, 
 
 If it end in tears and sighs ; 
 Thee from bondage would I rescue 
 And from vile indignities ; 
 Nurtured, as thy mien bespeaks, in high degree. 
 Look up — and help a hand that longs to set thee free." 
 
 " Lady, dread the wish, nor venture 
 
 In such peril to engage ; 
 Think how it would stir against you 
 Your most loving Father's rage : 
 Sad deliverance would it be, and yoked with shame, 
 Should troubles overflow on her from whom it came." 
 
 " Generous Frank ! the just in effort 
 Are of inward peace secure ; 
 
 * See, in Percy's Reliques, that fine old ballad, "The Spanish 
 Lady's Love ;" from which Poem the form of stanza, as suitable 
 to dialogue, is adopted. 
 
 Hardships for the brave encountered, 
 Even the feeblest may endure : 
 If Almighty Grace through me thy chains unbind, 
 My Father for slave's work may seek a slave in 
 mind." 
 
 "Princess, at this burst of goodness. 
 
 My long-frozen heart grows warm !" 
 " Yet you make all courage fruitless. 
 Me to save from chance of harm ; 
 Leading such Companion I that gilded Dome, 
 Yon Minarets, would gladly leave for his worst home." 
 
 " Feeling tunes your voice, fair Princess ! 
 
 And your brow is free from scorn. 
 Else these words would come like mockery. 
 Sharper than the pointed thorn." 
 "Whence the undeserved mistrust 1 Too wide apart 
 Our faith hath been, — O would that eyes could see 
 the heart !" 
 
 9. 
 
 " Tempt me not, I pray ; my doom is 
 These base implements to wield ; 
 Rusty Lance, I ne'er shall grasp thee, 
 Ne'er assoil my cobwebb'd shield ! 
 Never see my native land, nor castle towers, 
 Nor Her who thinking of me there counts widowed 
 hours." 
 
 10. 
 
 " Prisoner ! pardon youthful fancies ; 
 Wedded ? If you can, say no ! — 
 Blessed is and be your Consort ; 
 Hopes I cherished — • let them go ! 
 Handmaid's privilege would leave my purpose free, 
 Without another link to my felicity." 
 
 11. 
 
 " Wedded love with loyal Christians, 
 
 Lady, is a mystery rare; 
 Body, heart, and soul in union. 
 Make one being of a pair." 
 " Humble love in me would look for no return, 
 Soft as a guiding star that cheers, but cannot burn." 
 
 12. 
 
 " Gracious Allah ! by such title 
 Do I dare to thank the God, 
 Him who thus exalts thy spirit. 
 Flower of an unchristian sod ! 
 Or hast thou put off wings which thou in heaven dost 
 
 wear ! 
 What have I seen, and heard, or dreamt ? where am 
 II where r 
 
90 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 13. 
 
 Here broke off the dangerous converse : 
 
 Less impassioned words miglit tell 
 How the pair escaped together, 
 Tears not wanting, nor a knell 
 Of sorrow in her heart while through her Father's door, 
 And from her narrow world, she passed for evermore. 
 
 14. 
 
 But affections higher, holier. 
 
 Urged her steps; she shrunk from trust 
 In a sensual creed that trampled 
 Woman's birthright into dust. 
 Little be the wonder then, tlie blame be none, 
 If she, a timid Maid, hath put such boldness on. 
 
 15. 
 
 Judge both Fugitives with knowledge : 
 
 In those old romantic days 
 Mighty were the soul's commandments 
 To support, restrain, or raise. 
 Foes might hang upon their path, snakes rustle near. 
 But nothing from their inward selves had they to fear. 
 
 16. 
 
 Thought infirm ne'er came between them, 
 
 Whether printing desert sands 
 With accordant steps, or gathering 
 Forest-fruit with social hands; 
 Or whispering like two reeds that in the cold moon- 
 beam 
 Bend with the breeze their heads, beside a crystal 
 stream. 
 
 17. 
 
 On a friendly deck reposing. 
 
 They at length for Venice steer; 
 There, when they had closed their voyage. 
 One, who daily on the Pier 
 Watched for tidings from the East, beheld his Lord, 
 Fell down and clasped his knees for joy, not uttering 
 word. 
 
 18. 
 Mutual was the sudden transport; 
 
 Breathless questions followed fast. 
 Years contracting to a moment. 
 Each word greedier than the last; 
 " Hie thee to the Countess, Friend ! return with speed. 
 And of this Stranger speak by whom her Lord was freed. 
 
 19. 
 
 " Say that I, who might have languished, 
 
 Drooped and pined till life was spent. 
 Now before the gates of Stolberg 
 My Deliverer would present 
 For a crowning recompense, the precious grace 
 Of her who in my heart still holds her ancient place. 
 
 20. 
 
 " Make it known that my Companion 
 
 Is of royal Eastern blood. 
 Thirsting after all perfection. 
 Innocent, and meek, and good, 
 Though with misbelievers bred ; but that dark night 
 Will Holy Church disperse by beams of Gospel Light." 
 
 21. 
 
 Swiftly went that gray-haired Servant, 
 
 Soon returned a trusty Page 
 Charged with greetings, benedictions. 
 Thanks and praises, each a gage 
 For a sunny thought to cheer the Stranger's way. 
 Her virtuous scruples to remove, her fears allay. 
 
 22. 
 
 Fancy (while, to banners floating 
 
 High on Stolberg's Castle walls. 
 
 Deafening noise of welcome mounted, 
 
 Trumpets, Drums, and Atabals,) 
 
 The devout embraces still, while such tears fell 
 
 As made a meeting seem most like a dear farewell. 
 
 23. 
 
 Through a haze of human nature, 
 
 Glorified by heavenly light. 
 Looked the beautiful Deliverer 
 On that overpowering sight. 
 While across her virgin cheek pure blushes strayed, 
 For every tender sacrifice her heart had made. 
 
 24. 
 On the ground the weeping Countess 
 
 Knelt, and kissed the Stranger's hand; 
 Act of soul-devoted homage. 
 Pledge of an eternal band : 
 Nor did aught of future days that kiss belie. 
 Which, with a generous shout, the crowd did ratify. 
 
 Constant to the fair Armenian, 
 
 Gentle pleasures round her moved. 
 Like a tutelary Spirit 
 
 Reverenced, like a Sister, loved. 
 Christian meekness smoothed for all the path of life, 
 Who, loving most, should wiseliest love, their only 
 strife. 
 
 26. 
 Mute Memento of that union 
 
 In a Saxon Church survives, 
 Where a cross-legged Knight lies sculptured 
 As between two wedded Wives — 
 Figures with armorial signs of race and birth, 
 And the vain rank the Pilgrims bore while yet on 
 earth. 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 81 
 
 THE SOMNAMBULIST. 
 
 List, ye who pass by Lyulph's Tower* 
 
 At eve ; how softly then 
 Doth Aira-force, that torrent hoarse, 
 
 Speak from the woody glen ! 
 Fit music for a solemn vale ! 
 
 And holier seems the ground 
 To him who catches on the gale 
 The spirit of a mournful tale, 
 
 Embodied in the sound. 
 
 2. 
 
 Not far from that fair sight whereon 
 
 The Pleasure-house is reared, 
 As Story says, in antique days, 
 
 A stern-brow'd house appeared ; 
 Foil to a jewel rich in light 
 
 There set, and guarded well ; 
 Cage for a bird of plumage bright. 
 Sweet-voiced, nor wishing for a flight 
 
 Beyond her native dell. 
 
 3. 
 
 To win this bright bird from her cage. 
 
 To make this gem their own. 
 Came Barons bold, with store of gold. 
 
 And Knights of high renown ; 
 But one she prized, and only One ; 
 
 Sir Eglamore was he; 
 Full happy season, when was known. 
 Ye Dales and Hills ! to you alone 
 
 Their mutual loyalty — 
 
 4. 
 
 Known chiefly, Aira ! to thy glen. 
 
 Thy brook, and bowers of holly ; 
 Wbere Passion caught what Nature taught. 
 
 That all but Love is folly; 
 Where Fact with Fancy stooped to play, 
 
 Doubt came not, nor regret ; 
 To trouble hours that winged their way, 
 As if through an immortal day 
 
 Whose sun could never set. 
 
 5. 
 
 But in old times Love dwelt not long 
 
 Sequester'd with repose; 
 Best throve the fire of chaste desire. 
 
 Fanned by the breath of foes. 
 " A conquering lance is beauty's test, 
 
 " And proves the Lover true ;" 
 
 *A pleasure-house built by the late Duke of Norfolk upon the 
 banks of Ullswater. FoucE is the word used in the Lake Dis- 
 trict for Wnter-fall. 
 
 L 
 
 So spake Sir Eglamore, and pressed 
 The drooping Emma to his breast, 
 And looked a blind adieu. 
 
 6. 
 
 They parted. — Well with him it fared 
 
 Through wide-spread regions errant ; 
 A knight of proof in love's behoof. 
 
 The thirst of fame his warrant : 
 And she her happiness can build 
 
 On woman's quiet hours; 
 Though faint, compared with spear and shield. 
 The solace beads and masses yield. 
 
 And needlework and flowers. 
 
 Yet blest was Emma when she heard 
 
 Her Champion's praise recounted ; 
 Though brain would swim, and eyes grow dim. 
 
 And high her blushes mounted ; 
 Or when a bold heroic lay 
 
 She warbled from full heart : 
 Delightful blossoms for the May 
 Of absence ! but they will not stay. 
 
 Born only to depart. 
 
 Hope wanes with her, while lustre fills 
 
 Whatever path he chooses ; 
 As if his orb, that owns no curb, 
 
 Received the light hers loses. 
 He comes not back ; an ampler space 
 
 Requires for nobler deeds ; 
 He ranges on from place to place, 
 Till of his doings is no trace 
 
 But what her fancy breeds. 
 
 9. 
 
 His fame may spread, but in the past 
 
 Her spirit finds its centre ; 
 Clear sight she has of what he was. 
 
 And that would noW' content her. 
 "Still is he my devoted knight V 
 
 The tear in answer flows ; 
 Month falls on month with heavier weight ; 
 Day sickens round her, and the night 
 
 Is empty of repose. 
 
 10. 
 
 In sleep she sometimes walked abroad, 
 
 Deep sighs with quick words blending. 
 Like that pale Queen whose hands are seen 
 
 With fancied spots contending ; 
 But she is innocent of blood, — 
 
 The moon is not more pure 
 That shines aloft, while through the wood 
 She thrids her way, the sounding Flood 
 
 Her melancholy lure ! 
 
82 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 11. 
 
 16. 
 
 While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe, 
 
 In plunged the Knight ! when on firm ground 
 
 And owls alone are waking, 
 
 The rescued Maiden lay, 
 
 In white arrayed, glides on the Maid 
 
 Her eyes grew bright with blissful light, 
 
 The downward pathway taking-, 
 
 Confusion passed away ; 
 
 That leads her to the torrent's side 
 
 She heard, ere to the throne of grace 
 
 And to a holly bower ; 
 
 Her faithful Spirit flew. 
 
 By whom on this still night descried 7 
 
 His voice ; beheld his speaking face, 
 
 By whom in that lone place espied 7 
 
 And, dying, from his own embrace, 
 
 By thee, Sir Eglamore ! 
 
 She felt that he was true. 
 
 12. 
 
 17. 
 
 A wandering Ghost, so thinks the Knight, 
 
 So was he reconciled to life : 
 
 His coming step has thwarted. 
 
 Brief words may speak the rest ; 
 
 Beneath the boughs that heard their vows, 
 
 Within the dell he built a cell. 
 
 Within whose shade they parted. 
 
 And there was Sorrow's guest ; 
 
 Hush, hush, the busy Sleeper see ! 
 
 In hermits' weeds repose he found. 
 
 Perplexed her fingers seem. 
 
 From vain temptations free ; 
 
 As if they from the holly tree 
 
 Beside the torrent dwelling — bound 
 
 Green twigs would pluck, as rapidly 
 
 By one deep heart-controlling sound, 
 
 Flung from her to the stream. 
 
 And awed to piety. 
 
 13. 
 
 18. 
 
 What means the Spectre 1 Why intent 
 
 Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course, 
 
 To violate the Tree, 
 
 Nor fear memorial lays, 
 
 Thought Eglamore, by which I swore 
 
 Where clouds that spread in solemn shade, 
 
 Unfading constancy 1 
 
 Are edged witli golden rays ! 
 
 Here am I, and to-morrow's sun, 
 
 Dear art thou to the light of Heaven, 
 
 To her I left, shall prove 
 
 Though minister of sorrow ; 
 
 That bliss is ne'er so surely won 
 
 Sweet is thy voice at pensive Even ; 
 
 As when a circuit has been run 
 
 And thou, in Lovers' hearts forgiven. 
 
 Of valour, truth, and love. 
 
 14. 
 
 So from the spot whereon he stood. 
 
 Shall take thy place with Yarrow ! 
 
 
 He moved with stealthy pace ; 
 
 THE IDIOT BOY. 
 
 And, drawing nigh, with his living eye, 
 
 
 He recognised the face ; 
 
 'Tis eight o'clock, — a clear March night, 
 
 And whispers caught, and speeches small, 
 
 The Moon is up, — the Sky is blue, 
 
 Some to the green-leaved tree. 
 
 The Owlet, in the moonlight air. 
 
 Some muttered to the torrent fall, — 
 
 Shouts, from nobody knows where ; 
 
 " Roar on, and bring him with thy call ; 
 
 He lengthens out his lonely shout, 
 
 " I heard, and so may he !"' 
 
 Halloo ! halloo ! a long halloo ! 
 
 15. 
 
 — Why bustle thus about your door. 
 
 What means this bustle, Betty Foyl 
 
 Soul-shattered was the Knight, nor knew 
 
 Why are you in this mighty fret '. 
 
 If Emma's Ghost it were. 
 
 And why on horseback have you set 
 
 Or boding Shade, or if the Maid 
 
 Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy 7 
 
 Her very self stood there. 
 
 
 He touched, what followed who shall tell ? 
 
 There's scarce a soul that's out of bed; 
 
 The soft touch snnpped the thread 
 
 Good Betty, put him down again; 
 
 Of slumber — shrieking back she fell. 
 
 His lips with joy they burr at you ; 
 
 And the Stream whirled her down the dell 
 
 But, Betty ! what has he to do 
 
 Along its foaming bed. 
 
 With stirrup, saddle, or with rein 1 
 
POEMS foundp:d on the affections. 
 
 83 
 
 But Betty's bent on her intent; 
 For her good neighbour, Susan Gale, 
 Old Susan, she who dwells alone, 
 Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, 
 As if her very life would fail. 
 
 There's not a house within a mile, 
 No hand to help them in distress ; 
 Old Susan lies abed in pain. 
 And sorely puzzled are the twain, 
 For what she ails they cannot guess. 
 
 And Betty's Husband 's at the wood, 
 Where by the week he doth abide, 
 A woodman in the distant vale ; 
 There's none to help poor Susan Gale; 
 What must be done 1 what will betide 1 
 
 And Betty from the lane has fetched 
 Her Pony, that is mild and good, 
 Whether he be in joy or pain, 
 Feeding at will along the lane. 
 Or bringing fagots from the wood. 
 
 And he is all in travelling trim, — 
 And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy 
 Has up upon the saddle set 
 (The like was never heard of yet) 
 Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. 
 
 And he must post without delay 
 Across the bridge and through the dale, 
 And by the church, and o'er the down. 
 To bring a Doctor from the town, 
 Or she will die, old Susan Gale. 
 
 There is no need of boot or spur, 
 
 There is no need of whip or wand ; 
 
 For Johnny has his holly-bough. 
 
 And with a hurly-burly now 
 
 He shakes the green bough in his hand. 
 
 And Betty o'er and o'er has told 
 The Boy, who is her best delight. 
 Both what to follow, what to shun, 
 What do, and what to leave undone. 
 How turn to left, and how to right. 
 
 And Betty's most especial charge, 
 Was, " Johnny ! Johnny ! mind that you 
 Come home again, nor stop at all, — 
 Come home again, whate'er befal, 
 My Johnny, do, I pray you do." 
 
 To this did Johnny answer make, 
 Both with his head and with his hand, 
 And proudly shook the bridle too ; 
 And then ! his words were not a few, 
 Which Betty well could understand. 
 
 And now that Johnny is just going. 
 Though Betty's in a mighty flurry, 
 She gently pats the Pony's side, 
 On which her Idiot Boy must ride, 
 And seems no longer in a hurry. 
 
 But when the Pony moved his legs, 
 Oh ! then for the poor Idiot Boy ! 
 For joy he cannot hold the bridle. 
 For joy his head and heels are idle, 
 He 's idle all for very joy. 
 
 And while the Pony moves his legs, 
 In Johnny's left hand you may see 
 The green bough motionless and dead: 
 The Moon that shines above his head 
 Is not more still and mute than he. 
 
 His heart it was so full of glee. 
 That till full fifty yards were gone, 
 He quite forgot his holly whip, 
 And all his skill in horsemanship. 
 Oh ! happy, happy, happy John. 
 
 And while the Mother, at the door, 
 Stands fixed, her face with joy o'erflows. 
 Proud of herself, and proud of him. 
 She sees him in his travelling trim, 
 How quietly her Johnny goes. 
 
 The silence of her Idiot Boy, 
 What hope it sends to Betty 's heart ! 
 He's at the Guide-post — he turns right, 
 She watches till he 's out of sight. 
 And Betty will not then depart. 
 
 Burr, burr — now Johnny's lips they burr, 
 As loud as any mill, or near it; 
 Meek as a lamb the Pony moves, 
 And Johnny makes the noise he loves, 
 And Betty listens, glad to hear it. 
 
 Away she hies to Susan Gale : 
 Her messenger 's in merry tune ; 
 The Owlets hoot, the Owlets curr, 
 And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr, 
 As on he goes beneath the Moon. 
 
 His Steed and He right well agree ; 
 For of this Pony there 's a rumour, 
 That, should he lose his eyes and ears. 
 And should he live a thousand years. 
 He never will be out of humour. 
 
 But then he is a Horse that thinks! 
 And when he thinks his pace is slack ; 
 Now, though he knows poor Johnny well, 
 Yet, for his life, he cannot tell 
 What he has got upon his back. 
 
84 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL AVORKS. 
 
 So through the moonlight lanes they go, 
 
 And Susan 's growing worse and worse, 
 
 And far into the moonlight dale, 
 
 And Betty 's in a sad quandary ; 
 
 And by the cliurch, and o'er the down, 
 
 And then there 's nobody to say 
 
 To bring a Doctor from the town. 
 
 If she must go, or she must stay ! 
 
 To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 
 
 She 's in a sad quandary. 
 
 And Betty, now at Susan's side, 
 
 The clock is on the stroke of one; 
 
 Is in the middle of her story, 
 
 But neither Doctor nor his Guide 
 
 What comfort soon her Boy will bring. 
 
 Appears along the moonlight road; 
 
 With many a most diverting thing, 
 
 There's neither horse nor man abroad. 
 
 Of Johnny's wit, and Johnny's glory. 
 
 And Betty 's still at Susan's side. 
 
 And Betty, still at Susan's side, 
 
 And Susan now begins to fear 
 
 By this time is not quite so flurried : 
 
 Of sad mischances not a few. 
 
 Demure with porringer and plate 
 
 That Johnny may perhaps be drowned. 
 
 She sits, as if in Susan's fate 
 
 Or lost, perhaps, and never found ; 
 
 Her life and soul were buried. 
 
 Which they must both for ever rue. 
 
 But Betty, poor good Woman ! she. 
 
 She prefaced half a hint of this 
 
 You plainly in her face may read it. 
 
 With, " God forbid it should bo true !" 
 
 Could lend out of that moment's store 
 
 At the first word that Susan said. 
 
 Five years of happiness or more 
 
 Cried Betty, rising fi-om the bed. 
 
 To any that might need it. 
 
 "Susan, I'd gladly stay with you. 
 
 But yet I guess that now and then 
 
 " I must be gone, I must away. 
 
 With Betty all was not so well ; 
 
 Consider, Johnny's but half-wise; 
 
 And to the road she turns her ears. 
 
 Susan, we must take care of him, 
 
 And thence full many a sound she hears, 
 
 If he is hurt in life or limb" — 
 
 Which she to Susan will not tell. 
 
 " Oh God forbid 1" poor Susan cries. 
 
 Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans; 
 
 " What can I do V says Betty, going, 
 
 " As sure as there 's a moon in heaven," 
 
 " What can I do to ease your pain 1 
 
 Cries Betty, " he '11 be back again ; 
 
 Good Susan, tell me, and I '11 stay ; 
 
 They '11 both be here — 't is almost ten — 
 
 I fear you 're in a dreadful way. 
 
 Both will be here before eleven." 
 
 But I shall soon be back again." 
 
 Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans ; 
 
 " Nay, Betty, go I good Betty, go ! 
 
 The clock gives warning for eleven ; 
 
 There's nothing tliat can ease my pain." 
 
 'T is on the stroke — " He must be near," 
 
 Then off she hies; but with a prayer 
 
 Quoth Betty, " and will soon be here, 
 
 That God poor Susan's life would spare, 
 
 As sure as there 's a moon in heaven." 
 
 Till she comes back again. 
 
 The clock is on the stroke of twelve, 
 
 So, through the moonlight lane she goes, 
 
 And Johnny is not yet in sight. 
 
 And far into the moonlight dale ; 
 
 — The Moon 's in heaven, as Betty sees, 
 
 And how she ran, and how she walked. 
 
 But Betty is not quite at ease; 
 
 And all that to herself she talked, 
 
 And Susan has a dreadful night. 
 
 Would surely be a tedious tale. 
 
 And Betty, half an hour ago. 
 
 In high and low, above, below, 
 
 On Johnny vile reflections cast: 
 
 In great and small, in round and square. 
 
 " A little idle sauntering Thing !" 
 
 In tree and tower was Johnny seen. 
 
 With other names, an endless string ; 
 
 In brush and brake, in black and green, 
 
 But now that time is gone and past. 
 
 'T was Johnny, Johnny, everywhere. 
 
 And Betty's drooping at the heart. 
 
 The bridge is past — far in the dale; 
 
 That happy time all past and gone. 
 
 And now the thought torments her sore, 
 
 " How can it be he is so late 1 
 
 Johnny perhaps his horse forsook. 
 
 The Doctor he has made him wait. 
 
 To hunt the moon within the brook. 
 
 Susan! they'll both bo here anon." 
 
 And never will be heard of more. 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 85 
 
 Now is she high upon the down, 
 
 She stops, she stands, she looks about ; 
 
 Alone amid a prospect wide : 
 
 Which way to turn she cannot tell. 
 
 There's neither Johnny nor his Horse 
 
 Poor Betty ! it would ease her pain 
 
 Among the fern or in the gorse ; 
 
 If she had heart to knock again ; 
 
 There's neither Doctor nor his Guide. 
 
 — The clock strikes three — a dismal knell ! 
 
 " Oh saints ! what is become of him 1 
 
 Then up along the town she hies, 
 
 Perhaps he's climbed into an oak, 
 
 No wonder if her senses fail. 
 
 Where he will stay till he is dead; 
 
 This piteous news so much it shocked her. 
 
 Or, sadly he has been misled, 
 
 She quite forgot to send the Doctor, 
 
 And joined the wandering gipsy-folk. 
 
 To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 
 
 " Or him that wicked Pony's carried 
 
 And now she 's high upon the down, 
 
 To the dark cave, the goblin's hall ; 
 
 And she can see a mile of road : 
 
 Or in the castle he's pursuing 
 
 " Oh cruel ! I 'm almost threescore ; 
 
 Among the ghosts his own undoing ; 
 
 Such night as this was ne'er before. 
 
 Or playing with the waterfall." 
 
 There's not a single soul abroad." 
 
 At poor old Susan then she railed, 
 
 She listens, but she cannot hear 
 
 While to the town she posts away ; 
 
 The foot of horse, the voice of man ; 
 
 " If Susan had not been so ill. 
 
 The streams with softest sound are flowing. 
 
 Alas ! I should have had him still. 
 
 The grass you almost hear it growing. 
 
 My Johnny, till my dying day." 
 
 You hear it now, if e'er you can. 
 
 Poor Betty, in this sad distemper. 
 The Doctor's self could hardly spare ; 
 Unworthy things she talked, and wild ; 
 Even he, of cattle the most mild, 
 The Pony had his share. 
 
 And now she's got into the town. 
 And to the Doctor's door she hies ; 
 'T is silence all on every side ; 
 The town so long, the town so wide, 
 Is silent as the skies. 
 
 And now she's at the Doctor's door. 
 She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap; 
 The Doctor at the casement shows 
 His glimmering eyes that peep and doze! 
 And one hand rubs his old night-cap. 
 
 "Oh Doctor! Doctor! where 's my Johnny 1" 
 "I'm here, what is't you want with me]" 
 "Oh Sir! you know I'm Betty Foy, 
 And I have lost my poor dear Boy, 
 You know him — him you often see ;" 
 
 " He's not so wise as some folks be." 
 " The devil take his wisdom !" said 
 The Doctor, looking somewhat grim, 
 " What, Woman ! should I know of him 1" 
 And, grumbling, he went back to bed. 
 
 " O woe is me ! O woe is me ! 
 Here will I die; here will I die; 
 I thought to find my lost one here, 
 But he is neither far nor near. 
 Oh ! what a wretched Mother I !" 
 
 The Owlets through the long blue night 
 Are shouting to each other still : 
 Fond lovers ! yet not quite hob nob, 
 They lengthen out the tremulous sob, 
 That echoes far from hill to hill. 
 
 Poor Betty now has lost all hope. 
 Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin, 
 A green-grown pond she just has past, 
 And from the brink she hurries fast. 
 Lest she should drown herself therein. 
 
 And now she sits her down and weeps; 
 Such tears she never shed before ; 
 " Oh dear, dear Pony ! my sweet joy ! 
 Oh carry back my Idiot Boy ! 
 And we will ne'er o'erload thee more." 
 
 A thought is come into her head : 
 " The Pony he is' mild and good. 
 And we have always used him well: 
 Perhaps he 's gone along the dell. 
 And carried Johnny to the wood." 
 
 Then up she springs as if on wings ; 
 She thinks no more of deadly sin ; 
 If Betty fifty ponds should see. 
 The last of all her thoughts would be 
 To drown herself therein. 
 
 O Reader ! now that I might tell 
 What Johnny and his Horse are doing ! 
 What they've been doing all this time, 
 O could I put it into rhyme, 
 A most delightful tale pursuing ! 
 8 
 
66 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Perhaps, and no unlikely thought ! 
 He with his Pony now doth roam 
 The cliS's and peaks so high that are, 
 To lay his hands upon a star, 
 And in his pocket bring it home. 
 
 Perhaps he's turned himself about, 
 His face unto his horse's tail, 
 And, still and mute, in wonder lost. 
 All like a silent Horseman-Ghost, 
 He travels on along the vale. 
 
 And now, perhaps, is hunting sheep, 
 A fierce and dreadful hunter he ; 
 Yon valley, now so trim and green, 
 In five months' time, should he be seen, 
 A desert wilderness will be ! 
 
 Perhaps, with head and heels on fire, 
 And like the very soul of evil, 
 He's galloping away, away. 
 And so will gallop on for aye, 
 The bane of all that dread the devil ! 
 
 I to the Muses have been bound 
 
 These fourteen years, by strong indentures : 
 
 O gentle Muses ! let me tell 
 
 But half of what to him befel ; 
 
 He surely met with strange adventures. 
 
 O gentle Muses! is this kind'! 
 Why will ye thus my suit repel "i 
 Why of your further aid bereave mel 
 And can ye thus unfriended leave me ; 
 Yo Muses ! whom I love so well 1 
 
 Who's yon, that, near the waterfall. 
 Which thunders down with headlong force, 
 Beneath the Moon, yet shining fair. 
 As careless as if nothing were. 
 Sits upright on a feeding Horse'! 
 
 Unto his Horse, there feedmg free, 
 • He seems, I think, the rein to give ; 
 Of Moon or Stars he takes no heed; 
 Of such we in romances read : 
 — 'T is Johnny ! Johnny ! as I live. 
 
 And that's the very Pony, too ! 
 Where is she, where is Betty Foy "! 
 She hardly can sustain her fears ; 
 The roaring waterfall she hears, 
 And cannot find her Idiot Boy. 
 
 Your Pony's worth his weight in gold: 
 Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy ! 
 She's coming from among the trees, 
 And now all full in view she sees 
 Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. 
 
 And Betty sees the Pony too: 
 
 Why stand you thus, good Betty Foy '! 
 
 It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost, 
 
 'Tis he whom you so long have lost. 
 
 He whom you love, your Idiot Boy. 
 
 She looks again — her arms are up — 
 She screams — she cannot move for joy; 
 She darts, as with a torrent's force. 
 She almost has o'erturned the Horse, 
 And fast she holds her Idiot Boy. 
 
 And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud ; 
 Whether in cunning or in joy 
 I cannot tell ; but while he laughs, 
 Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs 
 To hear again her Idiot Boy. 
 
 And now she's at the Pony's tail 
 And now is at the Pony's head, — 
 On that side now, and now on this ; 
 And, almost stifled with her bliss, 
 A few sad tears does Betty shed. 
 
 She kisses o'er and o'er again 
 Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy ; 
 She's happy here, is happy there, 
 She is uneasy everywhere ; 
 Her limbs are all alive with joy. 
 
 She pats the Pony, where or when 
 She knows not, happy Betty Foy ! 
 The little Pony glad may be, 
 But he is milder far than she, 
 You hardly can perceive his joy. 
 
 " Oh ! Johnny never mind the Doctor ; 
 You've done your best, and that is all." 
 She took the reins, when this was said. 
 And gently turned tlie Pony's head 
 From the loud waterfall. 
 
 By this the stars were almost gone, 
 The moon was setting on the hill, 
 So pale you scarcely looked at her : 
 The little birds began to stir, 
 Though yet their tongues were still. 
 
 The Pony, Betty, and her Boy, 
 Wind slowly through the woody dale ; 
 And who is she, betimes abroad, 
 That hobbles up the steep rough road '! 
 Who is it, but old Susan Gale 1 
 
 Long time lay Susan lost in thought, 
 ■ And many dreadful fears beset her. 
 Both for her Messenger and Nurse ; 
 And, as her mind grew worse and worse. 
 Her body — it grew better. 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 87 
 
 She turned, she tossed herself in bed, 
 On all sides doubts and terrors met her ; 
 Point after point did she discuss ; 
 And, while her mind was fighting thus, 
 Her body still grew better. 
 
 " Alas ! what is become of them ? 
 
 These fears can never be endured, 
 
 I '11 to the wood." — The word scarce said, 
 
 Did Susan rise up from her bed, 
 
 As if by magic cured. 
 
 Away she posts up hill and down. 
 
 And to the wood at length is come; 
 
 She spies her Friends, she shouts a greeting; 
 
 Oh me ! it is a merry meeting 
 
 As ever was in Christendom. 
 
 The Owls have hardly sung their last. 
 While our four Travellers homeward wend ; 
 The Owls have hooted all night long. 
 And with the Owls began my song. 
 And with the Owls must end. 
 
 For while they all were travelling home, 
 Cried Betty, " Tell us, Johnny, do. 
 Where all this long night you have been. 
 What you have heard, what you have seen, 
 And, Johnny, mind you tell us true." 
 
 Now Johnny all night long had heard 
 The Owls in tuneful concert strive ; 
 No doubt too he the Moon had seen; 
 For in the moonlight he had been 
 From eight o'clock till five. 
 
 And thus, to Betty's question, he 
 
 Made answer, like a Traveller bold, 
 
 (His very .words I give to you,) 
 
 "The Cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo. 
 
 And the sun did shine so cold." 
 
 — Thus answered Johnny in his glory, 
 
 And that was all his travel's story. 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 A PASTORAL POEM. 
 
 If fi-om the public way you turn your steps 
 Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, 
 You will suppose that with an upright path 
 Your feet must struggle ; in such bold ascent 
 The pastoral Mountains front you, face to face. 
 But, courage ! for around that boisterous Brook 
 The mountains have all opened out themselves, 
 And made a hidden valley of their own. 
 No habitation can be seen ; but they 
 Who journey thither find themselves alone 
 
 With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites 
 That overhead are sailing in the sky. 
 ■It is in truth an utter solitude ; 
 Nor should I have made mention of this Dell 
 But for one object which you might pass by. 
 Might see and notice not. Beside the brook 
 Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones ! 
 And to that place a story appertains. 
 Which, though it be ungarnished with events. 
 Is not unfit, I deem, for the fireside. 
 Or for the summer shade. It was the first 
 Of those domestic tales that spake to me 
 Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men 
 Whom I already loved ; — not verily 
 For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills 
 Where was their occupation and abode. 
 And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy 
 Careless of books, yet having felt the power 
 Of Nature, by the gentle agency 
 Of natural objects led me on to feel 
 For passions that were not my own, and think 
 (At random and imperfectly indeed) 
 On man, the heart of man, and human life. 
 Therefore, although it be a history 
 Homely and rude, I will relate the same 
 For the delight of a few natural hearts ; 
 And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake 
 Of youthful Poets, who among these Hills 
 Will be my second self when I am gone. 
 
 Upon the Forest-side in Grasmere Vale 
 There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael v/as his name ; 
 An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. 
 His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
 Of an unusual strength : his mind was keen, 
 Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs. 
 And in his Shepherd's calling he was prompt 
 And watchful more than ordinary men. 
 Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds. 
 Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes. 
 When others heeded not, he heard the South 
 Make subterraneous music, like the noise 
 Of Bagpipers on distant Highland hills. 
 The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock 
 Bethought him, and he to himself would say, 
 " The winds are now devising work for me !" 
 And, truly, at all times, the storm — that drives 
 The Traveller to a shelter — summoned hira 
 Up to the mountains : he had been alone 
 Amid the heart of many thousand mists. 
 That came to him and left him on the heights. 
 So lived he till his eightieth year was past. 
 And grossly that man errs, who should suppose 
 That the green Valleys, and the Streams and Rocks, 
 Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. 
 Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed 
 The common air ; the hills, which he so oft 
 Had climbed with vigorous steps ; which had impressed 
 
WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 So many incidents upon his mind 
 
 Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear ; 
 
 Which, like a book, preserved the memory 
 
 Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved, 
 
 Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts, 
 
 The certainty of honourable gain. 
 
 Those fields, those hills — what could they less] had 
 
 laid 
 Strong hold on his affections, were to him 
 A pleasurable feeling of blind love. 
 The pleasure which there is in life itself. 
 
 His days had not been past in singleness. 
 His helpmate was a comely Matron, old — 
 Though younger than himself full twenty years. 
 She was a woman of a stirring life. 
 Whose heart was in her house : two wheels she had 
 Of antique form, this large for spinning wool, 
 Tliat small for flax ; and if one wheel had rest, 
 It was because the otlier was at work. 
 The Pair had but one inmate in their house. 
 An only Child, who had been born to them, 
 When Michael, telling o'er his years, began 
 To deem that he was old, — in Shepherd's phrase, 
 With one foot in the grave. This only Son, 
 With two brave Sheep-dogs tried in many a storm. 
 The one of an inestimable worth. 
 Made all their Household. I may truly say. 
 That they were as a proverb in the vale 
 For endless industry. When day was gone, 
 And from their occupations out of doors 
 The Son and Father were come home, even then, 
 Their labour did not cease ; unless when all 
 Turned to their cleanly supper-board, and there. 
 Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, 
 Sat round their basket piled with oaten cakes, 
 And their plain home-made clicese. Yet when their meal 
 Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) 
 And his old Father both betook themselves 
 To such convenient work as might employ 
 Their hands by the fire-side ; perliaps to card 
 Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair 
 Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, 
 Or other implement of house or field. 
 
 Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge, 
 That, in our ancient uncouth country style 
 Did with a huge projection overbrow 
 Large space beneath, as duly as the light 
 Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a Lamp; 
 An aged utensil, wliich had performed 
 Service beyond all others of its kind. 
 Early at evening did it burn and late. 
 Surviving Comrade of uncounted Hours, 
 Which, going by from year to year, had found, 
 And left the couple neither gay perhaps 
 Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes. 
 Living a life of eager industry. 
 
 And now, when Lcke had reached his eighteenth year, 
 
 There by the light of this old Lamp they sat, 
 
 Father and Son, while late into the night 
 
 The Housewife plied her own peculiar work. 
 
 Making the cottage through the silent hours 
 
 Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. 
 
 This Light was famous in its neighbourhood, 
 
 And was a public Symbol of the life 
 
 That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced. 
 
 Their Cottage on a plot of rising ground 
 
 Stood single, with large prospect. North and South 
 
 High into Easedale, up to Dummail-Raise, 
 
 And westward to the village near the Lake; 
 
 And from this constant light, so regular 
 
 And so far seen, the House itself, by all 
 
 Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, 
 
 Both pld and young, was named The Evening Stab. 
 
 Thus living on through such a length of years. 
 The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs 
 Have loved his Helpmate ; but to Michael's heart 
 This Son of his old age was yet more dear — 
 Less from instinctive tenderness, the same 
 Blind Spirit, which is in the blood of all — 
 Than that a child, more than all other gifts, 
 Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, 
 And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
 By tendency of nature needs must fail. 
 E.xceeding was the love he bare to him. 
 His Heart and his Heart's joy ! For oftentimes 
 Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms. 
 Had done him female service, not alone 
 For pastime and delight, as is the use 
 Of Fathers, but with patient mind enforced 
 To acts of tenderness ; and he had rocked 
 His cradle with a woman's gentle hand. 
 And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy 
 Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love, 
 Albeit of a stern unbending mind. 
 To have the Young-one in his sight, when he 
 Had work by his own door, or when he sat 
 With sheep before him on his Shepherd's stool, 
 Beneath tliat large old Oak, which near their door 
 Stood, — and, from its enormous breadth of shade 
 Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun. 
 Thence in our rustic dialect was called 
 The Clipping Tree*, a name which yet it bears. 
 There, while they two were sitting in tlie shade. 
 With others round them, earnest all and blithe, 
 Would Micliaol exercise his heart with looks 
 Of fond correction and reproof bestowed 
 Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep 
 By catching at their legs, or with his shouts 
 Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. 
 
 And when by Heaven's good grace the Boy grew up 
 A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek 
 
 I 
 
 'I 
 
 * Clipping is the word used in the North of England for shearing. 
 
POEMS FOUNDED OiSf THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 89 
 
 Two steady roses that were five years old, 
 
 Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 
 
 With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped 
 
 With iron, making it throughout in all 
 
 Due requisites a perfect Sliepherd's Staff, 
 
 And gave it to the Boy ; wherewith equipt 
 
 He as a Watchman oftentimes was placed 
 
 At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock ; 
 
 And, to his office prematurely called. 
 
 There stood the Urchin, as you will divine, 
 
 Something between a hinderance and a help ; 
 
 And for this cause not always, I believe. 
 
 Receiving from his Father hire of praise ; 
 
 Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice, 
 
 Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform. 
 
 But soon as Luke, full ten yeai-s old, could stand 
 Against the mountain blasts ; and to the heights, 
 Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways. 
 He with his father daily went, and they 
 Were as companions, why should I relate 
 That objects which the Shepherd loved before 
 Were dearer now 1 that from the Boy there came 
 Feelings and emanations — things which were 
 Light to the sun and Music to the wind; 
 And that the Old Man's heart seemed born again ■? 
 
 Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up : 
 And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year. 
 He was his comfort and his daily hope. 
 
 While in this sort the simple Household lived 
 From day to day, to Michael's ear there came 
 Distressful tidings. Long before the time 
 Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound 
 In surety for his Brother's Son, a man 
 Of an industrious life, and ample means, — 
 But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 
 Had prest upon him, — and old Michael now 
 Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, 
 A grievous penalty, but little less 
 Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim, 
 At the first hearing, for a moment took 
 Store hope out of his life than he supposed 
 That any old man ever could have lost. 
 As soon as he had gathered so much strength 
 That he could look his trouble in the face, 
 It seemed that his sole refuge was to sell 
 A portion of his patrimonial fields. 
 Such was his first resolve ; he thought again, 
 And his heart failed him. " Isabel," said he. 
 Two evenings after he had heard the news, 
 "I have been toiling more than seventy years. 
 And in the open simshine of God's love 
 Have we all lived ; yet if these fields of ours 
 Should pass into a Stranger's hand, I think 
 That I could not lie quiet in my grave. 
 Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself 
 M 
 
 Has scarcely been more diligent than I; 
 
 And I have lived to be a fool at last 
 
 To my own family. An evil Man 
 
 That was, and made an evil choice, if he 
 
 Were false to us ; and if he were not false. 
 
 There are ten thousand to whom loss like this 
 
 Had been no sorrow. I forgive him — but 
 
 'T were better to be dumb than to talk thus. 
 
 When I began, my purpose was to speak 
 
 Of remedies, and of a cheerful liope. 
 
 Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel ; the land 
 
 Shall not go from us, and it shall be free ; 
 
 He shall possess it, free as is the wind 
 
 That passes over it. We have, thou know'st. 
 
 Another Kinsman — ■ he will be our friend 
 
 In this distress. He is a prosperous man. 
 
 Thriving in trade — and Luke to him shall go. 
 
 And with his Kinsman's help and his own thrift 
 
 He quickly will repair this loss, and then 
 
 May come again to us. If here he stay. 
 
 What can be done ! Where every one is poor, 
 
 What can be gained V At this the Old Man paused, 
 
 And Isabel sat silent, for her mind 
 
 Was busy, looking back into past times. 
 
 There 's Richard Bateman, thouglit she to herself, 
 
 He was a Parish-boy — at the Church-door 
 
 They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence. 
 
 And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought 
 
 A Basket, which they filled with Pedlar's wares ; 
 
 And, with this Basket on his arm, the Lad 
 
 Went up to London, found a Master there, 
 
 Who, out of many, chose the trusty Boy 
 
 To go and overlook his merchandise 
 
 Beyond the seas ; where he grew wondrous rich, 
 
 And left estates and moneys to the poor, 
 
 And, at his birth-blace, built a Chapel floored 
 
 With Marble, which he sent from foreign lands. 
 
 These thoughts, and many others of like sort, 
 
 Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, 
 
 And her face brightened. The Old Man was glad. 
 
 And thus resumed : — "Well, Isabel! this scheme. 
 
 These two days, has been meat and drink to me. 
 
 Far more than we have lost is left us yet. 
 
 — We have enough — I wish indeed that I 
 Were younger, — but this hope is a good hope. 
 
 — Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best 
 Buy for him more, and let us send him forth 
 To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: 
 
 — If he could go, the Boy should go to-night." 
 Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth 
 With a light heart. The Housewife for five days 
 Was restless morn and night, and all day long 
 Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare 
 Things needful for the journey of her son. 
 
 But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 
 To stop her in her work : for, when she lay 
 By Michael's side, she through the two last nights 
 Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep : 
 8* 
 
00 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And when thoy rose at mornino; she could see 
 That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon 
 She said to Lnke, while they two by tliemselves 
 Were sitting at the door, " Thou must not go : 
 Wo have no other Cliild hut thee to lose, 
 None to remember — do not go away, 
 For if thou leave thy Father he will die." 
 The Youth made answer with a jocund voice ; 
 And Isabel, when she had told her fears. 
 Recovered heart. That evening her best fare 
 Did she bring forth, and all together sat 
 Like happy people round a Christmas fire. 
 
 With daylight Isabel resumed her work ; 
 And all the ensuing week the house appeared 
 As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length 
 The e.xpected letter from their Kinsman came. 
 With kind assurances that he would do 
 His utmost for the welfare of the Boy; 
 To which, requests were added, that forthwith 
 He might be sent to him. Ten times or more 
 Tlie letter was read over ; Isabel 
 Went forth to show it to tlie neighbours round ; 
 Nor was there at that time on English land 
 A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel 
 Had to her house returned, the Old Man said, 
 " He shall depart to-morrow." To this word 
 The Housewife answered, talking much of things 
 Which, if at such short notice he should go. 
 Would surely be forgotten. But at length 
 She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. 
 
 Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, 
 In that deep Valley, Michael had designed 
 To build a Sheep-fold ; and before he heard 
 The tidings of his melancholy loss. 
 For this same purpose he had gatliered up 
 A heap of stones, which by the Streamlet's edge 
 Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 
 With Luke that evening thitherwai'd he walked ; 
 And soon as they had reached the place he stopped. 
 And thus the Old Man spake to him: — "My Son, 
 To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with full heart 
 I look upon thee, for thou art the same 
 That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, 
 And all thy life hast been my daily joy. 
 I will relate to thee some little part 
 Of our two histories ; 't will do thee good 
 When tliou art from me, even if I should s;)eak 
 
 Of things ihou canst not know of. After thou 
 
 First camest into the world — as oft befalls 
 To new-born infants — thou didst sleep away 
 Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue 
 Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on. 
 And still I loved thee with increasing love. 
 Never to living ear came sweeter sounds 
 Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side 
 First uttering, without words, a natural tune ; 
 
 When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy 
 
 Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed month. 
 
 And in the open fields my life was passed 
 
 And on the mountains; else I think that thou 
 
 Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees. 
 
 But we were playmates, Luke : among these hills, 
 
 As well thou knowest, in us the old and young 
 
 Have played together, nor with me didst thou 
 
 Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." 
 
 Luke had a manly heart ; but at these words 
 
 He sobbed aloud. The Old Man grasped his hand. 
 
 And said, " Nay, do not take it so — I see 
 
 That these are things of which I need not speak. 
 
 — Even to the utmost I have been to thee 
 A land and a good Father : and herein 
 
 I but repay a gift which I myself 
 
 Received at others' hands ; for, though now old 
 
 Beyond the common life of man, I still 
 
 Remember them who loved me in my youth. 
 
 Both of tliem sleep together: here they lived, 
 
 As all their Forefathers had done ; and when 
 
 At length their time was come, they were not loth 
 
 To give their bodies to the family mould. 
 
 I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived. 
 
 But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, 
 
 And see so little gain from threescore years. 
 
 These fields were burthened when they came to me 
 
 Till I was forty years of age, not more 
 
 Than half of my inheritance was mine. 
 
 I toiled and toiled ; God blessed me in my work, 
 
 And till these tliree weeks past the land was free. 
 
 — It looks as if it never could endure 
 Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, 
 If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good 
 
 That thou shouldst go." At this tlie Old IMan paused ; 
 
 Then, pointing to the Stones near which they stood. 
 
 Thus, after a short silence, he resumed : 
 
 " This was a work for us ; and now, my Son, 
 
 It is a work for me. But, lay one Stone — 
 
 Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. 
 
 Nay, Boy, be of good hope ; — we both may live 
 
 To see a better day. At eighty-four 
 
 I still am strong and hale ; — do thou thy part ! 
 
 I will do mine. — I will begin again 
 
 With many tasks that were resigned to thee : 
 
 Up to the heights, and in among the storms, 
 
 Will I without tliee go again, and do 
 
 All works whicli I was \vont to do alone, 
 
 Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bless thee. Boy ! 
 
 Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast 
 
 With many hopes — It should be so — Yes — yes — 
 
 I knew tliat thou couldst never have a wish 
 
 To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me 
 
 Only by links of love : when thou art gone, 
 
 What will be left to us! — But, I forget 
 
 My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone. 
 
 As I requested ; and hereafter, Luke, 
 
 I 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 91 
 
 When thou art gone awajr, should evil men 
 Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, 
 And of this moment ; hither turn thy thoughts. 
 And God will strengthen thee : amid all fear 
 And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou 
 Mayst hear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, 
 Who, heing innocent, did for that cause 
 Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well — 
 When thou returnest, thou in this place virilt see 
 A work which is not here : a covenant 
 
 'T will be between us But, whatever fate 
 
 Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, 
 And bear thy memory with me to the grave." 
 
 The Shepherd ended here ; and Luke stooped down. 
 And, as his Father had requested, laid 
 The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight. 
 The Old JNIan's grief broke from him ; to his heart 
 He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept ; 
 And to the house together they returned. 
 ^-Hushed was that house in peace, or seeming peace, 
 Ere the night fell : — with morrow's dawn the Boy 
 Began his journey, and when he had reached 
 The public Way, he put on a bold face ; 
 And ail the Neighbours, as he passed their doors, 
 Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, 
 That followed him till he was out of sight. 
 
 A good report did from their Kinsman come 
 Of Luke and his well-doing : and the Boy 
 Wrote loving letters, fiill of wondrous news, 
 Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout 
 " The prettiest letters that were ever seen." 
 Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. 
 So, many months passed on : and once again 
 The Shepherd went about his daily work 
 With confident and cheerful thoughts ; and now 
 Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour 
 He to that valley took his way, and there 
 Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began 
 To slacken in his duty ; and, at length. 
 He in the dissolute city gave himself 
 To evil courses : ignominy and shame 
 Fell on him, so that he was driven at last 
 To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. 
 
 There is a comfort in the strength of Love ; 
 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else 
 Would overset the brain, or break the heart : 
 I have conversed with more than one who well 
 Remember the Old Man, and what he was 
 Years after he had heard this heavy news. 
 His bodily firame had been from youth to age 
 Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 
 He went, and still looked up towards the sun, 
 And listened to the wind ; and, as before, 
 Performed all kinds of labour for his Sheep, 
 And for the. land his small inheritance. 
 
 And to that hollow Dell from time to time 
 Did he repair, to build the Fold of which 
 His flock had need. 'T is not forgotten yet 
 The pity whicli was then in every heart 
 For the Old Man — and 'tis believed by all 
 That many and many a day he thither went. 
 And never lifted up a single stone. 
 
 There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen 
 Sitting alone, with that his faithful Dog, 
 Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 
 The length of full seven years, from time to time, 
 He at the building of this sheep-fold wrought. 
 And left the work unfinished when he died. 
 Three years, or little more, did Isabel 
 Survive her Husband : at her death the estate 
 Was sold, and went into a Stranger's hand. 
 The Cottage which was named the Evening Star 
 Is gone — tlie ploughshare has been through the ground 
 On which it stood ; great changes have been wrought 
 In all the neighbourhood : — yet the Oak is left 
 That grew beside their Door ; and tlie remains 
 Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen 
 Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll. 
 
 THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 
 
 [Pefer Henry Bruce, having given in liis enterlaining Memoirs 
 the substance of the following Tale, affirms, that, besides the 
 concurring reports of others, he had the story from the Lady's 
 own mouth. 
 
 The Lady Catherine, mentioned towards the close, was the 
 famous Catherine, then hearing that naine as the acluiowledged 
 Wife of Peter the Great] 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Enough of rose-hud lips, and eyes 
 
 Like harebells bathed in dew. 
 Of cheek that with carnation vies, 
 
 And veins of violet hue ; 
 Earth wants not beauty that may scorn 
 
 A likening to fi'ail flowers ; 
 Yea, to the stars, if they were born 
 
 For seasons and for hours. 
 
 Through Moscow's gates, with gold unbarred, 
 
 Stepped one at dead of night, 
 Whom such high beauty could not guard 
 
 From meditated blight; 
 By stealth she passed, and fled as fast 
 
 As doth the hunted fawn. 
 Nor stopped, till in the dappling east 
 
 Appeared unwelcome dawn. 
 
92 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 3. 
 
 Seven days she lurked in brake and field. 
 
 Seven nights her course renewed, 
 Sustained by what her scrip might yield, 
 
 Or berries of the wood ; 
 At length, in darkness travelling on, 
 
 When lowly doors were shut. 
 The haven of her hope she won, 
 
 Her Foster-mother's hut. 
 
 4. 
 "To put your love to dangerous proof 
 
 I come," said she, "from far; 
 For I have left my Father's roof. 
 
 In terror of the Czar." 
 No answer did the Matron give, 
 
 No second look she cast ; 
 She hung upon the Fugitive, 
 
 Embracing and embraced. 
 
 5. 
 
 She lead her Lady to a seat 
 
 Beside the glimmering fire, 
 Bathed duteously her wayworn feet, 
 
 Prevented each desire : 
 The cricket chirped, tlie house-dog dozed, 
 
 And on that simple bed. 
 Where she in childhood had reposed, 
 
 Nov? rests her weary head. 
 
 6. 
 
 When she, whose couch had been the sod. 
 
 Whose curtain pine or thorn. 
 Had breatlied a sigh of thanks to God, 
 
 Who comforts the forlorn ; 
 While over her the Matron bent 
 
 Sleep sealed her eyes, and stole 
 Feeling from limbs with travel spent. 
 
 And trouble from the soul. 
 
 7. 
 
 Refreshed, the Wanderer rose at morn. 
 
 And soon again was dight 
 In those unworthy vestments worn 
 
 Through long and perilous flight; 
 And " O beloved Nurse," she said, 
 
 " My thanks with silent tears 
 Have unto Heaven and You been paid : 
 
 Now listen to my fears! 
 
 8. 
 "Have you forgot" — and here she smiled — 
 
 "The babbling flatteries 
 You lavished on me when a child 
 
 Disporting round your knees 1 
 I was your lambkin, and your bird, 
 
 Your star, your gem, your flower; 
 Light words, that were more lightly heard 
 
 In many a cloudless hour ! 
 
 9. 
 
 The blossom you so fondly praised 
 
 Is come to bitter fruit ; 
 A mighty One upon me gazed ; 
 
 I spurned his lawless suit. 
 And must be liidden from his wrath : 
 
 You, Foster-father dear. 
 Will guide me in my forward path; 
 
 I may not tarry here ! 
 
 10. 
 
 I cannot bring to utter woe 
 
 Your proved fidelity." — 
 "Dear Child, sweet Mistress, say not so! 
 
 For you we both would die." 
 " Nay, nay, I come with semblance feigned 
 
 And cheek embrowned by art ; 
 Yet, being inwardly unstained. 
 
 With courage will depart." 
 
 11. 
 "But whither would you, could you, flee'! 
 
 A poor Man's counsel take; 
 The Holy Virgin gives to me 
 
 A thought for your dear sake; 
 Rest, shielded by our Lady's grace; 
 
 And soon shall you be led 
 Forth to a safe abiding-place. 
 
 Where never foot doth tread." 
 
 PART II. 
 
 1. 
 
 The Dwelling of this faithful pair 
 
 In a straggling village stood. 
 For One who breathed unquiet air 
 
 A dangerous neighbourhood; 
 But wide around lay forest ground 
 
 With thickets rough and blind ; 
 And pine-trees made a heavy shade 
 
 Impervious to the wind. 
 
 2. 
 
 And there, sequestered from the sight, 
 
 Was spread a treacherous swamp. 
 On which the noonday sun shed light 
 
 As from a lonely lamp; 
 And midway in the unsafe morass, 
 
 A single Island rose 
 Of firm dry ground, with healthful grass 
 
 Adorned, and shady boughs. 
 
 3. 
 
 The Woodman knew, for such the craft 
 
 This Russian Vassal plied. 
 That never fowler's gun, nor shaft 
 
 Of archer, there was tried ; 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 93 
 
 A sanctuary seemed the spot, 
 
 Rejoiced to bid the world farewell, 
 
 From all intrusion free; 
 
 No saintly Anchoress 
 
 And there he planned an artful Cot 
 
 E'er took possession of her cell 
 
 For perfect secrecy. 
 
 With deeper thankfulness. 
 
 4. 
 
 10. 
 
 With earnest pains unchecked by dread 
 
 " Father of all, upon thy care 
 
 Of Power's far-stretching hand, 
 
 And mercy am I thrown ; 
 
 The bold good Man his labour sped 
 
 Be thou my safeguard !" — such her prayer 
 
 At nature's pure command ; 
 
 When she was left, alone. 
 
 Heart-soothed, and busy as a wren, 
 
 Kneeling amid the wilderness 
 
 While, in a hollow nook. 
 
 When joy had passed away. 
 
 She moulds her sig'ht-eluding den 
 
 And smiles, fond efforts of distress 
 
 Above a murmuring brook. 
 
 To hide what they betray ! 
 
 His task accomplished to his mind. 
 
 11. 
 
 The prayer is heard, the Saints have seen, 
 
 The twain ere break of day 
 
 Difilised through form and face, 
 
 Creep forth, and through the forest wind 
 
 Resolves devotedly serene ; 
 
 Their solitary way; 
 
 That monumental grace 
 
 Few words they speak, nor dare to slack 
 
 Of Faith, which doth all passions tame 
 
 Their pace from mile to mile, 
 
 That Reason should control ; 
 
 Till they have crossed the quaking marsh, 
 
 And shows in the untrembling frame 
 
 And reached the lonely Isle. 
 6. 
 
 A statue of the soul. 
 
 The sun above the pine-trees showed 
 
 
 A bright and cheerful face ; 
 
 PART III. 
 
 And Ina looked for her abode. 
 
 1. 
 
 The promised hiding-place ; 
 
 'Tis sung in ancient minstrelsy 
 
 She sought in vain, the Woodman smiled ; 
 
 That Phcebus wont to wear 
 
 No threshold could be seen, 
 
 " The leaves of any pleasant tree 
 
 Nor roof, nor window ; all seemed wild 
 
 Around his golden hair,"* 
 
 As it had ever been. 
 
 Till Daphne, desperate with pursuit 
 
 7. 
 
 Of his imperious love. 
 
 At her own prayer transformed, took root. 
 
 Advancing, you might guess an hour, 
 
 A laurel in tlie grove. 
 
 The front with such nice care 
 
 
 Is masked, " if house it be or bower," 
 
 2. 
 
 But in they entered are ; 
 
 Then did the Penitent adorn 
 
 As shaggy as were wall and roof 
 
 His brow with laurel green ; 
 
 With branches intertwined. 
 
 And 'mid his bright locks never shorn 
 
 So smooth was all within, air-proof, 
 
 No meaner leaf was seen ; 
 
 And delicately lined. 
 
 And Poets sage, through every age, 
 
 9. 
 
 About their temples wound 
 
 The bay ; and Conquerors thanked the Gods, 
 
 And hearth was there, and maple dish, 
 
 With laurel chaplets crowned. 
 
 And cups in seemly rows. 
 
 
 And couch — all ready to a wish 
 
 3. 
 
 For nurture or repose ; 
 
 Into the mists of fabling Time 
 
 And Heaven doth to her virtue grant 
 
 So far runs back the praise 
 
 That here she may abide 
 
 Of Beauty, that disdains to climb 
 
 In solitude, with every want 
 
 Along forbidden ways ; 
 
 By cautious love supplied. 
 
 That scorns temptation ; power defies 
 
 9. 
 
 Where mutual love is not ; 
 
 And to the tomb for rescue flies, 
 
 No Queen, before a shouting crowd, 
 
 When life would be a blot. 
 
 Led on in bridal state. 
 E'er struggled with a heart so proud, 
 
 
 * From Golding's Translalion of Ovid's Metamorphoses. See 
 
 Entering her palace gate ; 
 
 also his Dedicatory Epistle prefixed to the same work. 
 
94 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 To this feir Votaress, a fate 
 
 More mild doth Heaven ordain 
 Upon her Island desolate ; 
 
 And words, not breathed in vain, 
 Might tell what intercourse she found, 
 
 Her silence to endear ; 
 What birds she tamed, what flowers the ground 
 
 Sent forth her peace to cheer. 
 
 5. 
 
 To one mute Presence, above all. 
 
 Her soothed affections clung, 
 A picture on the Cabin wall 
 
 By Russian usage hung — 
 The Mother-maid, whose countenance bright 
 
 With love abridged the day ; 
 And, communed with by taper light. 
 
 Chased spectral fears away. 
 
 6. 
 
 And oft, as either Guardian came, 
 
 The joy in that retreat 
 Might any common friendship shame, 
 
 So high their hearts would beat; 
 And to the lone Recluse, whate'er 
 
 They brought, each visiting 
 Was like the crowding of the year 
 
 With a new burst of spring. 
 
 7. 
 But, when she of her Parents thought. 
 
 The pang was hard to bear; 
 Arid, if with all things not enwrouglit. 
 
 That trouble still is near. 
 Before her flight she had not dared 
 
 Their constancy to prove, 
 Too much the heroic Daughter feared 
 
 The weakness of their love. 
 
 Dark is the Past to them, and dark 
 
 The future still must be. 
 Till pitying Saints conduct her bark 
 
 Into a safer sea — 
 Or gentle Nature close her eyes. 
 
 And set her Spirit free 
 From the altar of this sacrifice, 
 
 In vestal purity. 
 
 9. 
 
 Yet, when above the forest-glooms 
 
 The white swans southward passed. 
 High as the pitch of their swift plumes 
 
 Her fancy rode the blast; 
 And bore her tow'rd the fields of France, 
 
 Her Father's native land. 
 To mingle in the rustic dance, 
 
 Tlie happiest of the band ! 
 
 10. 
 
 Of those beloved fields she oft 
 
 Had heard her Father tell 
 In phrase that now with echoes soft 
 
 Haunted her lonely Cell; 
 She saw the hereditary bowers, 
 
 She heard the ancestral stream ; 
 The Kremlin and its haughty towers 
 
 Forgotten like a dream ! 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 The ever-changing Moon had traced 
 
 Twelve times her monthly round. 
 When through the unfrequented Waste 
 
 Was heard a startling sound ; 
 A shout thrice sent from one who chased 
 
 At speed a wounded Deer, 
 Bounding through branches interlaced, 
 
 And where the wood was clear. 
 
 2. 
 
 The fainting Creature took the marsh, 
 
 And toward the Island fled. 
 While plovers screamed with tumult harsh 
 
 Above his antlered head ; 
 This, Ina saw; and, pale with fear, 
 
 Shrunk to her citadel ; 
 The desperate Deer rushed on, and near 
 
 The tangled covert fell. 
 
 3. 
 
 Across the marsh, the game in view. 
 
 The Hunter followed fast. 
 Nor paused, till o'er the Stag he blew 
 
 A death-proclaiming blast: 
 Then, resting on her upright mind. 
 
 Came forth the Maid — " In me 
 Behold," she said, "a stricken Hind 
 
 Pursued by destiny ! 
 
 4. 
 From your deportment, Sir ! I deem 
 
 That you have worn a sword. 
 And will not hold in light esteem 
 
 A suffering woman's word ; 
 There is my covert, there perchance 
 
 I might have lain concealed, 
 My fortunes hid, my countenance 
 
 Nor even to you revealed. 
 
 Tears might be shed, and I might pray, 
 
 Crouching and terrified. 
 That what has been unveiled to day. 
 
 You would in mystery hide ; 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 95 
 
 But I will not defile with dust 
 The knee that bends to adore 
 
 The God in heaven ; — attend, be just : 
 This ask I, and no more ! 
 
 6. 
 
 I speak not of the winter's cold, 
 
 For summer's heat exchang-ed, 
 While I have lodged in this rough hold, 
 
 From social life estranged; 
 Nor yet of trouble and alarms : 
 
 High Heaven is my defence ; 
 And every season has soft arms 
 
 For injured Innocence. 
 
 From Moscow to the Wilderness 
 
 It was my choice to come, 
 Lest virtue should be harbourloss. 
 
 And honour want a home ; 
 And happy were I, if the Czar 
 
 Retain his lawless will, 
 To end life here like this poor Deer, 
 
 Or a Lamb on a green hill." 
 
 8. 
 " Are you the Maid," the Stranger cried, 
 
 "From Gallic Parents sprung, 
 Whose vanishing was rumoured wide 
 
 Sad theme for every tongue ; 
 Who foiled an Emperor's eager quest? 
 
 You, Lady, forced to wear 
 These rude habiliments, and rest 
 
 Your head in this dark lair !" 
 
 9. 
 
 But wonder, pity, soon were quelled ; 
 
 And in her face and mien 
 The soul's pure brightness he beheld 
 
 Without a veil between : 
 He loved, he hoped, — a holy flame 
 
 Kindled 'mid rapturous tears ; 
 The passion of a moment came 
 
 As on the wings of years. 
 
 10. 
 
 " Such bounty is no gift of chance," 
 
 Exclaimed he ; " righteous Heaven, 
 Preparing your deliverance. 
 
 To me the charge hath given. 
 The Czar full oft in words and deeds 
 
 Is stormy and self-willed ; 
 But, when the Lady Catherine pleads. 
 
 His violence is stilled. 
 
 11. 
 
 "Leave open to my wish the course, 
 
 And I to her will go ; 
 From that humane and heavenly source, 
 
 Good, only good, can flow." 
 
 Faint sanction given, the Cavalier 
 
 Was eager to depart. 
 Though question followed question, dear 
 
 To the Maiden's filial heart. 
 
 12. 
 
 Light was his step, — his hopes, more light, 
 
 Kept pace with his desires; 
 And the third morning gave him sight 
 
 Of Moscow's glittering spires. 
 He sued : — heart-smitten by the wrong. 
 
 To the lorn Fugitive 
 The Emperor sent a pledge as strong 
 
 As sovereign power could give. 
 
 13. 
 
 O more than mighty change ! If e'er 
 
 Amazement rose to pain. 
 And over-joy produced a fear 
 
 Of something void and vain, 
 'Twas when the Parents, who had mourned 
 
 So long the lost as dead. 
 Beheld their only Child returned, 
 
 The household floor to tread. 
 
 14. 
 
 Soon gratitude gave way to love 
 
 Within the Maiden's breast: 
 Delivered and Deliverer move 
 
 In bridal garments drest; 
 Meek Catherine had her own reward ; 
 
 The Czar bestowed a dower ; 
 And universal Moscow shared 
 
 The triumph of that hour. 
 
 1-5. 
 
 Flowers strewed the ground ; the nuptial feast 
 
 Was held with costly state ; 
 And there, 'mid many a noble Guest, 
 
 The Foster Parents sate ; 
 Encouraged by the imperial eye. 
 
 They shrank not into shade ; 
 Great was their bliss, the honour high 
 
 To them and nature paid ! 
 
 THE WAGGONER. 
 
 TO CHARLES LAMB, Esq. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 When I sent you, a few weeks ago, the Tale of 
 Peter Bell, you asked " vi'hy 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 disadvantage. In the year 
 
96 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 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 it 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 acknowledg- 
 ment 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. 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 'Tis spent — this burning day of June! 
 
 Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is stealing ; 
 
 The dor-hawk, solitary bird, 
 
 Round the dim crags on heavy pinions wheeling, 
 
 Buzzes incessantly, a tiresome tune ; 
 
 That constant voice is all that can be heard 
 
 In silence deeper far than that of deepest noon ! 
 
 Confiding Glow-worms! 'tis 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 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 ; 
 The mountains rise to wondrous height, 
 And in the heavens there hangs a weight; 
 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 ; 
 Who long hath trod this toilsome way. 
 Companion of the night and day. 
 Tiiat far-off 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, 
 lie 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 now have gained the top of the hill, 
 He was patient — they were strong — 
 And now they smoothly glide along, 
 Gathering breath, and pleased to win 
 The praises of mild Benjamin. 
 Heaven shield him from mishap and snare ! 
 But why so early with this prayer 1 — 
 Is it for threatenings in the sky ? — 
 Or for some other danger nigh 1 
 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 Olivb-boogh 
 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-bouoh 
 Once hung, a Poet harbours now, — 
 A simple water-drinking Bard ; 
 Why need our Hero then (though frail 
 His best resolves) be on liis 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 is he 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, 
 If he resist those casement panes. 
 And that bright gleam which thence will fell 
 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 full 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 1 
 Uncouth although the object be. 
 An image of perplexity ; 
 Yet not the less it is our boast, 
 For it was painted by the Host ; 
 His own conceit the figure planned, 
 'T was coloured all by his own hand ; 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 97 
 
 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 
 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 never was my heart more light. 
 I trespassed lately worse than ever — 
 But Heaven will bless a good endeavour; 
 And, to my soul's delight, I find 
 The Evil One is left behind. 
 Yes, let my master fume and fret, 
 Here am I — vpith my Horses yet! 
 My jolly Team, he finds that ye 
 Will work for nobody but me ! 
 Good proof of this the Country gained, 
 One day, when ye were vexed and strained — 
 Entrusted to another's care, 
 And forced unworthy stripes to bear. 
 Here was it — on this rugged spot 
 Which now, contented with our lot, 
 We climb — that, piteously abused, 
 Ye plunged in anger and confused : 
 As chance would have it, passing by 
 I saw you in your jeopardy : 
 A word from me was like a charm — 
 The ranks were taken 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, 'tis owing 
 That side by side we still are going ! 
 
 While Benjamin in earnest mood 
 His meditations thus pursued. 
 
 * This rude piece of sell^laught art (such is the progress of 
 refinement) has been supplanted by a professional production. 
 
 N 
 
 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 ; 
 
 The air was now without a breath — 
 
 He marked not that 'twas still as death. 
 
 But soon large drops upon his head 
 
 Pell with the weight of drops of lead ; — 
 
 He starts — and, at the admonition. 
 
 Takes a 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 — 
 
 A huge and melancholy 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 AsTEOLOGER, sage Sidrophel, 
 
 Where at his desk and book he sits, 
 
 Puzzling on high 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! 
 
 The Astrologer was not unseen 
 
 By solitary Benjamin : 
 
 But total darkness came anon. 
 
 And he and every thing was gone. 
 
 And suddenly a ruffling breeze, 
 
 (That would have sounded through the trees 
 
 Had aught of sylvan growth been there) 
 
 Was felt throughout the region 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 scarely hear them. 
 
 He is astounded, — wonder not, — 
 
 With such a charge in such a spot; 
 
 Astounded in the mountain gap 
 
 By peals of thunder, clap on clap ! 
 
 And many a terror-striking flash ; — 
 
 And somewhere, as it seems, a crash. 
 
 Among the rocks ; with weight of rain. 
 
 * A mountain of Grasmere, the broken summit of which pre- 
 sents two figures, full as distinctly shaped as that of the famous 
 Cobbler, near Arroquhar in Scotland. 
 9 
 
98 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 Dimmail's bones ; 
 
 He 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. 
 
 The voice, to move commiseration. 
 Prolonged its earnest supplication — 
 " This storm that beats so furiously — 
 This dreadful place ! oh pity me !" 
 
 While this was said, with sobs between. 
 And many tears, by one unseen ; 
 There came a flash — a startling glare. 
 And all Seat-Sandal was laid bare T 
 'T is not a time for nice suggestion, 
 And Benjamin, without further 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, wliy so fast 1 
 I've had a glimpse of you — avast! 
 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 I 
 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. 
 To courteous Benjamin replied, 
 "Go you your way, and mind not me; 
 For I must have, whate'er betide. 
 My Ass and fifty thi-ngs beside, — 
 Go, and I '11 follow speedily !" 
 
 The Waggon moves — and with its load 
 Descends along the sloping road : 
 And to a little tent hard by 
 Turns the sailor instantly; 
 For when, at closing-in of day. 
 The family had come that way, 
 Green pasture and the soft warm air 
 Had 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. 
 
 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 an easy mind; 
 
 While he, who had been left behind. 
 
 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 tlie Cherry Tree ! 
 
 Thence the sound — the light is there — 
 As Benjamin is now aware. 
 Who, to his inward thoughts confined, 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 99 
 
 Had almost reached the festive door, 
 When, startled by the Sailor's roar. 
 He hears a sound and sees the light, 
 And in a moment calls to mind 
 That 'tis the village Merry-night!* 
 
 Although before in no dejection, 
 At this insidious recollection 
 His heart with sudden joy is filled, — 
 His ears arc 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, tow'rds 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 ! 
 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 what 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 streaming 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 painful cast. 
 If such be the amends at last. 
 Now should you think I judge amiss. 
 The Cherry Tree shows proof of this ; 
 
 * A term well known in Ihe North of England, and applied 
 to rural Festivals where young persons meet in the evening for 
 the purpose of dancing. 
 
 For, soon of all the happy there. 
 Our Travellers are the happiest pair. 
 All care with Benjamin is gone — 
 A CsEsar 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 
 Deems that she is happier, laid 
 Within that warm and peaceful bed ; 
 
 Under cover, 
 
 Terror over. 
 Sleeping by her sleeping Baby. 
 
 With bowl in hand, 
 
 (It may not stand) 
 Gladdest of the gladsome band, 
 Amid their own delight and fun. 
 They hear — when every dance is done — 
 They hear — when every fit 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 ! 
 
 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 whati — 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 befiriended 
 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'll 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; 
 And then as from a sudden check, 
 Cries out — "'Tis there, the Quarter-deck 
 
 * At the close of each strathspey, or jig, a particular note from 
 the fiddle summons the Rustic to the agreeable duly of saluting 
 his Partner 
 
100 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 On which brave Admiral Nelson stood — 
 A sight that would have roused your blood! 
 One eye he had, which, bright as ten. 
 Burnt 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 througli 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 wondrous 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 Mastifl^ fi-om beneath the Waggon, 
 Where he lay, watchful as a dragon, 
 Rattled his chain — 'twas all in vain. 
 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 ! 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 
 RifiiiT 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, these 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 cloudt-d 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, 
 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. 
 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" not well pleased to be 
 So very near such company.) 
 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 Sliip will travel without harm ; 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 101 
 
 I like," said Benjamin, " lier shape and stature : 
 
 And tliis of mine — tliis bulky Creature 
 
 Of which I have the steering — this, 
 
 Seen fairly, is not much amiss ! 
 
 We want your streamers. Friend, you know ; 
 
 But, altogether, as we go. 
 
 We make a kind of handsome show ! 
 
 Among these hills, from first to last, 
 
 We've weathered many a furious blast; 
 
 Hard passage forcing on, with head 
 
 Against the storm, and canvas spread. 
 
 I hate a boaster — but to thee 
 
 Will say 't, who knowest both land and sea, 
 
 The unluckiest Hulk that sails 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, 
 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, turning 
 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 
 On 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 — 
 
 That is the worst of his employment : 
 He's in the height 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 wheeled — 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 ! 
 
 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 needs ; 
 
 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 the storm — 
 
 Glimmering through the twilight pale ; 
 
 And Giramer-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. 
 
 By sheep-track or through cottage lane. 
 
 Where no disturbance comes to intrude 
 
 Upon the pensive solitude. 
 
 Her unsuspecting eye, perchance, 
 
 With the rude Shepherd's favoured glance, 
 
 Beholds 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. 
 
 ^ The crag of the ewe Iamb. 
 9* 
 
102 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 — 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 Blencathra's rugged feet. 
 
 Sir Launcelot gave a safe retreat 
 
 To noble Clifford ; from annoy 
 
 Concealed the persecuted Boy, 
 
 Well pleased in rustic garb to feed 
 
 His flock, and pipe on Shepherd's reed ; 
 
 Among this multitude of hills. 
 
 Crags, woodlands, water-falls, and rills; 
 
 Which soon the morning shall enfold, 
 
 Prom 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 gray 
 Are smitten by a silver ray ; 
 And lo! — up Castrigg'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. 
 
 They are drooping, weak, and dull; 
 But the horses stretch and pull ; 
 With increasing vigour climb. 
 Eager to repair lost time ; 
 Whether, by their own desert, 
 Knowing there is cause for shame, 
 They are labouring to avert 
 At least a portion of the blame, 
 Which full surely will alight 
 Upon his head, whom, in despite 
 Of all his faults, they love the 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 — 
 Tuco-ing all with might and main — 
 
 Last and foremost, every horse 
 
 To the utmost of his force! 
 
 And the smoke and respiration 
 
 Rising like an exhalation. 
 
 Blends with the mist — a moving shroud. 
 
 To form — an undissolving cloud; 
 
 Which, with slant ray, the merry sun 
 
 Takes delight to play upon. 
 
 Never Venus or Apollo, 
 
 Pleased a favourite chief to follow 
 
 Through accidents of peace or war, 
 
 In a time of peril threw. 
 
 Round the object of his care. 
 
 Veil of such celestial hue ; 
 
 Interposed so briglit a screen 
 
 Him and his enemies between! 
 
 Alas ! what boots it 1 — who can hide 
 When the malicious Fates are bent 
 On working out an ill intent 1 
 Can destiny be turned aside's 
 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, 
 Or to hear what thou canst say; 
 If, as needs he must forebode. 
 Thou hast loitered on the road ! 
 His doubts — his fears 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, 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 103 
 
 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 wayworn 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 wo\ind 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 ; — 
 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 cliecked me — and I left the theme 
 Untouched — in spite of many a gleam 
 Of fancy which thereon was shed. 
 Like pleas3.nt sunbeams shifting still 
 Upon the side of a distant hill : 
 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, 
 
 That, in 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 milder grace adorning 
 
 The Landscape of a summer's morning; 
 
 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 passed slowly on, 
 
 Beneath my window — 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 — 
 
 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; 
 
104 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Am grieved for that unhappy sin 
 Which robbed >is of good Benjamin ; — 
 And of his stately Charge, which none 
 Could keep alive when he was gone! 
 
 THE PRIORESS'S TALE. 
 
 (from CHAUCER.) 
 
 " Call up him who left half told 
 The storj' of CambuscaQ bold." 
 
 In the follomng Poem I have allowed myself no further de- 
 viation from the original than was necessary for the fluent 
 reading and instant understanding of the Author; so much, 
 however, is the language altered since Chaucer's time, especial- 
 ly in pronunciation, 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 conviction that such sprinklings of antiquity would 
 be admitted, by persons of taste, to have a graceful accordance 
 with the subject. The tierce bigotry of tlie Prioress ibrms a 
 fine back-ground for her tender-hearted sympathies with the 
 IVIother and Child ; and the mode in w-hich 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 vvorld 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 ! 
 Tiiy goodness is set forth, they when they lie 
 Upon the breast thy name do glorify. 
 
 " 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 
 
 Of goodness, next her Son, our soul's best boot. 
 
 " 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 ! 
 
 "Lady, thy goodness, thy magnificence, 
 
 Thy virtue, and thy great humility, 
 
 Surpass all science and all utterance ; 
 
 For sometimes, Lady ! ere men pray to theo, 
 
 Thou goest before in thy benignity, 
 
 The light to us vouchsafing of thy prayer, 
 
 To be our guide unto thy Son so dear. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " 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 inight ride and wend; 
 
 Free was it, and unbarred at either end. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " 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, as he goeth by the way. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " 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 Rcdemptoris did he hear; 
 And as he durst he drew him near and near, 
 And hearkened to the words and to the note, 
 Till the first verse he learned it all by rote. 
 
 " 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 ineaning 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. d 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 105 
 
 " 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.' 
 
 " ' And is this song fashioned in reverence 
 Of Jesu's Mother V said this Innocent ; 
 ' Now, certes, I will use my diligence 
 To con it all ere Christmas-tide be spent ; 
 Although I for my primer shall be shent, 
 And shall be beaten three tiiiies in an hour, 
 Our Lady I will praise with all my power.' 
 
 " 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 schoolward whensoe'er he went, 
 On Jesu's Mother fixed was his intent. 
 
 " 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 Redemploris ! 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. 
 
 " The serpent, Satan, our first foe, that hath 
 
 His wasp's nest in Jew's heart, upswelled — 'O woo, 
 
 O Hebrew people !' said he in his wrath, 
 
 'Is it an honest thing 1 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 !' 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " 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 7 
 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. 
 O 
 
 " ' O Martyr 'stablished in virginity ! 
 
 Now mayest thou sing for aye before the throne, 
 
 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. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " She asketh, and she piteously doth pray 
 To every Jew that dwelleth in that place 
 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. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " The Christian folk that through the Jewry went 
 
 Came 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. 
 
 " This Child with piteous lamentation then 
 Was taken up, singing his song alwily ; 
 And with procession great and pomp of men 
 To the next Abbey him they bare away ; 
 His Mother swooning by the Bier lay: 
 And scarcely could the people that were near 
 Remove this second Rachael from the Bier. 
 
106 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " 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 Abna Redemptoris Mater ! 
 
 " This Abbot, for he was a holy man, 
 
 As all Monks are, or surely ought to be, 
 
 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.' 
 
 " ' 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, O Alma .' loud and clear. 
 
 " '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 
 Methought she laid a grain upon my tongue. 
 
 " ' Wherefore I sing, nor can from song refrain, 
 
 In honour of that blissful Maiden free. 
 
 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 !" 
 
 "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. 
 
 " 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 ! 
 
 " Young Hew of Lincoln ! in like sort laid low 
 By cursed Jews — thing well and widely known, 
 For not long since was dealt the cruel blow. 
 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 !" 
 
POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 L 
 
 137 
 
POEMS OF THE FANCY- 
 
 A MORNING EXERCISE. 
 
 Fancy, who leads the pastimes of the glad, 
 Full oft is pleased a wayward dart to throw ; 
 Sending- sad shadows after things not sad, 
 Peopling the harmless fields with signs of woe : 
 Beneath her sway^ a simple forest cry 
 Becomes an echo of Man's misery. 
 
 Blithe Ravens croak of death ; and when the Owl 
 Tries his two voices for a favourite strain — 
 Tu-whit — Tu-whoo ! the unsuspecting fowl 
 Forebodes mishap, or seems but to complain ; 
 Fancy, intent to harass and annoy, 
 Can thus pervert the evidence of joy. 
 
 Through border wilds where naked Indians stray. 
 Myriads of notes attest her subtle skill ; 
 A feathered Task-master cries, " Worr away !" 
 And, in thy iteration, " Whip poor Will*," 
 Is heard the Spirit of a toil-worn Slave, 
 Lashed out of life, not quiet in the grave ! 
 
 What wonder ? at her bidding, ancient lays 
 Steeped in dire griefs the voice of Philomel ; 
 And that fleet Messenger of summer days. 
 The Swallow, twittered subject to like spell ; 
 But ne'er could Fancy bend the buoyant Lark 
 To melancholy service — hark ! O hark ! 
 
 The daisy sleeps upon the dewy lawn. 
 Not lifting yet the head that evening bowed ; 
 But He is risen, a later star of dawn, 
 Glittering and twinkling near yon rosy cloud ; 
 Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark ; 
 The happiest Bird that sprang out of the Ark ! 
 
 Hail, blest above all kinds ! ■^- Supremely skilled 
 Restless with fixed to balance, high with low. 
 Thou leav'st the Halcyon free her hopes to build 
 On such forbearance as the deep may show ; 
 Perpetual flight, unchecked by earthly ties, 
 Leavest to the wandering Bird of Paradise. 
 
 Faithful, though swift as lightning, the meek Dove ; 
 Yet more hath Nature reconciled in thee ; 
 So constant with thy downward eye of love. 
 Yet, in aerial singleness, so ixee ; 
 
 So humble, yet so ready to rejoice 
 
 In power of wing and never-wearied voice ! 
 
 How would it please old Ocean to partake. 
 With Sailors longing for a breeze in vain. 
 The harmony that thou best lovest to make 
 Where earth resembles most his blank domain ! 
 Urania's self might welcome with pleased ear 
 These matins mounting towards her native sphere. 
 
 Chanter by Heaven attracted, whom no bars 
 To day-light known deter from that pursuit, 
 'Tis well that some sage instinct, when the stars 
 Come forth at evening, keeps Thee still and mute ; 
 For not an eyelid could to sleep incline 
 Wert thou among them singing as they shine ! 
 
 * See Waterton's Wanderings in Soulh America. 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 " Hert divine sliill taugiit me this, 
 Tliat from every thing I saw 
 I could some instruction draw, 
 And raise pleasure to tlie 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. WlTITERg. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 When Winter decks his few gray hairs. 
 Thee in the scanty wreath he wears; 
 Spring parts the clouds with softest airs. 
 That she may sun thee ; 
 
 t His muse. 
 10 
 

 
 110 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 1 
 
 Whole summer fields are thine by right; 
 
 And all day long I number yet, 
 
 And Autumn, melancholy Wight ! 
 
 All seasons through, another debt, ■ 
 
 Doth in thy crimson head delight 
 
 Which I, wherever thou art met. 
 
 When rains are on thee. 
 
 To thee am owing; 
 
 
 An instinct call it, a blind sense; ) 
 A happy, genial influence. 
 
 In shoals and bands, a morrice train, 
 
 Thou greetest the Traveller in the lane; 
 
 Coming one knows not how, nor whence. 
 
 If welcome once thou countest it gain ; 
 
 Nor whither going. 
 
 Thou art not daunted, 
 
 
 Nor carest if thou be set at naught : 
 
 Child of the Year ! that round dost run 
 
 And oft alone in nooks remote 
 
 Thy course, bold lover of the sun, 
 
 We meet thee like a pleasant thought, 
 
 And cheerful when the day's begun 
 
 When such are wanted. 
 
 As morning Leveret, 
 
 
 Thy long-lost praise* thou shalt regain; 
 
 Be Violets in their secret mews 
 
 Dear shalt thou be to future men 
 
 The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose ; 
 
 As in old time; — thou not in vain 
 
 Proiid be the Rose, with rains and dews 
 
 Art Nature's favourite. < 
 
 Her head impearling ; 
 
 ,., ' 
 
 Thou livest with less ambitious aim, 
 
 
 Yet hast not gone without thy fame ; 
 
 A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill 
 
 Thou art indeed by many a claim 
 
 Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound ; 
 
 The Poet's darting. 
 
 Then — all at once the air was still. 
 
 
 And showers of hail-stones pattered round. 
 
 If to a rock from rams he fly, 
 
 Where leafless Oaks towered high above, 
 
 Or, some bright day of April sky, 
 
 I sat within an undergrove 
 
 Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie 
 
 Of tallest hollies, tall and green ; 
 
 Near the green holly, 
 
 A fairer bower was never seen. 
 
 And wearily at length should fare ; 
 
 From year to year the spacious floor 
 
 He needs but look about, and there 
 
 With withered leaves is covered o'er, 
 
 Thou art! — a Friend at hand, to scare 
 
 And all the year the bower is green. 
 
 His melancholy. 
 
 But see ! where'er the hail-stones drop 
 
 
 The withered leaves all skip and hop; 
 
 A hundred times, by rock or bower, 
 
 There 's not a breeze — no breath of air — 
 
 Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, 
 
 Yet here, and there, and everywhere 
 
 Have I derived from thy sweet power 
 
 Along the floor, beneath the shade 
 
 Some apprehension ; 
 
 By those embowering hollies made, 
 
 Some steady love ; some brief delight ; 
 
 The leaves in myriads jump and spring, 
 
 Some memory that had taken flight; 
 
 As if with pipes and music rare 
 
 Some chime of fancy wrong or right ; 
 
 Some Robin Good-fellow were there. 
 
 Or stray invention. 
 
 And all those leaves, in festive glee, 
 
 
 Were dancing to the minstrelsy. 
 
 If stately passions in me burn, 
 
 . 
 
 And one chance look to Thee should turn, 
 
 i 
 
 I drink out of an humbler urn 
 
 THE GREEN LINNET. 
 
 A lowlier pleasure ; 
 
 Beneath these fruit tree boughs that shed 
 
 The homely sympathy that heeds 
 
 Their snow-white blossoms on my head, 
 
 The common life, our nature breeds ; 
 
 With briglitest sunshine round me spread 
 
 A wisdom fitted to the needs 
 
 Of spring's unclouded weather. 
 
 Of hearts at leisure. 
 
 In this sequestered nook how sweet 
 
 
 To sit upon my Orchard-seat ! 
 
 When, smitten by the morning ray, 
 
 And birds and flowers once more to greet, 
 
 I see thee rise, alert and gay. 
 
 My last year's Friends together. 
 
 Then, cheerful Flower ! my spirits play 
 
 ' 
 
 With kindred gladness: 
 
 One have I marked, the happiest Guest 
 
 And when, at dusk, by dews opprest 
 
 In all this covert of the blest : 
 
 Thou sink'st, the image of tliy rest 
 Hath often eased my pensive breast 
 
 Hail to Thee, far above the rest 
 
 ^ — - ^ 
 
 * See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours formerly 
 
 Of careful sadness. 
 
 paid to this flower 
 
POEMS OF THE FANCY. Ill 
 
 . . , 
 
 In joy of voice and pinion, 
 
 But, exiled from Australian Bowers, 
 
 Thou, Linnet! in thy green array. 
 
 And singleness her lot, 
 
 Presiding Spirit here to-day, 
 
 She trills her song with tutored powers, 
 
 Dost lead the revels of the May, 
 
 Or mocks each casual note. 
 
 And this is thy dominion. 
 
 No more of pity for regrets 
 
 While Birds, and Butterflies, and Flowers, 
 Make all one Band of Paramours, 
 Thou, ranging up and Aown the howers, 
 
 With which she may have striven ! 
 Now but in wantonness she frets. 
 Or spite, if cause be given ; 
 
 Art sole in thy employment ; 
 
 Arch, volatile, a sportive Bird 
 
 A Life, a Presence like the Air, 
 
 By social glee inspired ; 
 
 Scattering thy gladness vyithout care, 
 
 Ambitious to be seen or heard, 
 
 Too blest with any one to pair. 
 
 And pleased to be admired ! 
 
 Thyself thy own enjoyment. 
 
 n. 
 
 Upon yon tuft of hazel trees. 
 
 This moss-lined shed, green, soft, and dry, 
 
 That twinkle to the gusty breeze. 
 
 Harbours a self-contented Wren, 
 
 Behold him perched in ecstasies. 
 
 Not shunning man's abode, though shy. 
 
 Yet seeeming still to hover; 
 
 Almost as thought itself, of human ken. 
 
 There ! where the flutter of his wings 
 Upon his back and body flings 
 Shadows and sunny glimmerings. 
 That cover him all over. 
 
 Strange places, coverts unendeared 
 
 She never tried ; the very nest 
 
 In which this Child of Spring was reared. 
 
 Is warmed, thro' winter, by her feathery breast. 
 
 My dazzled sight the Bird 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 
 
 To the bleak winds she sometimes gives 
 A slender unexpected strain ; 
 That tells the Hermitess still lives. 
 Though she appear not, and be sought in vain. 
 
 He mocked and treated with disdain 
 
 Say, Dora ! tell me by yon placid Moon, 
 
 The voiceless Form he chose to feign. 
 
 If called to choose between the favoured pair, 
 
 While fluttering in the bushes. 
 
 Which would you be, — the Bird of the Saloon, 
 
 
 By Lady fingers tended with nice care. 
 
 
 Caressed, applauded, upon dainties fed. 
 
 Or Nature's Dakkling of this mossy Shed 1 
 
 
 THE CONTRAST. 
 
 
 THE PARROT AND THE WREN. 
 
 
 I. 
 
 TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.* 
 
 Within her gilded cage confined, 
 
 Pansies, Lilies, Kingcups, Daisies, 
 
 1 I saw a dazzling Belle, 
 
 Let them live upon their praises ; 
 
 A Parrot of that famous kind 
 
 Long as there 's a sun that sets. 
 
 Whose name is Non-pareil. 
 
 Primroses will have their glory ; 
 
 Like beads of glossy jet her eyes ; 
 And, smoothed by Nature's skill. 
 
 Long as there are Violets, 
 They will have a place in story : 
 There's a flower that shall be mine. 
 
 With pearl or gleaming agate vies 
 Her finely-curved bill. 
 
 'Tis the little Celandine. 
 Eyes of some men travel far 
 
 Her plumy Mantle's living hues 
 
 For the flnding of a star ; 
 
 In mass opposed to mass. 
 Outshine the splendour that imbues 
 The robes of pictured glass. 
 
 Up and down the heavens they go, 
 Men that keep a mighty rout! 
 I'm as great as they, I trow. 
 
 And, sooth to say, an apter Mate 
 Did never tempt the choice 
 Of feathered Thing most delicate 
 In figure and in voice. 
 
 Since the day I found thee out. 
 Little flower ! — I '11 make a stir. 
 Like a great Astronomer. 
 
 * Common Pilewort 
 
112 WORDSVyORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Modest, yet withal an Elf 
 
 All unheard of as thou art, 
 
 Bold, and lavish of tliyself ; 
 
 Thou must needs, I think, have had, 
 
 Since we needs must first have met 
 
 Celandine ! and long ago. 
 
 I have seen thee, high and low, 
 
 Praise of which I notliing know. 
 
 Thirty years or more, and yet 
 
 
 'Twas a face I did not know; 
 
 I have not a doubt but he, 
 
 Thou hast now, go where I may. 
 
 Whosoe'er the man might be, 
 
 Fifty greetings in a day. 
 
 Who the first with pointed rays 
 
 
 (Workmen worthy to be sainted) 
 
 Ere a leaf is on a hush. 
 
 Set the Sign-board in a blaze. 
 
 In the time before the Thrush 
 
 When the risen sun he painted, 
 
 Has a thought about her nest. 
 
 Took the fancy from a glance 
 
 Thou wilt come witli half a call, 
 
 At thy glittering countenance. 
 
 Spreading out thy glossy breast 
 
 
 Like a careless Prodigal; 
 
 Soon as gentle breezes bring 
 
 Telling tales about the sun. 
 
 News of winter's vanishing. 
 
 When we've little warmtli, or none. 
 
 And the children build their bowers, 
 
 Poets, vain men in tlicir mood ! 
 
 Sticking 'kerchief plots of mould 
 
 Travel with the multitude: 
 
 All about with full-blown flowers. 
 
 Never heed them; I aver 
 
 Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold ! 
 
 That they all are wanton Wooers; 
 
 With the proudest thou art there, 
 
 But the thrifty Cottager, 
 
 Mantling in the tiny square. 
 
 Who stirs little out of doors. 
 
 
 Joys to spy thee near her home; 
 
 Often have I sighed to measure 
 
 Spring is coming, Thou art come! 
 
 By myself a lonely pleasure. 
 
 
 Sighed to think, I read a book 
 Only read, perhaps, by me; 
 
 Comfort have thou of thy merit, 
 
 Kindly, unassuming Spirit ! 
 
 Yet I long could overlook 
 
 Careless of thy neighbourhood. 
 
 Thy bright coronet and Thee, 
 And thy arch and wily ways. 
 
 Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
 
 On the moor, and in the wood, 
 
 
 And thy store of other praise. 
 
 In the lane — there's not a place, 
 
 Howsoever mean it be. 
 
 Blithe of heart, from week to week 
 
 But 'tis good enough for thee. 
 
 Tliou dost play at hide-and-seek; 
 
 Ill befall the yellow Flowers, 
 
 While the patient primrose sits 
 
 Children of the flaring hours ! 
 
 Like a Beggar in the cold. 
 
 Buttercups, that will be seen. 
 
 Thou, a Flower of wiser wits, 
 
 Whether we will see or no; 
 
 Slippest into thy sheltering hold; 
 
 Others, too, of lofty mien ; 
 
 Bright as any of the train 
 
 They have done as worldlings do. 
 
 When ye all are out again. , 
 
 Taken praise that should he thine. 
 
 
 Little, humble Celandine ! 
 
 Thou art not beyond the moon, 
 
 
 But a thing " beneath our shoon :" 
 
 Prophet of delight and mirth. 
 
 Let the bold Adventurer tlirid 
 
 Scorned and slighted upon earth ; 
 
 In his bark the polar sea; 
 
 Herald of a mighty band. 
 
 Rear who will a pyramid ; 
 
 Of a joyous train ensuing, 
 
 Praise it is enough for me, 
 
 Singing at my heart's command, 
 
 If there be but thre" or four 
 
 In the lanes my tlioughts pursuing, 
 
 Who will love my little Flower. 
 
 I will sing, as doth behove. 
 
 
 Hymns in praise of what I love ! 
 
 THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE. 
 
 TO THE SAME FLOWER. 
 
 Pleasures newly found are sweet 
 
 "Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf," 
 
 When they lie about our feet: 
 
 Exclaimed a thundering Voice, 
 
 February last, my heart 
 
 "Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self 
 
 First at sight of thee was glad ; 
 
 Between me and my choice. 
 
 
 
POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 113 
 
 A small Cascade fresh swoln.with snows 
 Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose, 
 That, all bespattered with his foam. 
 And dancing- high and dancing- low. 
 Was living-, as a child might know, 
 In an unhappy home. 
 
 " Dost thou presume my course to block ■! 
 
 Off, off! or, puny Thing! 
 
 I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock 
 
 To which thy fibres cling." 
 
 The Flood was tyrannous and strong ; 
 
 Tlie patient Briar suffered long. 
 
 Nor did he utter groan or sigh. 
 
 Hoping the danger would be past : 
 
 But, seeing no relief, at last 
 
 He ventured to reply. 
 
 " Ah !" said the Briar, " blame me not ; 
 
 Why should we dwell in strife 1 
 
 We who in this sequestered spot 
 
 Once lived a happy life ! 
 
 You stirred me on my rocky bed — 
 
 What pleasure through my veins you spread! 
 
 The Summer long, from day to day. 
 
 My leaves you freshened and bedewed; 
 
 Nor was it common gratitude 
 
 That did your cares repay. ' 
 
 " When Spring came on with bud and bell, 
 
 Among these rocks did I 
 
 Before you hang my wreaths, to tell 
 
 That gentle days were nigh ! 
 
 And in the sultry summer hours, 
 
 1 sheltered you -with leaves and flowers; 
 
 And in my leaves — now shed and gone, 
 
 The Linnet lodged, and for us two 
 
 Chanted his pretty songs, when You 
 
 Had little voice or none. 
 
 "But now proud thoughts are in your breast - 
 
 What grief is mine you see. 
 
 Ah ! would you think, even yet how blest 
 
 Together we might be! 
 
 Though of both leaf and flower bereft, 
 
 Some ornaments to me are left — 
 
 Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, 
 
 With which I, in my humble way, 
 
 Would deck you many a winter's day, 
 
 A happy Eglantine !" 
 
 What more he said I cannot tell. 
 The Torrent thundered down the dell 
 With aggravated haste ; 
 I listened, nor aught else could hear ; 
 The Briar quaked — and much I fear 
 Those accents were his last. 
 P 
 
 THE OAK AND THE BROOM. 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 His simple truths did Andrew glean 
 
 Beside the babbling rills ; 
 
 A careful student he had been 
 
 Among the woods and hills. 
 
 One winter's night, when through the trees 
 
 The wind was roaring, on his knees 
 
 His youngest born did Andrew hold : 
 
 And while the rest, a ruddy quire. 
 
 Were seated round their blazing fire, 
 
 This Tale the Shepherd told. 
 
 " I saw a crag, a lofty stone 
 
 As ever tempest beat ! 
 
 Out of its head an Oak had grown, 
 
 A Broom out of its feet. 
 
 The time was March, a cheerful noon — 
 
 The thaw-wind, with the breath of June, 
 
 Breathed gently from the warm south-west : 
 
 When, in a voice sedate with age, 
 
 This Oak, a giant and a sage. 
 
 His neighbour thus addressed : — 
 
 ' Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay. 
 
 Along this mountain's edge, 
 
 Tlie Frost hath wrought both night and day. 
 
 Wedge driving after wedge. 
 
 Look up ! and think, above your head 
 
 What trouble, surely, will be bred ; 
 
 Last night I heard a crash — 'tis true, 
 
 The splinters took another road — 
 
 I see them yonder — what a load 
 
 For such a Thing as you ! 
 
 You are preparing, as before, 
 
 To deck your slender shape ; 
 
 And yet, just three years back — no more — 
 
 You had a strange escape. 
 
 Down from yon cliff a fragment broke ; 
 
 It thundered down, with fire and smoke. 
 
 And hitherward pursued its way : 
 
 This ponderous Block was caught by me, 
 
 And o'er your head, as you may see, 
 
 'T is hanging to this day ! 
 
 The Thing had better been asleep. 
 Whatever thing it were. 
 Or Breeze, or Bird, or Dog, or Sheep, 
 That first did plant you there. 
 For you and your green twigs decoy 
 The little witless Shepherd-boy 
 To come and slumber in your bower; 
 And, trust me, on some sultry noon. 
 Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon ! 
 Will perish in one hour. 
 10* 
 
114 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 From me this friendly warning take' — 
 
 The Broom began to doze, 
 
 And thus, to keep herself awake, 
 
 Did gently interpose : 
 
 ' My thanks for your discourse are due ; 
 
 Tliat more than what you say is true, 
 
 I know, and I have known it long ; 
 
 Frail is the bond by which we hold 
 
 Our being, whether young or old, 
 
 Wise, foolish, weak, or strong. 
 
 Disasters, do the best we can. 
 
 Will reach both great and small 
 
 And he is oft the wisest man. 
 
 Who is not wise at all. 
 
 For me, why should I wish to roam ? 
 
 This spot is my paternal home. 
 
 It is my pleasant heritage ; 
 
 My Father, many a happy year. 
 
 Here spread his careless blossoms, here 
 
 Attained a good old age. 
 
 Even such as his ma}' be my lot. 
 What cause have I to haunt 
 My heart with terrors! Am I not 
 In truth a favoured plant ! 
 On me such bounty Summer pours, 
 That I am covered o'er with flowers; 
 And, when the Frost is in the sky, 
 . My branches are so fresh and gay 
 That you might look at me, and say 
 This plant can never die. 
 
 The Butterfly, all green and gold. 
 
 To me hath often flown, 
 
 Here in my Blossoms to behold 
 
 Wings lovely as his own. 
 
 When grass is chill with rain or dew. 
 
 Beneath my shade, the mother Ewe 
 
 Lies with her infant Lamb; I see 
 
 The love they to each other make, 
 
 And the sweet joy, which they partake, 
 
 It is a joy to me.' 
 
 Her voice was blithe, her heart was light; 
 The Broom might have pursued 
 Her speech, until the stars of night 
 Their journey had renewed ; 
 But in the branches of the Oak 
 Two Ravens now began to croak 
 Their nuptial song, a gladsome air; 
 And to her own green bower the breeze 
 Tiiat instant brought two stripling Bees 
 To rest, or murmur there. 
 
 One night, my Children ! from the North 
 There came a furious blast ; 
 At break of day I ventured forth, 
 And near the Cliff I passed. 
 
 The storm had fallen upon the Oak, 
 And struck him with a mighty stroke, 
 And whirled, and whirled him far away ; 
 And, in one hospitable cleft, 
 The little careless Broom was left 
 To live for many a day." 
 
 SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL. 
 
 Founded upon a Belief prevalent among the Pastoral Vales of 
 Westmoreland. 
 
 Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel ! 
 
 Night has brouglit the welcome hour, 
 
 When the weary fingers feel 
 
 Help, as if from faery power ; 
 
 Dewy night o'ershades the ground: ; 
 
 Turn the swift wheel round and round! 
 
 Now, beneath the starry sky. 
 Couch the widely-scattered sheep ; — 
 Ply the pleasant labour, ply ! 
 For the spindle, wliile they sleep. 
 Runs with speed more smooth and fine, 
 Gathering up a trustier line. 
 
 Short-lived likings may be bred 
 By a glance from fickle eyes; 
 But true love is like the thread 
 Which the kindly wool supplies, 
 Wtien the flocks are all at rest 
 Sleeping on the mountain's breast. 
 
 THE REDBREAST AND BUTTERFLY. 
 
 Art thou the Bird whom Jlan 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 f 
 
 Their Thomas in Finland, 
 
 And Russia far inland! 
 The Bird, who by some name or other 
 All men who know thee call their Brotlier, 
 The Darling of Children and menl 
 Could Father Adam* open his eyes 
 And see this sight beneath tlie 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 : 
 
 * See Paradise Lost, Book XI., where Adam points out to I've 
 the ominous sign of the l-^agle chasing "two Birds of gayest 
 plume," and tlie genile Hart and Hind pursued by their enemy. 
 
POEMS OF 
 
 THE FANCY. 
 
 1-5 
 
 In and out, he darts about; 
 
 Now she works with three or four. 
 
 
 Can this be the Bird, to man so good, 
 
 Like an Indian Conjuror; 
 
 
 That, after their bewildering, 
 
 Quick as he in feats of art, 
 
 
 Covered with leaves the little children, 
 
 Far beyond in joy of heart. 
 
 
 So painfully in the wood ? 
 
 Were her antics played in the eye 
 Of a thousand Standcrs-by, 
 
 
 What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue 
 
 Clapping hands with shout and stare. 
 
 
 A beautiful Creature, 
 
 What would little Tabby care 
 
 
 That is gentle by nature'? 
 
 For the plaudits of the Crowd? 
 
 
 Beneath the summer sky 
 
 Over happy to be proud. 
 
 
 From flower to flower let him fly; 
 
 Over wealthy in the treasure 
 
 
 'Tis all that he wishes to do. 
 
 Of her own exceeding pleasure ! 
 
 
 The Cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness, 
 
 
 
 He is the Friend of our summer gladness : 
 
 'T is a pretty Baby-treat ; 
 
 
 What hinders, then, that ye should be 
 
 Nor, I deem, for me unmeet; 
 
 
 Playmates in the sunny weather, 
 
 Here, for neither Babe nor me, 
 
 
 And fly about in the air together! 
 
 Other Play-mate can I see. 
 
 
 His beautiful wings in crimson are drest. 
 
 Of the countless living things, 
 
 
 A crimson as bright as thine own : 
 
 That with stir of feet and wings 
 
 
 If thou would'st be happy in thy nest, 
 
 (In the sun or under shade. 
 
 
 pious Bird ! whom man loves best, 
 
 Upon bough or grassy blade) 
 
 
 Love him or leave him alone ! 
 
 And with busy revellings, 
 
 Chirp and song, and murmurings. 
 
 Made this Orchard's narrow space, 
 
 
 
 
 And this Vale so blithe a place; 
 
 
 THE KITTEN 
 
 Multitudes are swept away. 
 
 
 AND 
 
 Never more to breathe the day : 
 
 
 THE FALLING LEAVES. 
 
 Some are sleeping; some in Bands 
 Travelled into distant Lands; 
 
 
 That way look, my Infant, lo! 
 
 Others slunk to moor and wood. 
 
 
 What a pretty baby show ! 
 
 Far from human neighbourhood; 
 
 
 See the Kitten on the Wall, 
 
 And, among the Kinds that keep 
 
 
 Sporting with the leaves that fall. 
 
 With us closer fellowsliip. 
 
 
 Withered leaves — one — two — and three — 
 
 With us openly abide. 
 
 
 From the lofty Elder-tree ! 
 
 All have laid their mirth aside. 
 
 
 Through the calm and frosty air. 
 
 — Where is he that giddy Sprite, 
 
 
 Of this morning bright and fair, 
 
 Blue cap, with his colours bright. 
 
 
 Eddying round and round they sink 
 
 Who was blest as bird could be, 
 
 
 Softly, slowly : one might think. 
 
 Feeding in the apple-tree; 
 
 
 From the motions that are made. 
 
 Made such wanton spoil and rout. 
 
 
 Every little leaf conveyed 
 
 Turning blossoms inside out; 
 
 
 Sylph or Faery hither tending, — 
 
 Hung with head towards the ground, 
 
 
 To this lower world descending. 
 
 Fluttered, perched, into a round 
 
 
 Each invisible and mute, 
 
 Bound himself, and then unbound ; 
 
 
 In his wavering parachute. 
 
 Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin ! 
 
 
 But the Kitten, how she starts, 
 
 Prettiest Tumbler ever seen ! 
 
 , 
 
 Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts! 
 
 Light of heart and light of limb ; 
 
 
 First at one, and then its fellow 
 
 What is now become of Him ] 
 
 
 Just as light and just as yellow ; 
 
 Lambs, that through the mountains went 
 
 
 There are many now — now one — 
 
 Frisking, bl-eating merriment. 
 
 
 Now they stop and there are none ; 
 
 When the year was in its prime. 
 
 
 What intenseness of desire 
 
 They are sobered by this time. 
 
 
 In her upward eye of fire ! 
 
 . If you look to vale or hill. 
 
 
 With a tiger-leap half way 
 
 If you listen, all is still. 
 
 
 Now she meets the coming prey, 
 
 Save a little neighbouring Rill, 
 
 
 Lets it go as fast, and then 
 
 That from out the rocky ground 
 
 
 Has it in her power again: 
 
 Strikes a solitary sound. 
 
 
ne 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL AVORKS. 
 
 Vainly glitters hill and plain, 
 And the air is calm in vain ; 
 Vainly Morning spreads the lure 
 Of a sky serene and pure ; 
 Creature none can she decoy 
 Into open sign of joy : 
 Is it that they have a fear 
 Of the dreary season near ] 
 Or that other pleasures be 
 Sweeter even tlian gaiety 1 
 
 Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell 
 
 In the impenetrable cell 
 
 Oi' tlie silent heart which Nature 
 
 Furnishes to every Creature ; 
 
 Whatsoe'er we feel and know 
 
 Too sedate for outward show. 
 
 Such a light of gladness breaks, 
 
 Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks, — 
 
 Spreads with such a living grace 
 
 O'er my little Laura's face ; 
 
 Yes, the sight so stirs and charms 
 
 Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms. 
 
 That almost I could repine 
 
 That your transports are not mine. 
 
 That I do not wholly fare 
 
 Even as ye do, thoughtless Pair! 
 
 And I will have my careless season 
 
 Spite of melancholy reason. 
 
 Will walk through life in such a way 
 
 That, when time brings on decay. 
 
 Now and then I may possess 
 
 Hours of perfect gladsomeness. 
 
 — Pleased by any random toy ; 
 
 By a Kitten's busy joy, 
 
 Or an Infant's laughing eye 
 
 Sharing in the ecstasy ; 
 
 I would fare like that or this, 
 
 Find my wisdom in my bliss; 
 
 Keep the sprightly soul awake. 
 
 And have faculties to take, 
 
 Even from things by sorrow wrought, 
 
 IMatter for a jocund tliought. 
 
 Spite of care, and spite of grief. 
 
 To gambol with Life's falling Leaf. 
 
 A FLOWER GARDEN. 
 
 Teli, me, ye Zephyrs ! that unfold. 
 
 While fluttering o'er this gay Recess, 
 
 Pinions that fanned the teeming mould 
 
 Of Eden's blissful wilderness. 
 
 Did only softly-stealing Hours 
 
 There close the peaceful lives of flowers] 
 
 Say, when the moving Creatures saw 
 All kinds commingled without fear. 
 Prevailed a like indulgent law 
 For the still Growths that prosper here? 
 Did wanton Fawn and Kid forbear 
 The half-blown Rose, the Lily spare 'i 
 
 Or peeped they often from their beds 
 And prematurely disappeared. 
 Devoured like pleasure ere it spreads 
 A bosom to the Sun endeared ? 
 If such their harsh untimely doom. 
 It falls not here on bud or bloom. 
 
 All Summer long the happy Eve 
 Of this fair Spot her flowers may bind, 
 Nor e'er, with ruffled fancy, grieve. 
 From the next glance she casts, to find 
 That love for little Things by Fate 
 Is rendered vain as love for great. 
 
 Yet, where the guardian Fence is wound. 
 So subtly is the eye beguiled 
 It sees not nor suspects. a Bound, 
 No more than in some forest wild ; 
 Free as the light in semblance — crest 
 Only by art in nature lost. 
 
 And, though tlie jealous turf refuse 
 By random footsteps to be prest. 
 And feeds on never-sullied dews. 
 Ye, gentle breezes from the West, 
 With all the ministers of Hope, 
 Are tempted to this sunny slope ! 
 
 And hither throngs of birds resort ; 
 Some, inmates lodged in shady nests, 
 Some, perched on stems of stately port 
 That nod to welcome transient guests; 
 While Hare and Leveret, seen at play, 
 Appear not more shut out than they. 
 
 Apt emblem (for reproof of pride) 
 This delicate Enclosure shows 
 Of modest kindness, that would hide 
 The firm protection she bestows ; 
 Of manners, like its viewless fence, 
 Ensuring- peace to innocence. 
 
 Thus spake the moral Muse — her wing 
 Abruptly spreading to depait, 
 She left that farewell offering. 
 Memento for some docile heart ; 
 That may respect the good old age 
 When Fancy was Truth's willing Page; 
 And Truth would skim the flowery gkd 
 Though entering but as Fancy's Shade. 
 
 * 
 
POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 117 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 With little here to do or see 
 
 Of things that in the great world be, 
 
 Sweet Daisy ! oft 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 simiiies. 
 
 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 ; 
 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 i5ght 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 ! 
 
 Sweet Flower ! for by that name at last. 
 When all my reveries are past, 
 I call thee, and to that cleave fast. 
 
 Sweet silent Creature ! 
 That breath'st with me in sun and air. 
 Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
 My heart with gladness, and a share 
 
 Of thy meek nature ! 
 
 TO THE SAME FLOWER. 
 
 Bright flower, whose home is everywhere ! 
 
 A Pilgrim bold in Nature's care. 
 
 And oft, the long year tlirough, 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 through ! 
 
 And wherefore"! Man is soon dcprest; 
 A thoughtless Thing! who, once uublest, 
 Does little on his memory rest, 
 
 Or on his reason ; 
 But Thou wouldst teach him how to find 
 A shelter under every wind, 
 A hope for times that are unkind 
 
 And every season. 
 
 WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 Small service is true service while it lasts ; 
 
 Of Friends, however humble, scorn not one : 
 The Daisy, by the shadow that it casts, 
 
 Protects the lingering dew-drop from the Sun. 
 
 TO A SKY-LARK. 
 
 Up with me ! up with me into the clouds-! 
 
 For thy song. Lark, is strong ; 
 Up with me, up with me into the clouds I 
 
 Singing, singing. 
 With clouds and sky about thee ringing. 
 
 Lift me, guide nie till I find 
 That spot which seems so to thy mind ! ■ 
 
 I have walked through wildernesses dreary. 
 
 And to-day my heart is weary;. 
 
 Had I now the wings of a Faery,' 
 
 Up to thee would I fly.- 
 
 There's madness about thee, and joy divine' 
 
 In that song of thine; 
 
 Lift me, guide me high and high 
 
 To thy banqueting-place in the sky-. 
 
 Joyous as morning,\ 
 Thou art laughing and scorning; 
 Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, 
 And, though little troubled with ^sloth. 
 Drunken Lark ! thou wouldst be loth 
 To be such a Traveller as J. 
 Happy, happy Liver, 
 
 With a soul as strong as a mountain -River, 
 
 Pouring out praise to the Almiglity Giver, 
 
 Joy and jollity be with us both ! 
 
118 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Alas ! my journey, rugged and uneven, 
 
 Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wftid ; 
 
 But hearing thee, or others of thy kind,' 
 
 As full of gladness and as free of heaven, 
 
 I, with my fate contented, will plod on, 
 
 And hope for higher raptures when Life's day is done. 
 
 TO A SEXTON. 
 
 Let thy wheel-barrow alone — 
 
 Wherefore, Sexton, piling still 
 
 In thy Bone-nouse bone on bone 
 
 'T is already like a hill 
 
 In a field of battle made. 
 
 Where three thousand skulls are laid; 
 
 These died in peace each with the other,- 
 
 Father, Sister, Friend, and Brother. 
 
 Mark the spot to which I point! 
 From this platform, eight feet square, 
 Take not even a finger-joint: 
 Andrew's whole fire-side is there. 
 Here, alone, before thine eyes, 
 Simon's sickly daughter lies. 
 From weakness now, and pain defended, 
 Whom he twenty winters tended. 
 
 Look but at the gardener's pride — 
 
 How he glories, when he sees 
 
 Roses, Lilies, side by side, 
 
 Violets in families! 
 
 By the heart of Man, his tears, 
 
 By his hopes and by his fears, 
 
 Thou, old Gray-beard ! art the Warden 
 
 Of a far superior garden. 
 
 Thus then, each to other dear. 
 Let them all in quiet lie, 
 Andrew there, and Susan here. 
 Neighbours in mortality. 
 And, should I live through sun and rain 
 Seven widowed years without my Jane, 
 O Sexton, do not then remove her. 
 Let one grave hold the Loved and Lover ! 
 
 Wno fancied what a pretty sight 
 Tliis 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 1 
 
 Was it the humour of a Child ] 
 Or rather of some love-sick Maid, 
 Whose brows, the day that she was styled 
 The Shepherd-queen, were thus arrayed ? 
 
 Of Man mature, or Matron sage 1 
 Or Old-man toying with his agel 
 
 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. 
 
 SONG 
 
 FOR THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 Though the torrents from tlieir fountains 
 Roar down many a craggy steep. 
 Yet they find among the mountains 
 Resting-places calm and deep. 
 
 Clouds that love through air to hasten. 
 Ere the storm its fury stills. 
 Helmet-like themselves will fasten 
 On the heads of towering hills. 
 
 WTiat, if through the frozen centre 
 Of the Alps the Chamois bound, 
 Yet he has a home to enter 
 In some nook of chosen ground. 
 
 If on windy days the Raven 
 Gambol like a dancing skiff, 
 Not the less she loves her haven 
 In the bosom of the cliff. 
 
 Though the Sea-horse in the Ocean 
 Own no dear domestic cave. 
 Yet he slumbers — by the motion 
 Rocked of many a gentle wave. 
 
 The fleet Ostrich, till day closes. 
 Vagrant over Desert sands. 
 Brooding on her eggs reposes 
 When chill night that care demands. 
 
 Day and night my toils redouble, 
 Never nearer to the goal ; 
 Night and day, I feel the trouble 
 Of the Wanderer in mv soul. 
 
 THE SEVEN SISTERS; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE SOLITUDE OF- BINNORIE. 
 
 Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald, 
 All Children of one Motlier: 
 I could not say in one short day 
 What love they bore each other. 
 A Garland of Seven Lilies wrought ! 
 
POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 119 
 
 Seven Sisters that together dwell ; 
 But he, bold Knight as ever fought, 
 Their Father, took of them no thought, 
 He loved tlie Wars so well. 
 Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, 
 The Solitude of Binnorie ! 
 
 Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, 
 
 And from the shores of Erin, 
 
 Across the wave, a Rover brave 
 
 To Binnorie is steering : 
 
 Right onward to the Scottish strand 
 
 The gallant ship is borne ; 
 
 The Warriors leap upon the land. 
 
 And hark ! the Leader of the Band 
 
 Hath blown his bugle horn. 
 
 Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully. 
 
 The Solitude of Binnorie. 
 
 Beside a Grotto of their own. 
 With boughs above them closing. 
 The Seven are laid, and in the shade 
 They lie like Fawns reposing. 
 But now, upstarting with affright 
 At noise of jnan and steed. 
 Away they fly to left, to right — 
 Of your fair household, Father Knight, 
 Methinks you take small heed ! 
 Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 
 The Solitude of Binnorie. 
 
 Away the seven fair Campbells fly. 
 
 And, over Hill and Hollow, 
 
 With menace proud, and insult loud. 
 
 The youthful Rovers follow. 
 
 Cried they, "Your Father loves to roam: 
 
 Enough for him to find 
 
 The empty House when he comes home; 
 
 For us your yellow ringlets comb. 
 
 For us be fair and kind !" 
 
 Sing, mournful!}', oh ! mournfully. 
 
 The Solitude of Binnorie. 
 
 Some close behind, some side by side. 
 
 Like clouds in stormy weather ; 
 
 They run, and cry, "Nay, let us die. 
 
 And let us die together." 
 
 A Lake was near ; the shore was steep ; 
 
 There never foot had been; 
 
 They ran, and with a desperate leap 
 
 Together plunged into the deep. 
 
 Nor ever more were seen. 
 
 Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully. 
 
 The Solitude of Binnorie. 
 
 The Stream that flows out of the Lake, 
 As through the glen it rambles, 
 Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone. 
 For those seven lovely Campbells. 
 
 Seven little Islands, green and bare. 
 Have risen from out the deep: 
 The Fishers say, those Sisters fair. 
 By Faeries all are buried there. 
 And there together sleep. 
 Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 
 The Solitude of Binnorie. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 These Stanzas were designed to introduce a Ballad upon the 
 Story of a Danish Prince who had fled from Battle, and for the 
 sake of the valuables about him, was murdered by the Inhabit- 
 ant of a Cottage in which he had taken refuge. The House 
 fell under a curse, and the Spirit of the Youth, it was believed, 
 haunted the Valley where the crime had been committed. 
 
 BETWEEN two sister moorland rills 
 
 There is a spot that seems to lie 
 
 Sacred to flowerets of the hills. 
 
 And sacred to the sky. 
 
 And in this smooth and open dell 
 
 There is a tempest-stricken tree; 
 
 A corner-stone by lightning cut. 
 
 The last stone of a cottage hut; 
 
 And in this dell you see 
 
 A thing no storm can e'er destroy, 
 
 The Shadow of a Danish Boy. 
 
 In clouds above, the Lark is heard. 
 
 But drops not here to earth for rest; 
 
 Within this lonesome nook the Bird 
 
 Did never build her nest. 
 
 No Beast, no Bird hath here his home; 
 
 Bees, wafted on the breezy air. 
 
 Pass high above those fragrant bells 
 
 To other flowers ; — to other dells 
 
 Their burthens do they bea.' ; 
 
 The Danish Boy walks here alone: 
 
 The lovely dell is all his own. 
 
 A Spirit of noon-day is he ; 
 
 He seems a form of flesh and blood ; 
 
 Nor piping Shepherd shall he be. 
 
 Nor Herd-boy of the wood. 
 
 A regal vest of fur he wears. 
 
 In colour like a raven's wing; 
 
 It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew ; 
 
 But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue 
 
 As budding pines in Spring ; 
 
 His helmet has a vernal grace. 
 
 Fresh as the bloom upon his face. 
 
 A harp is from his shoulder slung; 
 He rests the harp upon his knee ; 
 And there, in a forgotten tongue. 
 He warbles melody. 
 
120 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill 
 He is the darling and the joy; 
 And often, when no cause appears, 
 The mountain ponies prick their ears, 
 — They hear the Danish Boy, 
 While in the dell he sits alone 
 Beside the tree and corner-stone. 
 
 There sits he : in his face you spy 
 
 No trace of a ferocious air, 
 
 Nor ever was a cloudless sky 
 
 So steady or so fair. 
 
 The lovely Danish Boy is blest 
 
 And happy in his flowery cove: 
 
 From bloody deeds his thoughts are far ; 
 
 And yet he warbles songs of war. 
 
 That seem like songs of love. 
 
 For calm and gentle is his mien ; 
 
 Like a dead Boy he is serene. 
 
 The grace of parting Infai.tjy 
 
 By blushes yet untamed ; 
 Age faithful to tlie mother's knee, 
 
 Nor of her arms ashamed. 
 
 Two lovely Sisters, still and sweet 
 
 As flowers, stand side by side ; 
 Their soul-subduing looks miglit clicat 
 
 The Christian of his pride : 
 Such beauty hath the Eternal poured 
 
 Upon them not forlorn, 
 Though of a lineage once abhorred, 
 
 Nor yet redeemed from scorn. 
 
 Mysterious safeguard, that, in spite 
 
 Of poverty and wrong, 
 Doth here preserve a living light. 
 
 From Hebrew fountains sprung; 
 That gives this ragged group to cast 
 
 Around the dell a gleam 
 Of Palestine, of glory past. 
 
 And proud Jerusalem ! 
 
 A JEWISH FAMILY. 
 
 (In a small Valley opposite St.Goar, upon the Rliine.) 
 
 Genius of Raphael ! if thy wings 
 
 Might bear thee to this glen. 
 With faithful memory left of things 
 
 To pencil dear and pen. 
 Thou wouldst forego the neighbouring Rhine, 
 
 And all his majesty, 
 A studious forehead to incline 
 
 O'er this poor family. 
 
 The Mother — her thou must have seen, 
 
 In spirit, ere she came 
 To dwell these rifted rocks between. 
 
 Or found on earth a name ; 
 An image, too, of that sweet Boy, 
 
 Thy inspirations give : 
 Of playfulness, and love, and joy. 
 
 Predestined here to live. 
 
 Downcast, or shooting glances far. 
 
 How beautiful his eyes, 
 That blend the nature of the star 
 
 With that of summer skies ! 
 I speak as if of sense beguiled ; 
 
 Uncounted months are gone, 
 Yet am I with the Jewish Child, 
 
 That exquisite Saint John. 
 
 I see the dark brown curls, the brow, 
 
 The smooth transparent skin. 
 Helmed, as with intent to show 
 
 The holiness within ; 
 
 THE PILGRIM'S DREAM; 
 OR, THE STAR AND THE GLOW-WORM. 
 
 A Pilgrim, when the summer day 
 
 Had closed upon his weary way, 
 
 A lodging begged beneath a castle's roof; 
 
 But him the haughty Warder spurned ; 
 
 And from the gate the Pilgrim turned. 
 
 To seek such covert as the field 
 
 Or heath-besprinkled copse might yield. 
 
 Or lofty wood, shower-proof. 
 
 He paced along ; and, pensively, 
 
 Halting beneath a shady tree, 
 
 Whose moss-grown root might serve for couch or seat, 
 
 Fi.xed on a Star his upward eye ; 
 
 Then, from the tenant of the sky 
 
 He turned, and watched with kindred look, 
 
 A Glow-worm, in a dusky nook. 
 
 Apparent at his feet. 
 
 The murmur of a neighbouring stream 
 
 Induced a soft and slumbrous dream, 
 
 A pregnant dream, within whose shadowy bounds 
 
 He recognised the earth-born Star, 
 
 And That which glittered from afar; 
 
 And (strange to witness!) from the frame 
 
 Of the ethereal Orb, there came 
 
 Intelligible sounds. 
 
 Much did it taunt the humbler Light 
 That now, when day was fled, and night 
 Pushed the dark earth — fast closing weary eyes, 
 
POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 121 
 
 A very Reptile could presume 
 To show her taper in the gloom, 
 As if in rivalship with One 
 Who sate a Ruler on his throne 
 Erected in the skies. 
 
 " E.xalted Star !" the Worm replied, 
 "Abate this unbecoming pride. 
 Or with a less uneasy lustre shine; 
 Thou shrink'st as momently thy rays 
 Are mastered by the breathing haze; 
 While neither mist, nor thickest cloud 
 That shapes in Heaven its murky shroud. 
 Hath power to injure mine. 
 
 But not for this do I aspire 
 
 To match the spark of local fire, 
 
 That at my will burns on the dewy lawn. 
 
 With thy acknowledged glories; — No! 
 
 Yet, thus upbraided, I may show 
 
 What favours do attend me here, 
 
 Till, like thyself, I disappear 
 
 Before the purple dawn." 
 
 When this in modest guise was said, 
 Across the welkin seemed to spread 
 A boding sound — for aught but sleep unfit ! 
 Hills quaked — the rivers backward ran — 
 That Star, so proud of late, looked wan ; 
 And reeled with visionary stir 
 In the blue depth, like Lucifer 
 Cast headlong to the pit ! 
 
 Fire raged, — and, when the spangled floor 
 
 Of ancient ether was no more. 
 
 New heavens succeeded, by the dream brought forth: 
 
 And all the happy Souls that rode 
 
 Transfigured through that fresh abode, 
 
 Had heretofore, in humble trust, 
 
 Shone meekly 'mid their native dust, 
 
 The Glow-worms of the earth ! 
 
 This knowledge, from an Angel's voice 
 Proceeding, made the heart rejoice 
 Of Him who slept upon the open lea : 
 Waking at morn he murmured not ; 
 And, till life's journey closed, the spot 
 Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared. 
 Where by that dream he had been cheered 
 Beneath the shady tree. 
 
 HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS 
 
 FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS. 
 
 " Who but hails the sight with pleasure 
 When the wings of genius rise. 
 Their ability to meas\ire 
 With great enterprise ; 
 Q 
 
 But in man was ne'er such daring 
 As yon Hawk exhibits, pairing 
 His brave spirit with the war in 
 The stormy skies ! 
 
 Mark him, how his power he uses. 
 Lays it by, at will resumes ! 
 Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses 
 
 Clouds and utter glooms ! 
 There, he wheels in downward mazes ; 
 Sunward now his flight he raises. 
 Catches fire, as seems, and blazes 
 
 With uninjured plumes!" — 
 
 ANSWER. 
 
 " Stranger, 't is no act of courage 
 Which aloft thou dost discern ; 
 No bold bird gone forth to forage 
 
 Mid the tempest stern ; 
 But such mockery as the Nations 
 See, when public perturbations 
 Lift men from their native stations, 
 
 Like yon Tuft op Fern; 
 
 Such it is ; — the aspiring Creature 
 Soaring on undaunted wing, 
 (So you fancied) is by nature 
 
 A dull helpless Thing, 
 Dry and withered, light and yellow; — 
 That to be the tempest's fellow! 
 Wait — and you shall see how hollow 
 
 Its endeavouring !" 
 
 STRAY PLEASURES. 
 
 " Pleasure is spread through the earth 
 
 In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find." 
 
 By their floating Mill, 
 
 That lies dead and still, 
 Behold yon Prisoners three. 
 The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the 
 
 Thames ! 
 The platform is small, but gives room for them all ; 
 And they 're dancing merrily. 
 
 From the shore come the notes 
 
 To their Mill where it floats. 
 To their House and their Mill tethered fast ; 
 To the small wooden Isle where, their work to beguile, 
 They from morning to even take whatever is given ; — 
 And many a blithe day they have past. 
 
 In sight of the Spires, 
 All alive with the fires 
 Of the Sun going down to his rest, 
 11 
 
122 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 In the broad open eye of the solitary sky, 
 They dance, — there are three, as jocund as free 
 While they dance on the calm river's breast, 
 
 Man and Maidens wheel, 
 
 They themselves malie the Reel, 
 
 And their Music 's a prey which they seize ; 
 
 It plays not for them, — what matter! 'tis theirs; 
 
 And if they had care, it has scattered their cares. 
 
 While they dance, crying, " Long as ye please !" 
 
 They dance not for me, 
 
 Yet mine is their glee ! 
 Thus pleasure is spread through the earth 
 In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find ; 
 Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind, 
 Moves all nature to gladness and mirth. 
 
 The Showers of the Spring 
 Rouse the Birds, and they sing ; 
 
 If the Wind do but stir for his proper delight. 
 
 Each Leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss; 
 
 Each Wave, one and t' other, speeds after his brother ; 
 
 They are happy, for that is their right ! 
 
 ON SEEING A 
 
 NEEDLECASE IN THE FORM OF A HARP. 
 
 THE WORK OP E. JI. S. 
 
 FROWns are on every Muse's face. 
 Reproaches from tlieir lips are sent. 
 
 That mimicry should thus disgrace 
 The noble Instrument. 
 
 A very Harp in all but size ! 
 
 Needles for strings in apt gradation ! 
 Minerva's self would stigmatize 
 
 The unclassic profanation. 
 
 Even her own Needle that subdued 
 
 Arachne's rival spirit, 
 Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood. 
 
 Like station could not merit. 
 
 And this, too, from the Laureate's child, 
 
 A living Lord of melody ! 
 How will her Sire be reconciled 
 
 To the refined indignity] 
 
 I spake, when whispered a low voice, 
 
 " Bard ! moderate your ire ; 
 "Spirits of all degrees rejoice 
 
 " In presence of the Lyre. 
 
 " The Minstrels of Pygmean bands, 
 "Dwarf Genii, moonlight-loving Fays, 
 
 "Have shells to fit their tiny hands 
 " And suit their slender lays. 
 
 Some, still more delicate of ear, 
 " Have lutes (believe my words) 
 
 " Whose framework is of gossamer, 
 "While sunbeams are the chords. 
 
 "Gay Sylphs this Miniature will court, 
 "Made vocal by tlieir brushing wings, 
 
 "And sullen Gnomes will learn to sport 
 " Around its polished strings : 
 
 " Whence strains to love-sick Maiden dear, 
 " While in her lonely bower she tries 
 
 " To cheat the thought she cannot cheer, 
 " By fanciful embroideries. 
 
 " Trust, angry Bard ! a knowing Sprite, 
 "Nor think tlie Harp her lot deplores; 
 
 " Though 'mid the stars the Lyre shine bright, 
 " Love stoops as fondly as he soars." 
 
 THE POET AND THE CAGED TURTLEDOVE. 
 
 As often as I murmur here 
 
 My half-formed melodies. 
 Straight from her osier mansion near, 
 
 The Turtledove replies: 
 Though silent as a leaf before, 
 
 The captive promptly coos; 
 Is it to teach her own soft lore. 
 
 Or second my weak Muse ] 
 
 I rather think, the gentle Dove 
 
 Is murmuring a reproof. 
 Displeased that I from lays of love 
 
 Have dared to keep aloof. 
 That I, a bard of hill and dale, 
 
 Have caroll'd, fancy free, 
 As if nor dove, nor nightingale, 
 
 Had heart or voice for me. 
 
 If such thy meaning, O forbear. 
 
 Sweet Bird! to do me wrong; 
 Love, blessed Love, is everywhere 
 
 The spirit of my song : 
 'Mid grove, and by the calm fireside, 
 
 Love animates my lyre; 
 That coo again ! — 't is not to chide, 
 
 I feel, but to inspire. 
 
 A WREN'S NEST. 
 
 Among the dwellings framed by birds 
 In field or forest with nice care. 
 
 Is none that with the little Wren's 
 In snugness may compare. 
 
POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 _,,.^M3 
 
 No door the tenement requires, 
 And seldom needs a laboured roof; 
 
 Yet is it to the fiercest sun 
 Impervious and storm-proof. 
 
 So warm, so beautiful withal, 
 
 In perfect fitness for its aim. 
 That to the Kind by special grace 
 
 Their instinct surely came. 
 
 And when for their abodes they seek 
 
 An opportune recess. 
 The Hermit has no finer eye 
 
 For shadowy quietness. 
 
 These find, 'mid ivied Abbey walls, 
 
 A canopy in some still nook ; 
 Others are pent-housed by a brae 
 
 That overhangs a brook. 
 
 There to the brooding Bird her Mate 
 Warbles by fits his low clear song; 
 
 And by the busy Streamlet both 
 Are sung to all day long. 
 
 Or in sequestered lanes they build. 
 Where, till the flitting Bird's return, 
 
 Her eggs within the nest repose, 
 Like relics in an urn. 
 
 But still, where general choice is good. 
 
 There is a better and a best; 
 And, among fairest objects, some 
 
 Are fairer than the rest; 
 
 This, one of those small builders prove 
 In a green covert, \yhere, from out 
 
 The forehead of a pollard oak. 
 The leafy antlers sprout ; 
 
 For She who planned the mossy Lodge, 
 
 Mistrusting her evasive skill, 
 Had to a Primrose looked for aid 
 
 Her wishes to fulfil. 
 
 High on the trunk's projecting brow, 
 And fixed an infant's span above 
 
 The budding fiowers, peeped forth the nest 
 The prettiest of the grove ! 
 
 The treasure proudly did I show 
 To some whose minds without disdain 
 
 Can turn to little things, but once 
 Looked up for it in vain : 
 
 'Tis gone — a ruthless Spoiler's prey. 
 Who heeds not beauty, love, or song, 
 
 'T is gone ! (so seemed it) and we grieved 
 Indignant at the wrong. 
 
 Just three days after, passing by 
 In clearer light the moss-built cell 
 
 I saw, espied its shaded mouth. 
 And felt that all was well. 
 
 The Primrose for a veil had spread 
 The largest of her upright leaves; 
 
 And thus, for purposes benign, 
 A simple Flower deceives. 
 
 Concealed from friends who might disturb 
 
 Thy quiet with no ill intent. 
 Secure from evil eyes and hands 
 
 On barbarous plunder bent. 
 
 Rest, mother bird ! and when thy^young 
 Take flight, and thou art free to roam, 
 
 When withered is the guardian flower, 
 And empty thy late home, 
 
 Think how ye prospered, thou and thine. 
 
 Amid the unviolated grove 
 Housed near the growing primrose tuft, 
 
 In foresight or in love. 
 
 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 (suggested in a WESTMORELAND COTTAGE.) 
 
 Driven in by Autumn's sharpening air. 
 
 From half-stripped woods and pastures bare, 
 
 Brisk Robin seeks a kindlier home : 
 
 Not like a beggar is he come. 
 
 But enters as a looked-for guest. 
 
 Confiding in his ruddy breast. 
 
 As if it were a natural shield 
 
 Charged with a blazon on the field, 
 
 Due to that good and pious deed 
 
 Of which we in the Ballad read. 
 
 But pensive fancies putting by. 
 
 And wild-wood sorrows, speedily 
 
 He plays the expert ventriloquist; 
 
 And, caught by glimpses now — now missed, 
 
 Puzzles the listener with a doubt 
 
 If the soft voice he throws about 
 
 Comes from within doors or without! 
 
 Was ever such a sweet confusion 
 
 Sustained by delicate illusion'! 
 
 He 's at your elbow — to your feeling 
 
 The notes are from the floor or ceiling ; 
 
 And there 's a riddle to be guessed. 
 
 Till you have marked his heaving breast. 
 
 Where tiny sinking, and faint swell. 
 
 Betray the Elf that Iqves to dwell 
 
 In Robin's bosom, as a chosen cell. 
 
124 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Heart-pleased we smile upon the Bird 
 If seen, and with like pleasure stirred 
 Commend him, when he 's only heard. 
 But small and fugitive our gain 
 Compared with his who long hath lain, 
 With languid limbs and patient head. 
 Reposing on a lone sick-bed ; 
 Where now he daily hears a strain 
 That cheats him of too busy cares, 
 Eases his pain, and helps his prayers. 
 And who but this dear Bird beguiled 
 The fever of that pale-faced Child 1 
 Now cooling, with his passing wing, 
 Her forehead, like a breeze of Spring ; 
 Recalling now, with descant soft. 
 Shed round her pillow from aloft, 
 Sweet thoughts of angels hovering nigh. 
 And the invisible sympathy 
 Of " Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, 
 Blessing the bed she lies upon:"* 
 And sometimes, just as listening ends 
 In slumber, with the cadence blends 
 A dream of tliat low-warbled hymn 
 Which Old-folk, fondly pleased to trim 
 Lamps of faith now burning dim, 
 Say that the Cherubs carved in stone. 
 When clouds gave way at dead of night. 
 And the moon filled the church with light, 
 Used to sing in heavenly tone. 
 Above and round the sacred places 
 They guard, with winged baby-faces. 
 
 Thrice-happy Creature ! in all lands 
 Nurtured by hospitable hands: 
 Free entrance to this cot has he. 
 Entrance and exit both ijet free ; 
 And, when the keen unruffled weather 
 That thus brings man and bird together. 
 Shall with its pleasantness be past. 
 And casement closed and door made fast, 
 To keep at bay the howling blast. 
 He needs not fear the season's rage, 
 For the whole house is Robin's cage. 
 Whether the bird flit here or there, 
 O'er table lilt, or perch on chair. 
 Though some may frown, and make a stir 
 To scare him as a trespasser. 
 And he belike will flinch or start, 
 Good friends he has to take his part; 
 One chiefly, who with voice and look 
 Pleads for him from the chimney nook. 
 Where sits the Dame, and wears away 
 Her long and vacant holiday ; 
 
 *The words — 
 
 " Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, 
 Bless the bed that I lie on," 
 arc part of a child's prayer, still in general use through the 
 orthern counties. 
 
 With images about her heart. 
 Reflected, from the years gone by, 
 On human nature's second infancy. 
 
 RURAL ILLUSIONS. 
 
 1. 
 Sylph was itl or a Bird more bright 
 
 Than those of fabulous stock ! 
 A second darted by ; — and lo ! 
 
 Another of the flock. 
 Through sunshine flitting from the bough 
 
 To nestle in the rock. 
 Transient deception ! a gay freak 
 
 Of April's mimicries ! 
 Those brilliant Strangers, hailed with joy 
 
 Among the budding trees. 
 Proved last year's leaves, pushed from the spray 
 
 To frolic on the breeze. 
 
 Maternal Flora ! show thy face. 
 
 And let thy hand be seen 
 Which sprinkles here these tiny flowers. 
 
 That, as they touch the green. 
 Take root (so seems it) and look up 
 
 In honour of their Queen. 
 Yet, sooth, those little starry specks, 
 
 That not in vain aspired 
 To be confounded with live growths. 
 
 Most dainty, most admired. 
 Were only blossoms dropped from twigs 
 
 Of their own offspring tired. 
 
 3. 
 Not such the World's illusive shows; 
 
 Her wingless flntterings. 
 Her blossoms which, though shed, outbrave 
 
 The Floweret as it springs, 
 For the Undeceived, smile as they may. 
 
 Are melancholy things: 
 But gentle Nature plays her part 
 
 With ever-varying wiles. 
 And transient feignings with plain truth 
 
 So well she reconciles. 
 That those fond Idlers most are pleased 
 
 Whom oftenest she beguiles. 
 
 THIS LAWN, &c. 
 
 This Lawn, a carpet all alive 
 
 With shadows flung from leaves — to strive 
 
 In dance, amid a press 
 Of sunshine — an apt emblem yields 
 Of Worldlings revelling in the fields 
 
 Of strenuous idleness ; 
 
POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 125 
 
 Less quick the stir when tide and breeze 
 Encounter, and to narrow seas 
 
 Forbid a moment's rest ; 
 The medley less when boreal Lights 
 Glance to and fro like aery Sprites 
 
 To feats of arms addressed ! 
 
 Yet, spite of all this eager strife. 
 This ceaseless play, the genuine life 
 
 That serves the steadfast hours, 
 Is in the grass beneath, that grows 
 
 Unheeded, and the mute repose 
 Of sweetly-breathing flowers. 
 
 ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, 
 
 ON BEING EEMINDED, THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD, 
 ON THAT DAY. 
 
 Hast thou then survived. 
 
 Mild Offspring of infirm humanity. 
 
 Meek Infant ! among all forlornest things 
 
 The most forlorn, one life of that bright Star, 
 
 The second glory of the heaven? — Thou hast; 
 
 Already hast survived that great decay. 
 
 That transformation through the wide earth felt, 
 
 And by all nations. In that Being's sight 
 
 Prom whom the Race of human kind proceed, 
 
 A thousand years are but as yesterday ; 
 
 And one day's narrow circuit is to him 
 
 Not less capacious than a thousand years. 
 
 But what is time 1 What outward glory f neither 
 
 A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend 
 
 Through " heaven's eternal year." — Yet hail to Thee, 
 
 Frail, feeble Monthling ! — by that name, methinks, 
 
 Thy scanty breathing time is portioned out 
 
 Not idly. — Hadst thou been of Indian birth, 
 
 Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves, 
 
 And rudely canopied by leafy boughs. 
 
 Or to the churlish elements exposed 
 
 On the blank plains, — the coldness of the night, 
 
 Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful face 
 
 Of beauty, by the changing Moon adorned. 
 
 Would, with imperious admonition, then 
 
 Have scored thine age, and punctually timed 
 
 Thine infant history, on the minds of those 
 
 Who might have wandered with thee. — Mother's love, 
 
 Nor less than Mother's love in other breasts, 
 
 Will, among us warm clad and warmly housed, 
 
 Do for thee what the finger of the heavens 
 
 Doth all too often harshly e.\ecute 
 
 For thy unblest Coevals, amid wilds 
 
 Where Fancy hath small liberty to grace 
 
 The affections, to exalt them or refine ; 
 
 And the maternal sympathy itself, 
 
 Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie 
 
 Of naked instinct, wound about the heart. 
 
 Happier, far happier is thy lot and ours ! 
 
 Even now — to solemnise thy helpless state, 
 
 And to enliven in the mind's regard 
 
 Thy passive beauty — parallels have risen. 
 
 Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect. 
 
 Within the region of a Father's thoughts. 
 
 Thee and thy Mate and Sister of the sky. 
 
 And first ; — thy sinless progress, through a world 
 
 By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed, 
 
 Apt likeness bears to hers, through gathered clouds, 
 
 Moving untouched in silver purity, 
 
 And cheering oft-times their reluctant gloom. 
 
 Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain : 
 
 But thou, how leisurely thou fiUest thy horn 
 
 With brightness ! — leaving her to post along, 
 
 And range about — disquieted in change. 
 
 And still impatient of the shape she wears. 
 
 Once up, once down the hill, one journey. Babe, 
 
 That will suffice thee ; and it seems that now 
 
 Thou hast foreknowledge that such task is thine ; 
 
 Thou travellest so contentedly, and sleepest 
 
 In such a heedless peace. Alas ! full soon 
 
 Hath this conception, grateful to behold, 
 
 Changed countenance, like an object sullied o'er 
 
 By breathing mist ; and thine appears to be 
 
 A mournful labour, while to her is given 
 
 Hope, and a renovation without end. 
 
 — That smile forbids the thought ; — for on thy face 
 
 Smiles are beginning, like the beams of dawn. 
 
 To shoot and circulate ; — smiles have there been 
 
 seen, — 
 Tranquil assurances that Heaven supports 
 The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers 
 Thy loneliness; — or shall those smiles be called 
 Feelers of love, — put forth as if to explore 
 This untried world, and to prepare thy way 
 Through a strait passage intricate and dim ] 
 Such are they, — and the same are tokens, signs 
 Which, when the appointed season hath arrived, 
 Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt ; 
 And Reason's godlike Power be proud to own. 
 11* 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 127 
 
t 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 There was a Boy ; ye knew him well, ye Cliffs 
 
 And islands of Winander ! — many a time, 
 
 At evening, when the earliest stars began 
 
 To move along the edges of the hills. 
 
 Rising or selling, would he stand alone, 
 
 Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake ; 
 
 And there, with fingers interwoven, botli hands 
 
 Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth 
 
 Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, 
 
 Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, 
 
 That they might answer him. — And they would shout 
 
 Across the watery vale, and shout again, 
 
 Responsive to his call, — with quivering peals, 
 
 And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud 
 
 Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse wild 
 
 Of mirth and jocund din ! And, when it chanced 
 
 That pauses of deep silence mocked his skill, 
 
 Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung 
 
 Listening, a gentle shock^of mild surprise 
 
 Has carried far into his h^art the voice 
 
 Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene 
 
 Would enter unawares into his mind 
 
 With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, 
 
 Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received 
 
 Into the bosom of the steady lake. 
 
 This Boy was taken from his Mates, and died 
 In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. 
 Fair is the spot, most beautiful the Vale 
 Where he was born : the grassy Church-yard hangs 
 Upon a slope above the village-school ; 
 And, through that Church-yard when my way has led 
 At evening, I believe, that oftentimes 
 A long half-hour together I have stood 
 Mute — looking at the grave in which he lies! 
 
 TO 
 
 ON HER FIRST ASCENT TO THE SUMMIT OF 
 HELVELLYN. 
 
 Inmate of a mountain Dwelling, 
 Thou hast clomb aloft, and gazed, 
 From the watch-towers of Helvellyn; 
 Awed, delighted, and amazed ! 
 R 
 
 Potent was the spell that bound thee, 
 Not unwilling to obey ; 
 For blue Ether's arms, flung round thee, 
 Stilled the pantings of dismay. 
 
 Lo ! the dwindled woods and meadows ! 
 What a vast abyss is there ! 
 Lo! the clouds, the solemn shadows. 
 And the glistenings — heavenly fair ! 
 
 And a record of commotion 
 Which a thousand ridges yield ; 
 Ridge, and gulf, and distant ocean 
 Gleaming like a silver .'ihield ! 
 
 — Take thy flight; — possess, inherit 
 Alps or Andes — they are thine! 
 With the morning's roseate Spirit, 
 Sweep their length of snowy line; 
 
 Or survey the bright dominions 
 In the gorgeous colours drest 
 Flung from ofi^ the purple pinions. 
 Evening spreads throughout the west ! 
 
 Thine are all the coral fountains 
 Warbling in each sparry vault 
 Of the untrodden lunar mountains; 
 Listen to their songs ! — or halt. 
 
 To Niphate's top invited. 
 Whither spiteful Satan steered ; 
 Or descend where the ark alighted, 
 When the green earth re-appeared ; 
 
 For the power of hills is on thee. 
 As was witnessed through thine eye. 
 Then, when old Helvellyn won thee 
 To confess their majesty ! 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 BLITHE New-comer I I have heard, 
 
 1 hear thee and rejoice. 
 
 O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, 
 Or but a wandering Voice) 
 
130 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 While I am lying on the grass 
 
 Thy twofold shout I hear, 
 
 That seems to fill the whole air's space, 
 
 As loud far off as 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 Scliool-boy days 
 I listened to; that Cry 
 Which made me look a thousand ways 
 In bush, and tree, and sky. 
 
 To seek thee did I often rove 
 Through woods and on the green ; 
 And 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! 
 
 A NIGHT-PIECE. 
 
 — ■ The sky is overcast 
 
 With a continuous cloud of texture close. 
 
 Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, 
 
 Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, 
 
 A dull, contracted circle, yielding light 
 
 So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, 
 
 Checkeiing the ground — from rock, plant, tree, or 
 
 tower. 
 At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam 
 Startles the pensive traveller while he treads 
 His lonesome path, with unobserving eye 
 Bent earthwards ; he looks up — the clouds are split 
 Asunder, — and above his head he sees 
 The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. 
 There, in a black blue vault she sails along. 
 Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small 
 And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss 
 Drive as she drives; — how fast they wheel away. 
 Vet vanish not! — the wind is in the tree. 
 But they are silent ; — still they roll along 
 Immeasurably distant; — and the vault, 
 
 Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds. 
 
 Still deepens its unfathomable depth. 
 
 At length the Vision closes ; and the mind. 
 
 Not undisturbed by the delight it feels. 
 
 Which slowly settles into peaceful calm. 
 
 Is left to muse upon the solemn scene. 
 
 WATER- FOWL. 
 
 " Let me be allowed the nid of verse to describe the evolu- 
 tions which these visitants sometimes perform, on a fine day 
 towards the close of winter." — Extract from the Author^s Book 
 on the Lakes. 
 
 Mark how the feathered tenants of the flood, 
 
 With grace of motion that might scarcely seem 
 
 Inferior to angelical, prolong 
 
 Their curious pastime ! shaping in mid air 
 
 (And sometimes with ambitious wing that soars 
 
 High as the level of the mountain tops) 
 
 A circuit ampler than the lake beneath. 
 
 Their own domain ; — but ever, while intent 
 
 On tracing and retracing that large round. 
 
 Their jubilant activity evolves 
 
 Hundreds of curves and circlets, to and fro, 
 
 Upward and downward, progress intricate 
 
 Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed 
 
 Their indefatigable flight. — 'T is done — 
 
 Ten times, or more, I fancied it had ceased ; 
 
 But lo! the vanished company again 
 
 Ascending; — they approach — I hear their wings 
 
 Faint, faint at first ; and then an eager sound 
 
 Past in a moment — and as faint again ! 
 
 They tempt the sun to sport amid their plumes; 
 
 They tempt the water, or the gleaming ice. 
 
 To show them a fair image; — 'tis themselves. 
 
 Their own fair forms, upon the glitnmering plain. 
 
 Painted more soft and fair as they descend 
 
 Almost to touch ; — then up again aloft. 
 
 Up with a sally and a flash of speed. 
 
 As if they scorned both resting-place and rest ! 
 
 YEW-TREES. 
 
 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 
 
 Of Unifraville or Percy ere they marched 
 
 To Scotland's Heaths ; or those that crossed the Sea 
 
 And drew their soutiding 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 ; 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 131 
 
 Of form and aspect too mag'nificent 
 
 To be destroyed. But worthier stil] 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 
 
 With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, 
 
 United worship; or in mute repose 
 
 To lie, and listen to the mountain flood 
 
 Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves. 
 
 VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACK COMB*. 
 
 This Height a ministering Angel might select : 
 For from the summit of Black Comb (dread name 
 Derived from clouds and storms !) the amplest range 
 Of unobstructed prospect may be seen 
 That British ground commands : — low dusky tracts. 
 Where Trent is nursed, far southward ! Cambrian 
 
 Hills 
 To the south-west, a multitudinous show; 
 And, in a line of eye-sight linked with these, 
 The hoary Peaks of Scotland that give birth 
 To Tiviot's Stream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde ; — 
 Crowding the quarter whence the sun comes forth 
 Gigantic Mountains rough with crags ; beneath. 
 Right at the imperial Station's western base. 
 Main Ocean, breaking audibly, and stretched 
 Far into silent regions blue and pale ; — 
 And visibly engirding Mona's Isle 
 That, as we left the Plain, before our sight 
 Stood like a lofty Mount, uplifting slowly 
 (Above the convex of the watery globe) 
 Into clear view the cultured fields that streak 
 Her habitable shores ; but now appears 
 A dwindled object, and submits to lie 
 At the Spectator's feet. — Yon azure Ridge, 
 Is it a perishable cloud 1 Or, there 
 Do we behold the line of Erin's Coast"! 
 
 * Black Comb stands at the southern extremity of Cumber- 
 land: its base covers a much greater extent of ground than any 
 other mountain in these parts ; and, from its situation, the sum- 
 mit commands a more extensive view than any other point in 
 Britain. 
 
 Land sometimes by the roving shepherd-swain 
 
 (Like the bright confines of anotlier world) 
 
 Not doubtfully perceived. — Look homeward now ! 
 
 In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene 
 
 The spectacle, how pure ! — Of Nature's works. 
 
 In earth, and air, and earth-embracing sea, 
 
 A revelation infinite it seems ; 
 
 Display august of man's inheritance, 
 
 Of Britain's calm felicity and power ! 
 
 NUTTING. 
 — It seems a day 
 
 (I speak of one from many singled out) 
 
 One of those heavenly days which cannot die; 
 
 When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, 
 
 I left our Cottage-threshold, sallying forth 
 
 With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, 
 
 A nutting-crook in hand, and turned my steps 
 
 Toward the distant woods, a Figure quaint. 
 
 Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off" weeds 
 
 Which for that service had been husbanded. 
 
 By exhortation of my frugal Dame ; 
 
 Motley accoutrement, of power to smile 
 
 At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, — and, in truth. 
 
 More ragged than need was ! Among the woods. 
 
 And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way 
 
 Until, at length, I came to one dear nook 
 
 Unvisited, where not a broken bough 
 
 Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign 
 
 Of devastation, but the hazels rose 
 
 Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, 
 
 A virgin scene! — A little while I stood, 
 
 Breathing with such suppression of the heart 
 
 As joy delights in ; and, with wise restraint 
 
 Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed 
 
 The banquet, — or beneath the trees I^gmo 
 
 Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played ; 
 
 A temper known to those, who, after long 
 
 And weary expectation, have been blest 
 
 With sudden happiness beyond all hope. — 
 
 Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves 
 
 The violets of five seasons re-appear 
 
 And fade, unseen by any human eye ; 
 
 Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on 
 
 For ever, — and I saw the sparkling foam. 
 
 And with my cheek on one of those green stones 
 
 That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady trees, 
 
 Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep, 
 
 I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound. 
 
 In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay 
 
 Tribute to ease ; and, of its joy secure. 
 
 The heart luxuriates with indifierent things. 
 
 Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones. 
 
 And on the vacant air. Then up I rose. 
 
 And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash 
 
132 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And merciless ravage ; and the shady nook 
 Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, 
 Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up 
 Their quiet being: and, unless I now 
 Confound my present feelings with the past. 
 Even then, when from the bower I turned away 
 Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, 
 I felt a sense of pain when I beheld 
 The silent trees and the intruding sky. — 
 Then, dearest Maiden ! move along these shades 
 In gentleness of heart ; with gentle hand 
 Touch — for there is a spirit in the woods. 
 
 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 waylay. 
 
 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 
 
 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 somethmg of an angel light. 
 
 O Nightingale ! thou surely art 
 
 A Creature of a fiery heart: — 
 
 These notes of thine — they pierce and pierce; 
 
 Tumultuous harmony and fierce ! 
 
 Thou sinn-'st as if the God of wine 
 
 Had helped thee to a Valentine ; 
 
 A song in mockery and despite 
 
 Of shades, and dews, and silent Night; 
 
 And steady bliss, and all the loves 
 
 Now sleeping in these peaceful Groves. 
 
 I heard a Stock-dove sing or say 
 
 His homely tale, this very day ; 
 
 His voice was buried among trees, 
 
 Yet to be come at by the breeze : 
 
 He did not cease ; but cooed — and cooed ; 
 
 And somewhat pensively he wooed : 
 
 He sang of love with quiet blending, 
 
 Slow to begin, and never ending ; 
 
 Of serious faith and inward glee; 
 
 That was the Song — the Song for me ! 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower, 
 Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower 
 On earth was never sown ; 
 This Child I to myself will take ; 
 She shall be mine, and I will make 
 A Lady of my own. 
 
 Myself will to my darling be 
 
 Both law and impulse : and with me 
 
 The Girl, in rock and plain, 
 
 In earth and heaven, in glade and bower. 
 
 Shall feel an overseeing power 
 
 To kindle or restrain. 
 
 She shall be sportive as the Fawn 
 That wild with glee across the lawn 
 Or up the mountain springs ; 
 And her's shall be the breathing balm. 
 And hers the silence and the calm 
 Of mute insensate things. 
 
 The Floating Clouds their state shall lend 
 To her; for her the willow bend: 
 
 Nor shall she fail to see 
 Even in the motions of the Storm 
 Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form 
 By silent sympathy. 
 
 The Stars of midnight shall be dear 
 
 To her; and she shall lean her ear 
 
 In many a secret place 
 
 Where Rivulets dance their wayward roimd, 
 
 And beauty born of murmuring sound 
 
 Shall pass into her face. 
 
 And vital feelings of delight 
 
 Shall rear her form to stately height, 
 
 Her virgin bosom swell ; 
 
 Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
 
 While she and I together live 
 
 Here in this happy Dell." 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 133 
 
 Thus Nature spake — The work was done — 
 
 How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 
 
 She died, and left to me 
 
 This heath, this calm, and quiet scene ; 
 
 The memory of what lias been, 
 
 And never more will be. 
 
 A SLUMBER did my spirit seal ; 
 
 I had no human fears: 
 She seemed a thing- that could not feel 
 
 The touch of earthly years. 
 
 No motion has she now, no force ; 
 
 She neither hears nor sees. 
 Rolled round in earth's diurnal course 
 
 With rocks, and stones, and trees ! 
 
 THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE. 
 
 When the Brothers reached the gateway, 
 
 Eustace pointed with his lance 
 
 To the Horn which there was hanging; 
 
 Horn of the inheritance. 
 
 Horn it was which none could sound, 
 
 No one upon living ground, 
 
 Save He who came as rightful Heir 
 
 To Egremont's Domains and Castle fair. 
 
 Heirs from ages without record 
 
 Had the House of Lucie born, 
 
 Who of right had claimed the Lordship 
 
 By the proof upon the Horn : 
 
 Each at the appointed hour 
 
 Tried the Horn, — • it owned his power ; 
 
 He was acknowledged : and the blast, 
 
 Which good Sir Eustace sounded, was the last. 
 
 With his lance Sir Eustace pointed. 
 
 And to Hubert thus said he, 
 
 " What I speak this Horn shall witness 
 
 For thy better memory. 
 
 Hear, then, and neglect me not! 
 
 At this time, and on this spot, 
 
 The words are uttered from my heart, 
 
 As my last earnest prayer ere we depart. 
 
 On good service we are going 
 
 Life to risk by sea and land, 
 
 In which course if Christ our Saviour 
 
 Do my sinful soul demand. 
 
 Hither come thou back straightway, 
 
 Hubert, if alive that day; 
 
 Return, and sound the Horn, that we 
 
 May have a living House still left in thee !" 
 
 "Fear not," quickly answered Hubert; 
 
 " As I am thy Father's son, 
 
 What thou askest, noble Brother, 
 
 With God's favour shall be done." 
 
 So were both right well content : 
 
 From the Castle forth they went. 
 
 And at the head of their Array 
 
 To Palestine the Brothers took their way. 
 
 Side by side they fought (the Lucies 
 
 Were a line for valour famed) 
 
 And where'er their strokes alighted, 
 
 There the Saracens were tamed. 
 
 Whence, then, could it come — the thought — 
 
 By what evil spirit brought "! 
 
 Oh ! can a brave Man wish to take 
 
 His Brother's life, for Lands' and Castle's sake? 
 
 " Sir !" the Ruffians said to Hubert, 
 " Deep he lies in Jordan flood." 
 Stricken by this ill assurance. 
 Pale and trembling Hubert stood. 
 " Take your earnings." — Oh ! that I 
 Could have seen my Brother die ! 
 It was a pang that vexed him then ; 
 And oft returned, again, and yet again. 
 
 Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace ! 
 Nor of him were tidings heard. 
 Wherefore, bold as day, the Murderer 
 Back again to England steered. 
 To his Castle Hubert sped ; 
 He has nothing now to dread. 
 But silent and by stealth he came, 
 And at an hour which nobody could name. 
 
 None could tell if it were night-time. 
 
 Night or day, at even or morn; 
 
 For the soimd was heard by no one 
 
 Of the proclamation-horn. 
 
 But bold Hubert lives in glee: 
 
 Months and years went smilingly; 
 
 With plenty was his table spread ; 
 
 And bright the Lady is who shares his bed. 
 
 Likewise he had Sons and Daughters; 
 And, as good men do, he sate 
 At his board by these surrounded. 
 Flourishing in fair estate. 
 And while thus in open day 
 Once he sate, as old books say, 
 A blast was uttered from the Horn, 
 Where by the Castle-gate it hung forlorn. 
 
 'T is the breath of good Sir Eustace ! 
 He is come to claim his right: 
 Ancient Castle, Woods, and Mountains 
 Hear the challenge with delight. 
 12 
 
134 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Hubert! though the blast be blown, 
 
 He is helpless and alone : 
 
 Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word! 
 
 And there he may be lodged, and thou be Lord. 
 
 Speak ! — astounded Hubert cannot ; 
 
 And, if power to speak he had. 
 
 All are daunted, all the household 
 
 Smitten to the heart, and sad. 
 
 'T is Sir Eustace ; if it be 
 
 Living Man, it must be he ! 
 
 Thus Hubert thought in his dismay. 
 
 And by a Postern-gate he slunk away. 
 
 Long, and long was he unheard of: 
 
 To his Brother then he came, 
 
 Made confession, asked forgiveness, 
 
 Asked it by a brother's name, 
 
 And by all the saints in heaven ; 
 
 And of Eustace was forgiven : 
 
 Then in a Convent went to hide 
 
 His melancholy head, and there he died. 
 
 But Sir Eustace, whom good angels 
 
 Had preserved from Murderers' hands, 
 
 And from Pagan chains had rescued. 
 
 Lived with honour on his lands. 
 
 Sons he had, saw Sons of theirs: 
 
 And through ages. Heirs of Heirs, 
 
 A long posterity renowned. 
 
 Sounded the Horn which they alone could sound. 
 
 GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL. 
 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter? 
 What is't that ails young Harry Gill 3 
 That evermore his teeth they chatter, 
 Chatter, chatter, cliatter still ! 
 Of waistcoats Harry has no lack. 
 Good duffle gray, and flannel fine; 
 He has a blanket on his back. 
 And coats enough to smother nine. 
 
 In March, December, and in July, 
 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; 
 The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, 
 His teetli they chatter, chatter still. 
 At night, at morning, and at noon, 
 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; 
 Beneath the sun, beneath the moon. 
 His teeth they chatter, chatter still ! 
 
 Young Harry was a lusty drover. 
 And who so stout of limb as he 7 
 His cheeks were red as ruddy clover; 
 His voice was like the voice of three. 
 
 Old Goody Blake was old and poor; 
 111 fed she was, and thinly clad; 
 And any man who passed her door 
 Might see how poor a hut she had. 
 
 All day she spun in her poor dwelling; 
 And then her tliree hours' work at night, 
 Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling. 
 It would not pay for candle-light. 
 Remote from sheltering village green, 
 On a hill's northern side she dwelt, 
 Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean 
 And hoary dews are slow to melt. 
 
 By the same fire to boil their pottage. 
 Two poor old Dames, as I have known. 
 Will often live in one small cottage; 
 But she, poor Woman ! housed alone. 
 'Twas well enough when summer came. 
 The long, warm, lightsome summer-day, 
 Then at her door the canty Dame 
 Would sit, as any linnet gay. 
 
 But when the ice our streams did fetter, 
 Oh ! then how her old bones would shake, 
 You would have said, if you had met her, 
 'T was a hard time for Goody Blake. 
 Her evenings then were dull and dead ! 
 Sad case it was, as you may think, 
 For very cold to go to bed ; 
 And then for cold not sleep a wink. 
 
 O joy for her ! whene'er in winter 
 The winds at night had made a rout; 
 And scattered many a lusty splinter 
 And many a rotten bough about. 
 Yet never had she, well or sick. 
 As every man who knew her says, 
 A pile beforehand, turf or stick, 
 Enough to warm her for three days. 
 
 Now, when the frost was past enduring. 
 And made her poor old bones to ache. 
 Could any thing be more alluring 
 Than an old hedge to Goody Blake l 
 And, now and then, it must be said. 
 When her old bones were cold and chill, 
 She left her fire, or left her bed, 
 To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. 
 
 Now Harry he had long suspected 
 This trespass of old Goody Blake ; 
 And vowed that she should be detected, 
 And he on her would vengeance take. 
 And oft from his warm fire he 'd go. 
 And to the fields his road would take ; 
 And there, at night, in frost and snow. 
 He watched to seize old Goody Blake. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 135 
 
 And once, behind a rick of barley, 
 Thus looking out did Harry stand: 
 The moon was full and shining clearly, 
 And crisp with frost the stubble land. 
 — He hears a noise — he 's all awake 
 Again] — on tip-toe down the hill 
 He softly creeps — 'Tis Goody Blake, 
 She 's at the hedge of Harry Gill ! 
 
 Right glad was he when he beheld her: 
 Stick after stick did Goody pull : 
 He stood behind a bush of elder, 
 Till she had filled her apron full. 
 When with her load she turned about. 
 The by-way back again to take ; 
 He started forward with a shout. 
 And sprang upon poor Goody Blake. 
 
 And fiercely by the arm he took her. 
 And by the arm he held her fast, 
 And fiercely by the arm he shook her. 
 And cried, "I've caught you then at last!" 
 Then Goody who had nothing said, 
 Her bundle from her lap let fall; 
 And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed. 
 To God that is the judge of all. 
 
 She prayed, her withered hand uprearing. 
 While Harry held her by the arm — 
 " God ! who art never out of hearing, 
 O may he never more be warm !" 
 The cold, cold moon above her head, 
 Thus on her knees did Goody pray. 
 Young Harry heard what she had said : 
 And icy cold he turned away. 
 
 He went complaining all the morrow 
 That he was cold and very chill : 
 His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, 
 Alas ! that day for Harry Gill ! 
 That day he wore a riding-coat, 
 But not a whit the warmer he : 
 Another was on Thursday brought. 
 And ere the Sabbath he had three. 
 
 'T was all in vain, a useless matter, 
 And blankets were about him pinned ; 
 Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 
 Like a loose casement in the wind. 
 And Harry's flesh it fell away ; 
 And all who see him say, 't is plain, 
 That, live as long as live he may. 
 He never will be warm again. 
 
 No word to any man he utters, 
 A-bed or up, to young or oW; 
 But ever to himself he mutters, 
 " Poor Harry Gill is very cold." 
 
 A-bed or up, by night or day ; 
 His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
 Now think, ye farmers all, I pray. 
 Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill ! 
 
 I wanheeed lonely as a Cloud 
 That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills, 
 When all atonce 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 shinp 
 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, bnt they 
 
 Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : — 
 
 A poet could not but be gay, 
 
 In such a jocund company ; 
 
 I gazed — and gazed — but little 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. 
 
 THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. 
 
 At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears. 
 Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three 
 
 years : 
 Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard 
 In the silence of morning the song of the Bird. 
 
 'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails herl She sees 
 A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; 
 Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide. 
 And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 
 
 Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, 
 Down which she so often has tripped with fler pail ; 
 And a single small Cottage, a nest like a dove's. 
 The one only Dwelling on earth that she loves. 
 
 She looks, and her Heart is in heaven : but they fade, 
 The mist and the river, the hill and the shade : 
 The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise. 
 And the colours have all passed away from her eyes. 
 
136 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 POWER OP MUSIC. 
 
 An Orpheus ! an Orpheus ! — yes, Faith may grow 
 
 bold, 
 And take to herself all the wonders of old ; — 
 Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same 
 In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name. 
 
 His station is there ; — and he works on the crowd, 
 He sways them with harmony merry and loud ; 
 He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim — 
 Was aught ever heard like his Fiddle and him'! 
 
 What an eager assembly ! what an empire is this! 
 The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss; 
 The mourner is cheered, and the anxious have rest : 
 And the guilt-burthened soul is no longer opprost. 
 
 As the Moon brightens round her tlie clouds of the 
 
 night. 
 So he, where he stands, is a centre of light; 
 It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed .Tack, 
 And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back. 
 
 That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in haste — 
 What matter ! he 's caught — and liis time runs to 
 
 waste — 
 The Newsman is stopped, though he stops on the fret. 
 And the half-breathless Lamplighter — he 's in the net ! 
 
 The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore ; 
 The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store; — 
 If a Thief could be here, he might pilfer at ease ; 
 She sees the Musician, 't is all that she sees ! 
 
 He stands, backed by the Wall; — he abates not 
 
 his din ; 
 His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in. 
 From the Old and the Young, from the Poorest ; and 
 
 there ! 
 The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare. 
 
 blest are the Hearers, and pro\id be the Hand 
 
 Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a Band; 
 
 1 am glad for him, blind as he is ! — all the while 
 
 If they speak 't is to praise, and they praise with a 
 smile. 
 
 That tall Man, a Giant in bulk and in height, 
 Not an inch of his body is free from delight; 
 Can he keep himself still, if he would ? oli, not he ! 
 The music stirs in him like wind through a tree. 
 
 Mark that Cripple who leans on his Crutch ; like a 
 
 Tower 
 That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour ! — 
 That Mother, whose Spirit in fetters is bound. 
 While she dandles the Babe in her arms to tlie sound. 
 
 Now, Coaches and Chariots ! roar on like a stream ; 
 Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream: 
 They are deaf to your murmurs — they care not for 
 
 you. 
 Nor what ye arc flying, nor what you pursue ! 
 
 STAR-GAZERS. 
 
 What crowd is this? what have we herel we must 
 
 not pass it by ; 
 A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky : 
 Long is it as a Barber's Pole, or Mast of little Boat, 
 Some little Pleasure-skiff, that doth on Thames' 
 
 waters float. 
 
 ^•^fi 
 
 The Showman chooses well his place, 't is Leicester's 
 
 busy square ; 
 And is as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue 
 
 and fair; 
 Calm, though impatient, is the Crowd; each stands 
 
 ready with the fee, | 
 
 Impatient till his moment comes — what an insight 
 
 must it be ! 
 
 Yet, Showman, where can lie the cause t Shall thy 
 
 Implement have blame, 
 
 A Boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to 
 
 shame 1 
 
 Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault! 
 Their eyes, or minds 1 or, finally, is yon resplendent 
 
 Vault! jH^, 
 
 Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have 
 
 here 1 
 Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be 
 
 dear ! 
 The silver Moon, with all lier Vales, and Hills of 
 
 mightiest fame, 
 Doth slie betray us when they 're seen ? or are they 
 
 but a name? 
 
 Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong. 
 And Bounty never yields so much but it seems to do 
 
 her wrong? 
 Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have 
 
 had 
 And are returned into themselves, they cannot but ; 
 
 be sad ? ■; 
 
 Or must we be constrained to think that these Specta" 
 
 tors rude, 
 Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude, 
 Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore 
 
 prostrate lie? 
 No, no, tliis cannot be — Men thirst for power and 
 
 majesty ! 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 137 
 
 Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful 
 mind employ 
 
 Of him who gazes, or has gazed 1 a grave and steady- 
 joy. 
 
 That doth reject all show of pride, admits no outward 
 sign. 
 
 Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine ! 
 
 Whatever be the cause, 't is sure that they who pry 
 
 and pore 
 Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than 
 
 before : 
 One after One they take their turn, nor have I one 
 
 espied 
 That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied. 
 
 THE HAUNTED TREE. 
 
 Those silver clouds collected round the sun 
 His mid-day warmth abate not, seeming less 
 To overshade than multiply his beams 
 By soft reflection — grateful to the sky. 
 To rocks, fields, woods. Nor doth our human sense 
 Ask, for its pleasure, screen or canopy 
 More ample than the time-dismantled Oak 
 Spreads o'er this tuft of heath, which now, attired 
 In the whole fulness of its bloom, aflbrds 
 Couch beautiful as e'er for earthly use 
 Was fashioned ; whether by the hand of Art, 
 That Eastern Sultan, amid flowers enwrought 
 On silken tissue, might difilise his limbs 
 In languor ; or, by Nature, for repose 
 Of- panting Wood-nymph, wearied by the chase. 
 O Lady ! fairer in thy Poet's sight 
 Than fairest spiritual Creature of the groves, 
 Approach — and, thus invited, crown with rest 
 The noon-tide hour : — though truly some there are 
 Whose footsteps superstitiously avoid 
 This venerable Tree ; for, when the wind 
 Blows keenly, it sends forth a creaking sound 
 [(Above the general roar of woods and crags) 
 Distinctly heard from far — a doleful note ! 
 [As if (so Grecian shepherds would have deemed) 
 jThe Hamadryad, pent within, bewailed 
 Some bitter wrong. Nor is it unbelieved, 
 By ruder fancy, that a troubled Ghost 
 Haunts this old Trunk ; lamenting deeds of which 
 The flowery ground is conscious. But no wind 
 Sweeps now along this elevated ridge ; 
 Not even a zephyr stirs ; — the obnoxious Tree 
 Is mute, — and, in his silence would look down, 
 O lovely Wanderer of the trackless hills, 
 On thy reclining form with more delight 
 [Than his Coevals, in the sheltered vale 
 S 
 
 Seem to participate, the whilst they view 
 
 Their own far-stretching arms and leafy heads 
 
 Vividly pictured in some glassy pool. 
 
 That, for a brief space, checks the hurrying stream ! 
 
 WRITTEN IN MARCH, 
 
 ■WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF 
 BROTHER'S WATER. 
 
 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 Ploughhoy is whooping — anon — anon : 
 
 There's joy in the mountains; 
 
 There's life in the fountains; 
 
 Small clouds are sailing. 
 
 Blue sky prevailing ; 
 The rain is over and gone ! 
 
 GIPSIES. 
 
 Yet are they here the same unbroken knot 
 Of human Beings, in the self-same spot ! 
 
 Men, Women, Children, yea the frame 
 
 Of the whole Spectacle the same ! 
 Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light. 
 Now deep and red, the colouring of night; 
 
 That on their Gipsy-faces falls. 
 
 Their bed of straw and blanket-walls. 
 — Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours, are gone 
 
 while I 
 Have been a Traveller under open sky. 
 
 Much witnessing of change and cheer, 
 
 Yet as I left I find them here ! 
 The weary Sun betook himself to rest. 
 — Then issued Vesper from the fulgent West, 
 
 Outshining like a visible God 
 
 The glorious path in which he trod. 
 And now, ascending, after one dark hour 
 And one night's diminution of her power. 
 
 Behold the mighty Moon ! this way 
 
 She looks as if at them — but they 
 12* 
 
138 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Regard not her : — oh better wrong and strife, 
 (By nature transient) than such torpid life; 
 
 Life which the very stars reprove 
 
 As on their silent task they move ! 
 Yet, witness all that stirs in heaven or earth ! 
 In scorn I speak not : — they are what their birth 
 
 And breeding suffers them to be ; 
 
 Wild outcasts of society ! 
 
 BEGGARS. 
 
 Before my eyes a Wanderer stood ; 
 
 Her face from summer's noon-day heat 
 
 Nor bonnet shaded, nor tlie hood 
 
 Of that blue cloak which to her feet 
 
 Depended with a graceful flow; 
 
 Only she wore 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 head those ancient Amazonian files: 
 
 Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian Isles. 
 
 She begged an alms no scruple checked 
 
 The current of her ready plea. 
 
 Words that could challenge no respect 
 
 But from a blind credulity; 
 
 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 of 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! 
 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." — 
 
 "Sweet Boys! Heaven hears that rash reply; 
 
 It was your Mother, as I say !" 
 
 And, in the twinkling of an eye, 
 
 " Come ! come !" cried one, and without more ado, j 
 
 Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew ! 
 
 SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING, 
 
 COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 Where are they now, those wanton Boys) 
 
 For whose free range the daedal earth 
 
 Was filled with animated toys. 
 
 And implements of fVolic mirth ; 
 
 With tools for ready wit to guide; 
 
 And ornaments of seemlier pride. 
 
 More fresh, more bright, than Princes wear; 
 
 For what one moment flung aside. 
 
 Another could repair; 
 
 What good or evil have they seen 
 
 Since I their pastime witnessed here. 
 
 Their daring wiles, their sportive cheer'! 
 
 I ask — but all is dark between! 
 
 Spirits of beauty and of grace ! 
 Associates in that eager chase ; 
 Ye, by a course to nature true. 
 The sterner judgment can subdue; 
 And waken a relenting smile 
 When she encounters fraud or guile; 
 And sometimes ye can charm away 
 The inward mischief, or allay. 
 Ye, who within the blameless mind 
 Your favourite seat of empire find ! 
 
 They met me in a genial hour. 
 
 When universal nature breathed 
 
 As with the breath of one sweet flower, — 
 
 A time to overrule the power 
 
 Of discontent, and check the birth 
 
 Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife, 
 
 The most familiar bane of life 
 
 Since parting Innocence bequeathed 
 
 Mortality to Earth ! 
 
 Soft clouds, the whitest of the year. 
 
 Sailed through the sky — the brooks ran clear; 
 
 The lambs from rock to rock were bounding; 
 
 With songs the budded groves resounding; 
 
 ■I 
 
POEMS OP THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 139 
 
 And to my heart is still endeared 
 The faith with which it then was cheered; 
 The faith which saw that gladsome pair 
 Walk through the fire with unsinged hail". 
 Or, if such thoughts must needs deceive, 
 Kind Spirits ! may we not believe 
 That they, so happy and so fair. 
 Through your sweet influence and the care 
 Of pitying Heaven, at least were free 
 From touch of deadly injury ^ 
 Destined, whate'er their earthly doom, 
 For mercy and immortal bloom ! 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 When Ruth was left half desolate, 
 Her Father took another Mate; 
 And Ruth, not seven years old, 
 A slighted Child, at her own will 
 Went wandering over dale and hill, 
 In thoughtless freedom bold. 
 
 And she had made a Pipe of straw. 
 And from that oaten Pipe could draw 
 All sounds of winds and floods ; 
 Had built a bower upon the green. 
 As if she from her birth had been 
 An infant of the woods. 
 
 Beneath her Father's roof, alone 
 
 She seemed to live; her thoughts her own; 
 
 Herself her own delight; 
 
 Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay ; 
 
 And, passing thus the live-long day, 
 
 She grew to Woman's height. 
 
 There came a Youth from Georgia's shore 
 
 A military Casque he wore. 
 
 With splendid feathers drest ; 
 
 He brought thern from the Cherokees ; 
 
 The feathers nodded in the breeze. 
 
 And made a gallant crest. 
 
 From Indian blood you deem him sprung: 
 Ah no! he spake the English tongue, 
 And bore a Soldier's name ; 
 And, when America was free 
 From battle and from jeopardy, 
 He 'cross the ocean came. 
 
 With hues of genius on his cheek 
 
 In finest tones the Youth could speak: 
 
 — While he was yet a Boy, 
 
 The moon, the glory of the sun. 
 
 And streams that murmur as they run, 
 
 Had been his dearest joy. 
 
 He was a lovely Youth ! I guess 
 
 The panther in the Wilderness 
 
 Was not so fair as he ; 
 
 And, when he chose to sport and play, 
 
 No dolphin ever was so gay 
 
 Upon the tropic sea. 
 
 Among the Indians he had fought 
 
 And with him many tales he brought 
 
 Of pleasure and of fear 
 
 Such tales as told to any Maid 
 
 By such a Youth, in the green shade. 
 
 Were perilous to hear. 
 
 He told of Girls — a happy rout ! 
 
 Who quit their fold with dance and shout, 
 
 Their pleasant Indian Town, 
 
 To gather strawberries all day long ; 
 
 Returning with a choral song 
 
 When daylight is gone down. 
 
 He spake of plants divine and strange 
 That every hour their blossoms change, 
 Ten thousand lovely hues! 
 With budding, fading, faded flowers 
 They stand the wonder of the bowers 
 From morn to evening dews. 
 
 He told of the Magnolia*, spread 
 
 High as a cloud, high over head ! 
 
 The Cypress and her spire ; 
 
 — Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam 
 
 Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 
 
 To set the hills on fire.f 
 
 The Youth of green savannahs spake, 
 And many an endless, endless lake, 
 With all its fairy crowds 
 Of islands, that together lie 
 As quietly as spots of sky 
 Among the evening clouds. 
 
 And then he said, "How sweet it were 
 
 A fisher or a hunter there, 
 
 A gardener in the shade, 
 
 Still wandering with an easy mind 
 
 To build a household fire, and find 
 
 A home in every glade ! 
 
 " What days and what sweet years ! Ah me ! 
 
 Our life were life indeed, with thee 
 
 So passed in quiet bliss, 
 
 And all the while," said he, "to know 
 
 That we were in a world of woe. 
 
 On such an earth as this !" 
 
 * Magnolia grandiflora. 
 
 tThe splendid appearance of these scarlet flowers, which are 
 scattered with such profusion over the Hills in the Southern 
 parts of North America, is frequently mentioned by Bartram in 
 his Travels. 
 
140 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And then he sometimes interwove 
 Fond thoughts about a Father's love : 
 " For there," said he, " are spun 
 Around the heart such tender ties, 
 That our own children to our eyes 
 Are dearer than the sun. 
 
 " Sweet Ruth ! and could you go with me 
 
 My helpmate in the woods to be, 
 
 Our shed at night to rear; 
 
 Or run, my own adopted Bride, 
 
 A sylvan Huntress at my side, 
 
 And drive the flying deer ! 
 
 "Beloved Ruth!" — No more he said. 
 The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed 
 A solitary tear: 
 
 She thought again — and did agree 
 With him to sail across the sea, 
 And drive the flying deer. 
 
 "And now, as fitting is and right, 
 
 We in the Church our faith will plight, 
 
 A Husband and a Wife." 
 
 Even so they did ; and I may say 
 
 That to sweet Ruth that happy day 
 
 Was more than human life. 
 
 Through dream and vision did she sink. 
 Delighted all the while to think 
 That on those lonesome floods. 
 And green savannahs, she should share 
 His board with lawful joy, and bear 
 His name in the wild woods. 
 
 But, as you have before been told, 
 This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold, 
 And with his dancing crest 
 So Beautiful, througli savage lands 
 Had roamed about, with vagrant bands 
 Of Indians in the West. 
 
 The wind, the tempest roaring high. 
 
 The tumult of a tropic sky, 
 
 Might well be dangerous food 
 
 For him, a Youth to whom was given 
 
 So much of earth — so much of Heaven, 
 
 And such impetuous blood. 
 
 Whatever in those climes he found 
 
 Irregular in sight or sound 
 
 Did to his mind impart 
 
 A kindred impulse, seemed allied 
 
 To his own powers, and justified 
 
 Tlie workings of his heart. 
 
 Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, 
 The beauteous forms of nature wrought, 
 Fair trees and lovely flowers ; 
 
 The breezes their own languor lent; 
 The stars had feelings, which they sent 
 Into those gorgeous bowers. 
 
 Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween 
 That sometimes there did intervene 
 Pure hopes of high intent : 
 For passions linked to forms so fair 
 And stately, needs must have their share 
 Of noble sentiment. 
 
 But ill he lived, much evil saw, 
 With men to whom no better law 
 Nor better life was known ; 
 Deliberately, and undeceived, 
 Those wild men's vices he received, 
 And gave them back his own. 
 
 His genius and his moral frame 
 Were thus impaired, and he became 
 The slave of low desires : 
 A Man who without self-control 
 Would seek what the degraded soul 
 Unworthily admires. 
 
 And yet he with no feigned delight 
 Had wooed the Maiden, day and night 
 Had loved her, night and morn : 
 What could he less than love a Maid 
 Whose heart with so much nature played f 
 So kind and so forlorn ! 
 
 Sometimes, most earnestly, he said, 
 " O Ruth ! I have been worse than dead ; 
 False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain, 
 Encompassed me on every side 
 When first, in confidence and pride, 
 I crossed the Atlantic Main. 
 
 " It was a fresh and glorious world, 
 A banner bright that was unfurled 
 Before me suddenly : 
 I looked upon those hills and plains. 
 And seemed as if let loose from chains. 
 To live at liberty. 
 
 " But wherefore speak of this ] For now, 
 Sweet Ruth ! with thee, I know not how, 
 I feel my spirit burn — 
 Even as the east when day comes forth : 
 And, to the west, and south, and north, 
 The morning doth return." 
 
 Full soon that purer mind was gone; 
 No hope, no wish remained, not one, — 
 They stirred him now no more; 
 New objects did new pleasure give, 
 And once again he wished to live 
 As lawless as before. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 141 
 
 Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, 
 They for the voyage were prepared, 
 And went to the sea-shore ; 
 But, when they thither came, the Youth 
 Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth 
 Could never find him more. 
 
 " God help thee, Ruth !" — Such pains she had 
 
 That she in a half a year was mad, 
 
 And in a prison housed ; 
 
 And there she sang tumultuous songs, 
 
 By recollection of her wrongs 
 
 To fearful passion roused. 
 
 Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, 
 Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, 
 Nor pastimes of the May, 
 — They all were with her in her cell ; 
 And a wild brook with cheerful knell 
 Did o'er the pebbles play. 
 
 When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, 
 There came a respite to her pain; 
 She from her prison fled; 
 But of the Vagrant none took thought ; 
 And where it liked her best she sought 
 Her shelter and her bread. 
 
 Among the fields she breathed again: 
 The master-current of her brain 
 Ran permanent and ft-ee ; 
 And, coming to the banks of Tone*, 
 There did she rest; and dwell alone 
 Under the greenwood tree. 
 
 The engines of her pain, the tools 
 That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools. 
 And airs that gently stir 
 The vernal leaves, she loved them still. 
 Nor ever taxed them with the ill 
 Which had been done to her. 
 
 A Barn her winter bed supplies ; 
 
 But, till the warmth of summer skies 
 
 And summer days is gone, 
 
 (And all do in this tale agree) 
 
 She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree. 
 
 And other home hath none. 
 
 An innocent life, yet far astray ! 
 
 And Ruth will, long before her day, 
 
 Be broken down and old : 
 
 Sore aches she needs must have ! but less 
 
 Of mind, than body's wretchedness. 
 
 From damp, and rain, and cold. 
 
 * The Tone is a River of Somersetshire, at no great distance 
 from the Quantock Hills. These Hills, which are alluded to a 
 few Stanzas below, are extremely beautiful, and in most places 
 richly covered with coppice woods. 
 
 If she is prest by want of food. 
 She from her dwelling in the wood 
 Repairs to a road-side ; 
 And there she begs at one steep place 
 Where up and down with easy pace 
 The horsemen-travellers ride. 
 
 That oaten Pipe of hers is mute. 
 Or thrown away; but with a flute 
 Her loneliness she cheers : 
 This flute, made of a hemlock stalk. 
 At evening in his homeward walk 
 The Quantock Woodman hears. 
 
 I, too, have passed her on the hills 
 Setting her little water-mills 
 By spouts and fountains wild — 
 Such small machinery as she turned 
 Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned, 
 A young and happy Child ! 
 
 Farewell ! and when thy days are told, 
 
 Ill-fated Ruth ! in hallowed mould 
 
 Thy corpse shall buried be ; 
 
 For thee a funeral bell shall ring, 
 
 And all the congregation sing 
 
 A Christian psalm for thee. 
 
 LAODAMIA. 
 
 " With sacrifice before the rising morn 
 Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired ; 
 And from the infernal Gods, mid shades forlorn 
 Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required : 
 Celestial pity I again implore ; — 
 Restore him to my sight — great Jove, restore !" 
 
 So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 
 
 With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands ; 
 
 While, like the Sun emerging from a Cloud, 
 
 Her countenance brightens — and her eye expands ; 
 
 Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows ; 
 
 And she expects the issue in repose. 
 
 O terror ! what hath she perceived 1 — O joy ! 
 What doth she look onl — whom doth she behold! 
 Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy 3 
 His vital presence — his corporeal mould 1 
 It is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis He ! 
 And a God leads him — winged Mercury ! 
 
 Mild Hermes spake — and touched her with his wand 
 That calms all fear, " Such grace hath crowned thy 
 
 prayer, 
 Laodamia ! that at Jove's command 
 Thy Husband walks the paths of upper air : 
 
142 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space ; 
 Accept the gift, behold him face to face !" 
 
 Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to clasp ; 
 
 Again that consummation she essayed ; 
 
 But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp 
 
 As often as that eager grasp was made. 
 
 The Phantom parts — but parts to re-unite, 
 
 And re-assume his place before her sight. 
 
 " Protesilaus, lo ! tliy guide is gone ! 
 Confirm, I pray, the Vision with thy voice : 
 This is our Palace, — yonder is thy throne ; 
 Spealc, and the floor thou treadest on will rejoice. 
 Not to appal me have the Gods bestowed 
 Tins precious boon, — and blest a sad Abode." 
 
 " Great Jove, Laodamia ! doth not leave 
 His gifts imperfect : — Spectre though I be, 
 I am not sent to scare thee or deceive ; 
 But in reward of thy fidelity. 
 And something also did my worth obtain ; 
 For fearless virtue bringcth boundless gain. 
 
 " Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold 
 
 That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand 
 
 Should die ; but me the threat could not willihold ; 
 
 A generous cause a Victim did demand ; 
 
 And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain ; 
 
 A self-devoted chief— by Hector slain." 
 
 "Supreme of Heroes — bravest, noblest, best ! 
 
 Thy matchless courage I bewail no more. 
 
 Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest 
 
 By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore ; 
 
 Thou found'st — and I forgive thee — here tliou art — 
 
 A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 
 
 " But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 
 
 Wert kmd-as resolute, and good as brave ; 
 
 And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed 
 
 That thou sliould'st cheat the malice of the grave ; 
 
 Redundant are tliy locks, thy lips as fair 
 
 As when their breath enriched Thessalian air. 
 
 " No Spectre greets me, — no vain Shadow this ; 
 Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side ! 
 Give, on this well known couch, one nuptial kiss 
 To me, tliis day, a second time thy bride !" 
 Jove frowned in heaven: the conscious Parca: threw 
 Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 
 
 " This visage tells thee that my doom is past : 
 Know, virtue were not virtue if the joys 
 Of sense were able to return as fast 
 And surely as they vanish. — Earth destroys 
 Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains: 
 Calm pleasures there abide — majestic pains. 
 
 " Be taught, O faithful Consort, to control 
 Rebellious passion : for the Gods approve 
 The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul ; 
 A fervent, not ungovernable love. 
 Thy transports moderate ; and meekly mourn 
 When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — " 
 
 " Ah, wherefore 1 — Did not Hercules by force 
 Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb 
 Alcestis, a reanimated Corse, 
 Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom 1 
 Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, 
 And jEson stood a Youth 'mid youthful peers. 
 
 " The Gods to us are merciful — and they 
 
 Yet further may relent: for mightier far 
 
 Than strength of nerve and sinevi', or the sway 
 
 Of magic potent over sun and star. 
 
 Is love, though oft to agony distrest. 
 
 And though his favourite seat be feeble Woman's breast. 
 
 " But if thou goest, I follow — " " Peace I" he said — 
 
 She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered, 
 
 The ghastly colour from his lips had fled ; 
 
 In his deportment, sliape, and mien, appeared 
 
 Elysian beauty, melancholy grace. 
 
 Brought from a pensive though a happy place. 
 
 ' He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel 
 In worlds whose course is equable and pure ; 
 No fears to beat away — no strife to heal — 
 The past unsighed for, and the future sure ; 
 Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 
 Revived, with finer harmony pursued ; 
 
 Of all tliat is most beauteous — imaged there 
 
 In happier beauty : more pellucid streams. 
 
 An ampler ether, a diviner air. 
 
 And fields invested with purpureal gleams; 
 
 Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day 
 
 Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 
 
 Yet there the Soul shall enter which hatli earned 
 
 That privilege by virtue. — "111," said lie, 
 
 "The end of man's existence I discerned, 
 
 Who from ignoble games and revelry 
 
 Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight 
 
 While tears were thy best pastime — day and night; 
 
 And while my youthful peers, before my eyes 
 (Each Hero following his peculiar bent) 
 Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise 
 By martial sports, — or, seated in the tent, 
 Chieftains and kings in council were detained ; 
 What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained. 
 
 The wished-for wind was given : — I then revolved 
 The oracle, upon the silent sea ; 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 143 
 
 And, if no worthier led the way, resolved 
 That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 
 The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, — 
 Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. 
 
 Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang 
 
 When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife ! 
 
 On thee too fondly did my memory hang. 
 
 And on the joys we shared in mortal life, — 
 
 The paths which we had trod — these fountains — 
 
 flowers ; 
 My new-planned Cities, and unfinished Towers. 
 
 But should suspense permit the Foe to cry, 
 
 'Behold they tremble ! — haughty their array, 
 
 Yet of their number no one dares to die 1 
 
 In soul I swept the indignity away : 
 
 Old frailties then recurred : — but lofty thought, 
 
 In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 
 
 And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak 
 
 In reason, in self-government too slow ; 
 
 I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 
 
 Our blest re-union in the shades below. 
 
 The invisible world with thee hath sympathised; 
 
 Be thy affections raised and solemnised. 
 
 Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend 
 Towards a higher object. — Love was given, 
 Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end ; 
 For this the passion to excess was driven — 
 That self might be annulled ; her bondage prove 
 The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." 
 
 Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes re-appears ! 
 
 Round the dear shade she would have clung — 't is vain : 
 
 The hours are past — too brief had they been years ; 
 
 And him no moi"tal efibrt can detain : 
 
 Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day, 
 
 He through the portal takes his silent way. 
 
 And on the palace floor a lifeless corse she lay. 
 
 By no weak pity might the Gods be moved ; 
 She who thus perished, not without the crime 
 Of Lovers that in Reason's spite have loved. 
 Was doomed to wear out her appointed time. 
 Apart from happy Ghosts — that gather flowers 
 Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. 
 
 Yet tears to human suflering are due ; 
 And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown 
 Are mourned by man, and not by man alone, 
 As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 
 Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) 
 A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 
 ^ From out the tomb of him for whom she died ; 
 
 And ever, when such stature they had gained 
 That Ilium's walls were subject to their view, 
 The trees' tall summits withered at the sight; 
 A constant interchange of growth and blight !* 
 
 THE TRIAD. 
 
 Show me the noblest Youth of present time 
 Whose trembling fancy would to love give birth; 
 Some God or Hero, from the Olympian clime 
 Returned, to seek a Consort upon earth ; 
 Or, in no doubtful prospect, let me see 
 The brightest star of ages yet to be. 
 And I will mate and match him blissfully. 
 
 I will not fetch a Naiad from a flood 
 
 Pure as herself — (song lacks not mightier power) 
 
 Nor leat-crowned Dryad from a pathless wood. 
 
 Nor Sea-nymph glistening from her coral bower; 
 
 Mere Mortals bodied forth in vision still. 
 
 Shall with Mount Ida's triple lustre fill 
 
 The chaster coverts of a British hill. 
 
 "Appear ! — obey my lyre's command ! 
 
 Come, like the Graces, hand in hand ! 
 
 For ye, though not by birth allied, 
 
 Are Sisters in the bond of love ; 
 
 And not the boldest tongue of envious pride 
 
 In you those interweavings could reprove 
 
 Which They, the progeny of Jove, 
 
 Learnt from the tuneful spheres that glide 
 
 In endless union earth and sea above." — 
 
 — I speak in vain, — the pines have hushed their 
 
 waving : 
 A peerless Youth expectant at my side, 
 Breathless as they, with unabated craving 
 Looks to the earth, and to the vacant air ; 
 And, with a wandering eye that seems to chide, 
 Asks of the clouds what Occupants they hide : — 
 But why solicit more than sight could bear. 
 By casting on a moment all we dare 1 
 Invoke we those bright Beings one by one. 
 And what was boldly promised, truly shall be done. 
 
 "Fear not this constraining measure! 
 Drawn by a poetic spell, 
 Lucida ! from domes of pleasure. 
 Or from cottage-sprinkled dell, 
 
 * For Ihe account of these long-lived trees, see Pliny's Natu- 
 ral History, lib. xvi. cap. 44. ; and for tlie features in the cliarac- 
 ter of Protesilaus, see the Iphigenia in Aulis of Euripides. Virgil 
 places the Shade of Laodamia in a mournful region, among un- 
 happy Lovers, 
 
 His Laodamia 
 
 It Comes. - 
 
144 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Come to regions solitary, 
 
 Where the eagle builds her aery, 
 
 Above the hermit's long-forsaken cell !" 
 
 — She comes ! — behold 
 
 That Figure, like a ship with silver sail ! 
 
 Nearer she dravvfs — a breeze uplifts her veil — 
 
 Upon her coming wait 
 
 As pure a sunshine and as soft a gale 
 
 As e'er on herbage covering earthly mould. 
 
 Tempted the bird of Juno to unfold 
 
 His richest splendour, when his veering gait 
 
 And every motion of his starry train 
 
 Seem governed by a strain 
 
 Of music, audible to him alone. — 
 
 O Lady, worthy of earth's proudest throne ! 
 
 Nor less, by excellence of nature, fit 
 
 Beside an unambitious hearth to sit 
 
 Domestic queen, where grandeur is unknown; 
 
 What living man could fear 
 
 The worst of Fortune's malice, wert thou near. 
 
 Humbling that lily stem, thy sceptre meek, 
 
 That its fair flowers may brush from off his cheek 
 
 The too, too happy tear! 
 
 Queen and handmaid lowly ! 
 
 Whose skill can speed the day with lively cares, 
 
 And banish melancholy 
 
 By all that mind invents or hand prepares; 
 
 O thou, against whose lip, without its smile, 
 
 And in its silence even, no heart is proof; 
 
 Whose goodness sinking deep, would reconcile 
 
 The softest Nursling of a gorgeous palace 
 
 To t!ie bare life beneath the hawthorn roof 
 
 Of Sherwood's archer, or in caves of Wallace — 
 
 Who that hath seen thy beauty could content 
 
 His soul with but a glimpse of heavenly dayl 
 
 Who that hath loved thee, but would lay 
 
 His strong hand on the wind, if it were bent 
 
 To take thee in thy majesty away 1 
 
 — Pass onward (even the glancing deer 
 Till we depart intrude not here;) 
 
 That mossy slope, o'er whicli the woodbine throws 
 A canopy, is smoothed for thy repose! 
 
 Glad moment is it when the throng 
 
 Of warblers in full concert strong 
 
 Strive, and not vainly strive, to rout 
 
 The lagging shower, and force coy Phoebus out, 
 
 Met by the rainbow's form divine, 
 
 Issuing from her cloudy shrine ; — 
 
 So may the thrillings of the lyre 
 
 Prevail to further our desire. 
 
 While to these shades a Nymph I call, 
 
 The youngest of the lovely Three. — 
 
 " Come, if the notes thine ear may pierce, 
 
 Submissive to the might of verse. 
 
 By none more deeply felt than thee!" 
 
 — I sang ; and lo ! from pastimes virginal 
 
 She hastens to the tents 
 
 Of nature, and the lonely elements. 
 
 Air sparkles round her with a dazzling sheen. 
 
 And mark her glowing cheek, her vesture green! 
 
 And, as if wishful to disarm 
 
 Or to repay the potent charm. 
 
 She bears the stringed lute of old romance, 
 
 That cheered the trellised arbour's privacy, 
 
 And soothed war-wearied knights in raftered hall, 
 
 How light her air ! how delicate her glee ! 
 
 So tripped the Muse, inventress of the dance; 
 
 So, truant in waste woods, the blithe Euphrosyne ! 
 
 But the ringlets of that head 
 
 Why are they ungarlanded ! 
 
 Why bedeck her temples less 
 
 Than the simplest shepherdess) 
 
 Is it not a brow inviting 
 
 Choicest flowers that ever breathed, 
 
 Which the myrtle would delight in 
 
 With Idalian rose onwreathed] 
 
 But her humility is well content 
 
 With one wild floweret (call it not forlorn) 
 
 Flower of the winds, beneath her bosom worn ; 
 
 Yet is it more for love than ornament. 
 
 Open, ye thickets ! let her fly. 
 Swift as a Thracian Nymph o'er field and height! 
 For She, to all but those who love Her shy. 
 Would gladly vanish from a Stranger's sight ; 
 Though where she is beloved, and loves, as free 
 As bird that rifles blossoms on a tree. 
 Turning them inside out with arch audacity. 
 
 Alas ! how little can a moment show 
 
 Of an eye where feeling plays 
 
 In ten thousand dewy rays; 
 
 A face o'er which a thousand shadows go! 
 
 — She stops — is fastened to that rivulet's side ; 
 
 And there (while, with sedater mien. 
 
 O'er timid waters that have scarcely left 
 
 Their birth-place in the rocky cleft 
 
 She bends) at leisure may be seen 
 
 Features to old ideal grace allied. 
 
 Amid their smiles and dimples dignified — 
 
 Fit countenance for the soul of primal truth, 
 
 The bland composure of eternal youth ! 
 
 What more changeful tlian the sea) 
 
 But over his great tides 
 
 Fidelity presides; 
 
 And this light-hearted Maiden constant is as he. — 
 
 High is her aim as heaven above. 
 
 And wide as ether her good-will. 
 
 And, like the lowly reed, her love 
 
 Can drink its nurture from the scantiest rill ; 
 
 Insight as keen as frosty star 
 
 Is to her charity no bar. 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 145 
 
 Nor interrupts her frolic graces 
 
 When she, is, far from these wild places, 
 
 Encircled by familiar faces. 
 
 O the charm that manners draw, 
 
 Nature, from thy genuine law! 
 
 If from what her hand would do, 
 
 Her voice would utter, there ensue 
 
 Aught untoward or unfit. 
 
 She, in benign affections pure, 
 
 In self-forgetfulness secure, 
 
 Sheds round the transient harm or vague mischance 
 
 A light unknown to tutored elegance : 
 
 Her's is not a cheek shame-stricken, 
 
 But her blushes are joy-flushes — 
 
 And the fault (if fault it be) 
 
 Only ministers to quicken 
 
 Laughter-loving gaiety. 
 
 And kindle sportive wit — 
 
 Leaving this Daughter of the mountains free 
 
 As if she knew that Oberon king of Faery 
 
 Had crossed her purpose with some quaint vagary. 
 
 And heard his viewless bands 
 
 Over their mirthful triumph clapping hands. 
 
 " Last of the Three, though eldest born, 
 
 Reveal thyself, like pensive morn. 
 
 Touched by the skylark's earliest note. 
 
 Ere humbler gladness be afloat. 
 
 But whether in the semblance drest 
 
 Of dawn — or eve, fair vision of the west. 
 
 Come with each anxious hope subdued 
 
 By woman's gentle fortitude. 
 
 Each grief, through meekness, settling into rest. 
 
 — Or I would hail thee when some high-wrought page 
 Of a closed volume lingering in thy hand 
 
 Has raised thy spirit to a peaceful stand 
 Among the glories of a happier age." 
 
 — Her brow hath opened on me — see it there, 
 Brightening the umbrage of her hair ; 
 
 So gleams the crescent moon, that loves 
 To be descried through shady groves. 
 
 — Tenderest bloom is on her cheek ; 
 Wish not for a richer streak — 
 
 Nor dread the depth of meditative eye ; 
 But let thy love, upon that azure field 
 Of thought fulness and beauty, yield 
 Its homage offered up in purity. — 
 What would'st thou more ! In sunny glade 
 Or under leaves of thickest shade, 
 Was such a stillness e'er diffused 
 Since earth grew calm while angels mused 1 
 Softly she treads, as if her foot were loth 
 To crush the mountain dew-drop, soon to melt 
 On the flowers breast ; as if she felt 
 ' That flowers themselves, whate'er their hue. 
 
 With all their fragrance, all their glistening, 
 
 Call to the heart for inward listening; 
 
 And though for bridal wreaths and tokens true 
 
 Welcomed wisely — though a growth 
 
 Which the careless shepherd sleeps on. 
 
 As fitly spring from turf the mourner weeps on, 
 
 And without wrong are cropped the marble tomb to 
 
 strew. 
 The charm is over; the mute phantoms gone, 
 Nor will return — but droop not, favoured Youth ; 
 The apparition that before thee shone 
 Obeyed a summons covetous of truth. 
 From these wild rocks thy footsteps I will guide 
 To bowers in which thy fortune may be tried. 
 And one of the bright Three become thy happy Bride ! 
 
 Her eyes are wild, her head is bare. 
 
 The sun has burnt her coal-black hair ; 
 
 Her eyebrows have a rusty stain. 
 
 And she came far from over the main. 
 
 She has a Baby on her arm, 
 
 Or else she were alone ; 
 
 And underneath the haystack warm, 
 
 And on the greenwood stone. 
 
 She talked and sung the woods among, 
 
 And it was in the English tongue. 
 
 " Sweet Babe ! they say that I am mad. 
 But nay, my heart is far too glad ; 
 And I am happy when I sing 
 Full many a sad and doleful thing: 
 Then, lovely Baby, do not fear ! 
 I pray thee have no fear of me ; 
 But, safe, as in a cradle, here. 
 My lovely Baby ! thou shalt be : 
 To thee I know too much I owe; 
 I cannot work thee any woe. 
 
 A fire was once within my brain ; 
 And in my head a dull, dull pain; 
 And fiendish faces, one, two, three. 
 Hung at my breast, and pulled at me ; 
 But then there came a sight of joy : 
 It came at once to do me good ; 
 I waked, and saw my little Boy, 
 My little Boy of flesh and blood ; 
 Oh joy for me that sight to see ! 
 For he was here, and only he. 
 
 Suck, little Babe, oh suck again ! 
 It cools my blood ; it cools my brain ; 
 Thy lips 1 feel them. Baby ! they 
 Draw from my heart the pain away. 
 1.3 
 
14C 
 
 WORDSAVORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Oh! press me with thy little hand; 
 It loosens something at my chest; 
 About that tight and deadly band 
 I feel thy little fingers prest. 
 The breeze I see is in the tree ; 
 It comes to cool my Babe and me. 
 
 Oh ! love me, love me, little Boy ! 
 Thou art thy Mother's only joy ; 
 And do not dread the waves below, 
 When o'er tlie sea-rock's edge we go ; 
 The high crag cannot work me harm, 
 Nor leaping torrents when they howl; 
 The Babe I carry on my arm, 
 He saves for me my precious soul ; 
 Then happy lie, for blest am I; 
 Without me my sweet babe would die. 
 
 Then do not fear, my Boy ! for thee 
 Bold as a lion will I be ; 
 And I will always be thy guide. 
 Through hollow snows and rivers wide. 
 I'll build an Indian bower; I know 
 The leaves that make the softest bed : 
 And, if from me thou wilt not go. 
 But still be true till I am dead. 
 My pretty thing ! then thou shalt sing 
 As merry as the birds in spring. 
 
 Thy Father cares not for my breast, 
 'Tis thine, sweet Baby, there to rest; 
 'Tis all thine own! — and, if its hue 
 Be changed, that was so fair to view, 
 'T is fair enough for thee, my dove ! 
 My beauty, little Child, is flown, 
 But thou wilt live with me in love ; 
 And what if my poor cheek be brown? 
 'T is well for me, thou canst not see 
 How pale and wan it else would be. 
 
 Dread not their taunts, my little Life; 
 I am thy Father's wedded Wife; 
 And underneath the spreading tree 
 We two will live in honesty. 
 If his sweet Boy he could forsake. 
 With me he never would have stayed : 
 From him no harm my Babe can take, 
 But he poor Man ! is wretched made ; 
 And every day we two will pray 
 For him that's gone and far away. 
 
 I '11 teach my Boy the sweetest things ; 
 I'll teach him how the owlet sings. 
 My little Babe ! thy lips are still. 
 And thou hast almost sucked thy fill. 
 — Where art thou gone, my own dear Child 7 
 What wicked looks are those I see 1 
 Alas ! alas ! that look so wild, 
 It never, never came from me: 
 
 If thou art mad, my pretty Lad, 
 Then I must be forever sad. , 
 
 "Oh! smile on me, my little lamb! 
 
 For I thy own dear Mother am. 
 
 My love for thee has well been tried : 
 
 I've sought thy Father far and wide. 
 
 I know the poisons of the sliade, 
 
 I know the earth-nuts fit for food ; 
 
 Then, pretty dear, be not afraid ; 
 
 We'll find thy father in the wood. 
 
 Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away! 
 
 And there, my babe, we'll live for aye." 
 
 RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 
 
 Raises a mist ; that, glittering in the sun. 
 
 Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. 
 
 I was a Traveller then upon the moor; 
 
 I saw the Hare that raced about with joy; 
 
 I heard the woods and distant waters roar; 
 
 Or heard them not, as happy as a Boy : 
 
 The pleasant season did my heart employ : 
 
 My old remembrances went from me wholly; 
 
 And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy! 
 
 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. 
 
 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 ; 
 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. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 147 
 
 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 alH 
 
 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 comes in the end despondency and madness. 
 
 Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 
 
 A leading from above, a something given. 
 
 Yet it befel, that, in this lonely place. 
 
 When I with these untoward thoughts had striven. 
 
 Beside a Pool bare to the eye of Heaven 
 
 I saw a Man before me unawares : 
 
 The oldest Man he seemed that ever wore gray hairs. 
 
 As a huge Stone is sometimes seen to lie 
 Couched on the bald top of an eminence ; 
 Wonder to all who do the same espy. 
 By what means it could thither come, and whence ; 
 So that it seems a thing endued with sense : 
 Like a Sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf 
 Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself; 
 
 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. 
 
 Himself he propped, his body, limbs, and face, 
 Upon a long gray Staff of shaven wood : 
 And, still as I drew near with gentle pace, 
 Upon the margin of that moorish flood 
 Motionless as a Cloud the Old-man stood ; 
 That heareth not the loud winds when they call ; 
 And moveth all together, if it move at all. 
 
 At length, himself unsettling, he the Pond 
 i Stirred with his Stafl", 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." 
 
 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." 
 He answered, while a flash of mild surprise 
 Broke from the sable orbs of his yet vivid eyes. 
 
 His words came feebly, from a feeble chest. 
 
 But each in solemn order followed each. 
 
 With something of a lofty utterance drest — 
 
 Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach 
 
 Of ordinary men ; a stately speech ; 
 
 Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use. 
 
 Religious men, who give to God and Man their dues. 
 
 He told, that to these waters he had come 
 
 To gather Leeches, being old and poor : 
 
 Employment hazardous and wearisome ! 
 
 And he had many hardships to endure: 
 
 From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor ; 
 
 Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance ; 
 
 And in this way he gained an honest maintenance. 
 
 The Old-man still stood talking by my side ; 
 But now his voice to me was like a stream 
 Scarce heard ; nor word from word could 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. 
 
 My former thoughts returned : the fear that kills ; 
 
 And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; 
 
 Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills; 
 
 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 V 
 
 He with a smile did then his words repeat; 
 And said, that, gathering Leeches, far and wide 
 He travelled; stirring thus about his feet 
 The waters of the Pools where they abide. 
 "Once I could meet with them on every side; 
 But they have dwindled long by slow decay; 
 Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may." 
 
 While he was talking thus, the lonely place. 
 
 The Old-man's shape, and speech, all troubled me : 
 
 In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace 
 
 About the weary moors continually, 
 
 Wandering about alone and silently. 
 
 While I these thoughts within myself pursued. 
 
 He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. 
 
148 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And soon with this he other matter blended, 
 
 Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind, 
 
 But stately in the main; and when he ended, 
 
 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; 
 
 I'll til ink of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!" 
 
 THE THORN. 
 
 " There is a Thorn — it looks so old, 
 
 In truth, you'd find it hard to say 
 
 How it could ever have been young, 
 
 It looks so old and gray. 
 
 Not higher than a two years' child 
 
 It stands erect, this a^ed Thorn ; 
 
 No leaves it has, no thorny points; 
 
 It is a mass of knotty joints, 
 
 A wretched thing forlorn. 
 
 It stands erect, and like a stone 
 
 With lichens it is overgrown. 
 
 Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown. 
 
 With lichens to the very top, 
 
 And hung with heavy tufts of moss, 
 
 A melancholy crop : 
 
 Up from the earth these mosses creep. 
 
 And this poor Thorn they clasp it round 
 
 So close, you 'd say that they were bent 
 
 With plain and manifest intent 
 
 To drag it to the ground ; 
 
 And all had joined in one endeavour 
 
 To bury this poor Thorn for ever. 
 
 High on a mountain's highest ridge, 
 
 Where oft the stormy winter gale 
 
 Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds 
 
 It sweeps from vale to vale ; 
 
 Not five yards from the mountain path. 
 
 This Thorn you on your left espy; 
 
 And to the left, three yards beyond. 
 
 You see a little muddy Pond 
 
 Of water — never dry, 
 
 Though but of compass small, and bare 
 
 To thirsty suns and parching air. 
 
 And, close beside this aged Thorn, 
 
 There is a fresh and lovely sight, 
 
 A beauteous heap, a Hill of moss. 
 
 Just half a foot in height. 
 
 All lovely colours there you see, 
 
 All colours that were ever seen ; 
 
 And mossy network too is there. 
 
 As if by hand of lady fair 
 
 The work had woven been; 
 
 And cups, tlie darlings of the eye, 
 
 So deep is their vermilion dye. 
 
 Ah me ! what lovely tints are there 
 
 Of olive green and scarlet bright. 
 
 In spikes, in branches, and in stars, 
 
 Green, red, and pearly white ! 
 
 This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, 
 
 Which close beside the Thorn you see, 
 
 So fresh in all its beauteous dyes. 
 
 Is like an infant's grave in size, 
 
 As like as like can be : 
 
 But never, never any where. 
 
 An infant's grave was half so fair. 
 
 Now would you see this aged Thorn, 
 
 This Pond, and beauteous Hill of moss, 
 
 You must take care and choose your time 
 
 The mountain when to cross. 
 
 For oft there sits between the Heap 
 
 So like an infant's grave in size. 
 
 And that same Pond of which I spoke, 
 
 A Woman in a scarlet cloak. 
 
 And to herself she cries, 
 
 ' Oh misery ! oh misery ! 
 
 Oh woe is me ! oh misery !' 
 
 At all times of the day and night 
 
 This wretched Woman thither goes ; 
 
 And she is known to every star. 
 
 And every wind that blows; 
 
 And, there, beside the Thorn, she sits 
 
 When the blue daylight's in the skies, 
 
 And when the whirlwind 's on the hill. 
 
 Or frosty air is keen and still. 
 
 And to herself she cries, 
 
 ' Oh misery ! oh misery ! 
 
 Oh woe is me ! oh misery !' " 
 
 "Now wherefore, thus, by day and night, 
 
 In rain, in tempest, and in snow. 
 
 Thus to the dreary mountain-top 
 
 Does this poor Woman go ! 
 
 And why sits she beside the Thorn 
 
 When the blue daylight's in the sky. 
 
 Or when the whirlwind's on the hill, 
 
 Or frosty air is keen and still. 
 
 And wherefore does she cry] — 
 
 Oh wherefore? wherefore'! tell me why 
 
 Does she repeat that doleful cry? 
 
 "I cannot tell; I wisli I could; 
 
 For the true reason no one knows : 
 
 But would you gladly view the spot. 
 
 The spot to which she goes : 
 
 The hillock like an infant's grave. 
 
 The Pond — and Thorn so old and gray; 
 
 Pass by her door — 'tis seldom shut — 
 
 And, if you see her in her hut — 
 
 Then to the spot away ! 
 
 I never heard of such as dare 
 
 Approach the spot wlien she is there. 
 
 i 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 149 
 
 " But wherefore to the mountain-top 
 
 And all that winter, when at night 
 
 Can this unhappy Woman go, 
 
 The wind blew from the mountain-peak. 
 
 Whatever star is in the sicies, 
 
 'T was worth your while, though in the dark. 
 
 Whatever wind may blow?" 
 
 The churchyard path to seek : 
 
 " 'T is Isnovvn, that twenty years are past 
 
 For many a time and oft were heard 
 
 ■. Since she (her name is Martha Ray) 
 
 Cries coming from the mountain-head: • 
 
 Gave with a maiden's true good will 
 
 Some plainly living voices were ; 
 
 Her company to Stephen Hill; 
 
 And others, I've heard many swear. 
 
 And she was blithe and gay, 
 
 Were voices of the dead : 
 
 While friends and kindred all approved 
 
 I cannot think, whate'er they say. 
 
 i Of him vyhom tenderly she loved. 
 
 They had to do with Martha Ray. 
 
 And they had fixed the wedding day. 
 
 But that she goes to this old Thorn, 
 
 The morning that must wed them both; 
 
 The Thorn which I described to you. 
 
 But Stephen to another Maid 
 
 And there sits in a scarlet cloak. 
 
 Had sworn another oath ; 
 
 I will be sworn is true. 
 
 And, with tliis other Maid, to church 
 
 For one day with my telescope, 
 
 Unthinking Stephen went — 
 
 To view the ocean wide and bright. 
 
 Poor Martha ! on that woeful day 
 
 When to this country first I came. 
 
 A pang of pitiless dismay 
 
 Ere I had heard of Blartha's name, 
 
 Into her soul was sent; 
 
 I climbed the mountain's height ; 
 
 A Fire was kindled in her breast. 
 
 A storm came on, and I could see 
 
 Which might not burn itself to rest. 
 
 No object higher than my knee. 
 
 They say, full six months after this, 
 
 
 
 'T was mist and rain, and storm and rain ; 
 
 While yet the summer leaves were green, 
 
 
 No screen, no fence could I discover ; 
 
 She to the mountain-top would go, 
 
 
 And then the wind ! in faith, it was 
 
 And there was often seen. 
 
 
 
 A wind full ten times over. 
 
 Alas ! her lamentable state 
 
 
 
 I looked around, I thought I saw 
 
 Even to a careless eye was plain ; 
 She was with child, and she was mad : 
 
 
 A jutting crag, — and oif I ran. 
 
 Yet often she was sober sad 
 
 Head-foremost through the driving rain, 
 
 
 The shelter of the crag to gain ; 
 
 From her exceeding pain. 
 
 guilty Father — would that death 
 
 And, as I am a man. 
 
 Had saved him from that breach of faith ! 
 
 Instead of jutting crag, I found 
 
 
 A Woman seated on the ground. 
 
 Sad case for such a brain to hold 
 
 I did not speak — I saw her face; 
 
 Communion with a stirring child! 
 
 Her face ! — it was enough for me ; 
 
 Sad case, as you may think, for one 
 
 I turned about and heard her cry, 
 
 Who had a brain so wild ! 
 
 ' Oh misery ! oh misery !' 
 
 Last Christmas-eve we talked of this, 
 
 And there she sits, until the moon 
 
 And gray-haired Wilfred of the glen 
 
 Through half the clear blue sky will go ; 
 
 Held that the unborn Infant wrought 
 
 And, when the little breezes make 
 
 About its mother's heart, and brought 
 
 The waters of the Pond to shake. 
 
 Her senses back again: 
 
 As all the country know. 
 
 And, when at last her time drew near, 
 
 She shudders, and you hear her cry, 
 
 Her looks were calm, her senses clear. 
 
 ' Oh misery 1 oh misery !" 
 
 More know I not, I wish I did, 
 
 " But what 's the Thorn 1 and what the Pond 1 
 
 And it should all be told to you ; 
 
 And what the Hill of moss to herl 
 
 For what became of this poor Child 
 
 And what the creeping breeze that comes 
 
 No Mortal ever knew ; 
 
 The little Pond to stir]" 
 
 Nay — if a Child to her was born 
 
 "I cannot tell; but some will say 
 
 No earthly tongue could ever tell ; 
 
 She hanged her Baby on the tree ; 
 
 And if 'twas born alive or dead. 
 
 Some say she drowned it in the Pond, 
 
 Far less could this with proof be said ; 
 
 Which is a little step beyond : 
 
 But some remember well. 
 
 But all and each agree, 
 
 1 That Martha Ray about this time 
 
 The little babe was buried there. 
 
 - Would up the mountain often climb. 
 
 Beneath that hill of moss so fair. 
 
 
 13* 
 
150 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 I've heard, the moss is spotted red 
 With drops of that poor infant's blood ; 
 But kill a new-born infant thus, 
 I do not think she could ! 
 Some say, if to the pond you go, 
 And fix on it a steady view, 
 The shadow of a babe you trace, 
 A baby and a baby's face. 
 And that it looks at you ; 
 Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain 
 The baby looks at you again. 
 
 And some had sworn an oath that she 
 Should be to public justice brought; 
 And for the little infant's bones 
 With spades they would have sought. 
 But then the beauteous Hill of moss 
 Before their eyes began to stir! 
 And, for full fifty yards around, 
 The grass — it shook upon the ground ! 
 Yet all do still aver 
 The little Babe is buried there. 
 Beneath that Hill of moss so fair. 
 
 I cannot tell how this may be ; 
 
 But plain it is, the Thorn is bound 
 
 With heavy tufts of moss that strive 
 
 To drag it to the ground ; 
 
 And this I know, full many a time, 
 
 When she was on the mountain high. 
 
 By day, and in the silent night. 
 
 When all the stars shone clear and bright, 
 
 That I have heard her cry, 
 
 ' Oh misery ! oh misery ! 
 
 Oh woe is me ! oh misery !' " 
 
 HART-LEAP WELL. 
 
 Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles 
 from Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road that 
 leads from Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a 
 remarkable Chase, the memory of which is preserved by the 
 monuments spoken of in the second Part of the following Poem, 
 which monuments do now exist as I have there described them. 
 
 The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor 
 With the slow motion of a summer's cloud ; 
 He turned aside towards a Vassal's door, 
 And " Bring another horse !" he cried aloud. 
 
 " Another horse !" — That shout the Vassal heard 
 And saddled his best Steed, a comely gray ; 
 Sir Walter mounted him ; he was the third 
 Which he had mounted on that glorious day. 
 
 Joy sparkled in the prancing Courser's eyes ; 
 The Horse and Horseman are a happy pair ; 
 But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies, 
 There is a doleful silence in the air. 
 
 A rout this morning left Sir Waller's Hall, 
 That as they galloped made the echoes roar ; 
 But Horse and Man are vanished, one and all ; 
 Such race, I think, was never seen before. 
 
 Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, 
 Calls to the few tired Dogs that yet remain: 
 Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind. 
 Follow, and up the weary mountain strain. 
 
 The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them on 
 With suppliant gestures and upbraiding stern ; 
 But breath and eyesight fiiil ; and, one by one, 
 The Dogs are stretched among the mountain fern. 
 
 Where is the throng, the tumult of the race ] 
 The bugles that so joyfully were blown 1 
 This Chase it looks not like an earthly Chase; 
 Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. 
 
 The poor Hart toils along the mountain side ; 
 I will not stop to tell how far he fled. 
 Nor will I mention by what death he died : 
 But now the Knight beholds him lying dead. 
 
 Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn ; 
 He had no follower, Dog, nor Man, nor Boy : 
 He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his horn 
 But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. 
 
 Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned, 
 Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat; 
 Weak as a lamb tlie hour that it is yeaned; 
 And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet. 
 
 Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched: 
 His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill. 
 And with the last deep groan his breatli had fetched 
 The waters of the spring were trembling still. 
 
 I 
 And now, too happy for repose or rest, 
 
 (Never had living man such joyful lot !) 
 
 Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west. 
 
 And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot. 
 
 And climbing up the hill — (it was at least 
 Nine roods of sheer ascent') Sir Walter found 
 Three several hoof-marks which the hunted Beast 
 Had left imprinted on the grassy ground. 
 
 Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, " Till now 
 Such sight was never seen by living eyes: 
 Tliree leaps have borne him from this lofty brow, 
 Down to the very fountain where he lies. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 151 
 
 I'll build a Pleasure-house upon this spot, 
 And a small Arbour, made for rural joy ; 
 'Twill be the Traveller's shed, the Pilgrim's cot, 
 A place of love for Damsels that are coy. 
 
 A cunning Artist will I have to frame' 
 
 A basin for that fountain in the dell ! 
 
 And they who do make mention of the same 
 
 From this day forth, shall call it Hart-leap Well. 
 
 And, gallant Stag ! to make thy praises known. 
 Another monument shall here be raised ; 
 Three several Pillars, each a rough-hewn Stone, 
 And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed. 
 
 And, in the summer-time when days are long, 
 I will come hither with my Paramour ; 
 And with the Dancers and the Minstrel's song 
 We will make merry in that pleasant Bower. 
 
 Till the foundations of the mountains fail 
 My Mansion with its Arbour shall endure ; — 
 The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, 
 And them who dwell among the woods of Ure !" 
 
 Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead, 
 With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring. 
 — Soon did the Knight perform what he had said, 
 And far and wide the fame thereof did ring. 
 
 Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steered, 
 A Cup of stone received the living Well ; 
 Three Pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared. 
 And built a house of Pleasure in the dell. 
 
 And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall 
 With trailing plants and trees were intertwined, — 
 Which soon composed a little sylvan Hall, 
 A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. 
 
 And thither, when the summer-days were long. 
 Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour ; 
 And with the Dancers and the Minstrel's song 
 Made merriment within that pleasant Bower. 
 
 The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time. 
 And his bones lie in his paternal vale. — 
 But there is matter for a second rhyme. 
 And I to this would add another lale. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 The moving accident is not my trade : 
 To freeze the blood I have no ready arts : 
 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, 
 To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. 
 
 As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, 
 It chanced that I saw standing in a deli 
 Three Aspens at three corners of a square ; 
 And one, not four yards distant near a Well. 
 
 What this imported I could ill divine : 
 And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop, 
 I saw three Pillars standing in a line, 
 The last Stone Pillar on a dark hill-top. 
 
 The trees were gray, with neither arms nor bead ; 
 Half-wasted the square Mound of tawny green ; 
 So that you just might say, as then I said, 
 " Here in old time the hand of man hath been." 
 
 I looked upon the hill both far and near. 
 More doleful place did never eye survey ; 
 It seemed as if the spring-time came not here, 
 And Nature here were willing to decay. 
 
 I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost. 
 When one, who was in Shepherd's garb attired, 
 Came up the Hollow : — Him did I accost. 
 And what this place might be I then inquired. 
 
 The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told 
 Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed. 
 " A jolly place," said he, " in times of old ! 
 But something ails it now; the spot is curst. 
 
 You see these lifeless Stumps of aspen wood — 
 Some say that they are beeches, others elms — 
 These were the Bower ; and here a Mansion stood, 
 The finest palace of a hundred realms! 
 
 The Arbour does its own condition tell ; 
 You see the Stones, the Fountain, and the Stream ; 
 But as to the great Lodge ! you might as well 
 Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. 
 
 There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep. 
 Will wet his lips within that Cup of stone ; 
 And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, 
 This water doth send forth a dolorous groan. 
 
 Some say that here a murder has been done. 
 And blood cries out for blood : but, for my part, 
 I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun. 
 That it was all for that unhappy Hart. 
 
 What thoughts must through the Creature's brain 
 
 have past ! 
 Even from the topmost Stone, upon the Steep, 
 Are but three bounds — and look. Sir, at this last — 
 — O Master ! it has been a cruel leap. 
 
153 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race ; 
 And in my simple mind we cannot tell 
 What cause the Hart might have to love this place, 
 And come and make his death-bed near the Well. 
 
 Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, 
 Lulled by the Fountain in the summer-tide ; 
 This water was perhaps the first he drank 
 When he had wandered from his mother's side. 
 
 In April here beneath the scented thorn 
 He heard the birds their morning carols sing ; 
 And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born 
 Not half a furlong from tliat self-same spring. 
 
 Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade; 
 
 The sun on drearier Hollow never shone ; 
 
 So will it be, as I have often said. 
 
 Till Trees, and Stones, and Fountain, all are gone." 
 
 " Gray-headed Sliepherd, thou hast spoken well ; 
 Small difference lies between thy creed and mine: 
 This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell ; 
 His death was mourned by sympathy divine. 
 
 The Being, that is in the clouds and air. 
 That is in the green leaves among the groves, 
 Maintains a deep and reverential care 
 For the unoffending creatures whom he loves. 
 
 The Pleasure-house is dust : — behind, before. 
 This is no common waste, no common gloom ; 
 But Nature, in due course of time, once more 
 Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. 
 
 She leaves these objects to a slow decay, 
 
 That what we are, and have been, may be known ; 
 
 But, at the coming of the milder day. 
 
 These monuments shall all be overgrown. 
 
 One lesson. Shepherd, let us two divide, 
 
 Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals. 
 
 Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 
 
 With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." 
 
 SONG 
 
 AT THE FEAST OP BROUGHAM CASTLE, 
 
 UPON THE RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, THE SHEPHERD. 
 TO THE ESTATES AND HONOURS OF HIS ANCESTORS.' 
 
 Hinn in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate. 
 And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song. — 
 The words of ancient time I thus translate, 
 A festal strain that hath been silent long. 
 
 * See Note 1. p, 311. 
 
 " From Tflwn to Town from Tower to Tower, 
 The Red Rose is a gladsome flower. 
 Her thirty years of winter past. 
 The Red Rose is revived at last; 
 She lifts her head for endless spring. 
 For everlasting blossoming : , 
 
 Both Roses flourish. Red and White, I 
 
 In love and sisterly delight 
 The two tliat were at strife are blended. 
 And all old troubles now are ended. — 
 Joy ! Joy to both ! but most to her 
 Who is the Flower of Lancaster ! 
 Behold her how She smiles to-day i 
 
 On this great throng, this bright array ! J 
 
 Fair greeting doth slie send to all 
 From every corner of the Hall ; 
 But, chiefly from above the Board 
 Wliere sits in state our rightful Lord, 
 A Clifford to his own restored ! 
 
 "They came with banner, spear, and shield; 
 And it was proved in Bosworth-field. 
 Not long the Avenger was withstood — 
 Earth helped him with the cry of blood :* 
 St George was for us, and the might 
 Of blessed Angels crowned the right. 
 Loud voice the Land has uttered forth. 
 We loudest in the faithful North: 
 Our Fields rejoice, our Mountains ring. 
 Our Streams proclaim a welcoming: 
 Our Strong-abodes and Castles see 
 The glory of their loyalty. 
 
 "How glad is Skipton at this hour — 
 Though she is but a lonely Tower! 
 To vacancy and silence left; 
 Of all her guardian sons bereft; 
 Knight, Squire, or Yeoman, Page or Groom: 
 We have them at the feast of Brough'm. 
 How glad Pendragon — though the sleep 
 Of years be on her ! — She shall reap 
 A taste of this great pleasure, viewing 
 As in a dream her own renewing. 
 Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem 
 Beside her little humble Stream ; 
 And she that keepeth watch and ward 
 Her statelier Eden's coursi- to guard; 
 They both are happy at this hour. 
 Though each is but a lonely Tower: 
 But here is perfect joy and pride 
 For 'one fair house by Emont's side, 
 This day distinguished without peer 
 To see her Master and to cheer 
 Him, and his Lady Mother dear! 
 
 * Tills line is from the "The Batlle of Bosworth Field," b; 
 Sir Jolin Beaumont (brother to the Dramatist), whose poems ar 
 written with much spirit, elegance, and harmony; and hav 
 deservedly been reprinted lately in Chalmer's Collection o 
 English Poets. 
 
'POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 153 
 
 " Oh ! it was a time librlorn 
 When the fatherless w as born — 
 Give her wings that «he may fly, 
 Or she sees her infant, flie ! 
 Swords that are with slaughter wild 
 Hunt the Mother and the Child? 
 Who will take them from the light? 
 
 — Yonder is a Man in sight — 
 Yonder is a Hous'= — hut where? 
 No, they must not enter tliere. 
 To the Caves, apd to the Brooks, 
 To tlie Clouds of Heaven she looks ; 
 She is speechless, but her eyes 
 Pray in ghostly agonies. 
 
 Blissful Mary, Mother mild. 
 Maid and Mother undefiled. 
 Save a Mother and her Child! ■* 
 
 "Now who is. he that bounds with joy 
 On Carrock's side, a Shepherd Boy ? 
 No thoughts iiath he but thoughts that pass 
 Light as the '•vind along the grass. 
 Can thje be H.s who hither came 
 In secret, like a smothered flame ! 
 O'er whom sacb thankful tears were shed 
 For shelter and a poor Man's bread ! 
 God loves the Cijild ; and God hath willed 
 That those dear v.-ords should be fulfilled, 
 The Lady's words, when forced away 
 The last she to her Babe did say, 
 '•My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest 
 I may not be; but reqt thee, rest. 
 For lowly Shepherd's life is best!' 
 
 "Alas! when evil men are strong 
 No life is good, no pleasijre long. 
 The Boy must part from Mosedale's Groves, 
 And leave Blencathra's rug^-ed Coves, 
 And quit the flowers that sui-imer brings 
 To Glenderamakin's lofty spring-s; 
 Must vanish, and his careless cheer 
 Be turned to heaviness and fear. 
 
 — Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld prai<.gi 
 Hear it, good Man, old in days ! 
 Thou Tree of covert and of rest ! 
 
 For this young Bird tliat is diSlreet; 
 Among thy branches safe he lay. 
 And he was free to sport and play, 
 When falcons were abroad for prey. 
 
 " A recreant Harp, that sings of fear 
 And heaviness in Cliiford's ear 
 I said, when evil Men are strong. 
 No life is good, no pleasure long, 
 A weak and cowardly untruth ! 
 Our Clifford was. a happy. Youth, 
 And thankful through a weary time, 
 That brought him up to manhood's prime. 
 -U 
 
 — Again he wanders forth at will. 
 And tends a Flock from hill to hill: 
 His garb is humble ; ne'er was seen 
 Such garb with such a noble mien ; 
 Among the Shepherd-grooms no Mate 
 Hath he, a Child of strength and state ! 
 Yet lacks not friends for solemn glee, 
 And a cheerful company. 
 That learned of him submissive ways ; 
 And comforted his private days. 
 To his side the Fallow-deer 
 Came, and rested without fear; 
 The Eagle, Lord of land and sea. 
 Stooped down to pay him fealty ; 
 And both the undying fish that swirtl 
 
 Through Bowscale Tarn did wait on him ;* 
 
 The Pair were servants of his eye 
 
 In their immortality ; 
 
 They moved about in open sight, 
 
 To and fro, for his delight. 
 
 He knew the Rocks which Angels haunt 
 
 On the Mountains visitant ; 
 
 He hath kenned them taking wing : 
 
 And the .CaVes where Faeries sing 
 
 He hath entered ; and been told 
 
 By Voices how men lived of old. 
 
 Among the Heavens his eye can see 
 
 Face of thing that is to be ; 
 
 And, if Men report him right. 
 
 He- could whisper words of might. 
 
 — Now another day is come. 
 
 Fitter hope, and nobler doom ; 
 
 He hath thrown aside his Crook, 
 
 And hath buried deep his Book ; 
 
 Armour rusting in his Halls 
 
 On the blood of CliSbrd calls ; f — 
 
 ' Quell the Scot,' exclaims the Lance — 
 
 Bear me to the heart of France, 
 
 Is the longing of the Shield — ^ 
 
 Tell thy name, thou trembling Field ; 
 
 Field of death where'er thou be. 
 
 Groan thou with our victory ! . 
 
 Happy day and mighty hour. 
 
 When our Shepherd, in his power. 
 
 Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword, 
 
 To his Ancestors resi;ored 
 
 * It is imagined by the people of the country that -there are 
 t^ - immorlal Fish, inhabitants of this Tarn, which lies in the 
 mounli-iTig not far from Threlkeld. — Blencathara, inentioned 
 before, is u,«, old and proper name of the mountain vulgarly 
 called Saddl^-batv. 
 
 t The martial charac. - of the Cliffords is well known to the 
 readers of English history; t,„t it may not be improper here 
 to say, by way of comment on these lines and what follows, 
 that besides several others Who perished in 4he same manner, 
 the lour immediate Progenitors of the Person in whose hearing 
 this is s.upposed to be spoken, all died in the Field. 
 
154 
 
 . ■ \ 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WOR'kS. 
 
 Like a re-appearing Star, 
 
 Like a glory from afar, 
 
 First shall head the Flock of War !" 
 
 Alas ! the fervent harper did not know 
 That for a tranquil Soul the Lay was framed, 
 Wto, long compelled in humble walks to go, 
 Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed. 
 
 Love had he found in huts where poor Men lie ; 
 His daily Teachers had been Woods and Rills, 
 The silence that is in tlie starry sky, 
 The sleep that is among the lonely hills. 
 
 In him the savage virtue of the Race, 
 Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead : 
 Nor did he change ; but kept in lofty place 
 The wisdom which adversity had bred. 
 
 Glad were the VaJes, and every cottage hearth ; 
 The Shepherd Lord was honoured more and more ; 
 And, ages after he was laid in earth, 
 " The Good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore. 
 
 Yes, it was the mountain Echo, 
 Solitary, clear, profound. 
 Answering to the shouting Cuckoo, 
 Giving to her sound for sound ! 
 
 Unsolicited reply 
 
 To a babbling wanderer sent ; 
 
 Like her ordinary cry. 
 
 Like — bpt oh, how different ! 
 
 Hears not also mortal Life 1 
 Hear not we, unthinking Creatures ! 
 Slaves of Folly, Love, or Strife, 
 Voices of two different Natures ? 
 
 Have not We too 1 — yes, we have 
 Answers, and we know not whence ; 
 Echoes from beyond the grave. 
 Recognised intelligence ! 
 
 Often as thy inward ear 
 Catches such rebounds, beware, — 
 Listen, ponder, hold them dear; 
 For of God, — of God they are. 
 
 TO A SKY-LARK. 
 
 Ethereal Minstrel ! Pilgrim '-<' the sky ! 
 Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound/! 
 Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
 Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground 1 
 Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will. 
 Those quivering wings composed, that music still ! 
 
 To the last point of visiotl, and beyond. 
 Mount, daring Warbler! tljat love-prompted strain, 
 C'Twi.xt thee and iliine a never-failing bond) 
 Thrills not the less the hosoTn, of the plain : 
 Yet might'st thou seem, prouci privilege ! to sing 
 All independent of the leafy sprinsr. 
 
 Leave to the Nightingale her shady wood ;' 
 A privacy of glorious light is tliine; 
 Whenoo thou dost pour upon the world a flood 
 Of harmony, with instinct more Uivine ; 
 Type of the wise who soar, but neveV roam; 
 True to the kindred points of Hc-aven and Home ! 
 
 It is no Spirit who from Heaven hath ilown. 
 
 And is descending on his embassy ; 
 
 Nor Traveller gone frcm Earth the Heavens to espy! 
 
 'T is Hesperus — there he stands witl^ glittering crown. 
 
 First admonition that the sun is down, 
 
 For yet it is broad daylight ! cloutls pass by; 
 
 A few are' near him still —and now the sky. 
 
 He hath it to himself — 'tis all his own. 
 
 O most ambitious Star ! thy Presence brought 
 
 A startling recollectibn to my miiid 
 
 Of the distinguished few among mankind. 
 
 Who dare to step beyond their natural race, 
 
 As thou seem'st now to do : — nor was a thought 
 
 Denied — that everi I might one day trace 
 
 Some ground not mine; aild, jstrong hcrstrengtKabovei 
 
 My Soul, an Apparition in the place, 
 
 Tread there, with steps thai no one shall reprove ! 
 
 FRENC'I REVOLUTION, 
 
 .\S IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS COMMBNCkMSOT.* 
 REPKI.TED FROM " THE FRIEXD." 
 
 Oh ! pleasant e-^rcise of linpe and joy ! 
 
 For mighty w^""^ 'he Au.xiliars, which then stood 
 
 Upon our S'-"^' ^^'^ "'"° were strong in love ! 
 
 Bliss wa? '' '" '''^'' dawn to be alive. 
 
 But to ^e young was very heaven ! — Oh ! times, 
 
 jp >, nich the meagre, stale, forbidding ways 
 
 Of custom, law, and stature, took at once 
 
 The attraction of a country in Romance ! 
 
 When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights, 
 
 When most intent on making of herself 
 
 A prime Enchantress — to assist the work 
 
 Which then was goin^ forward in her name! 
 
 Not favoured spots alone, but the whole earth. 
 
 The beauty wore of promise — that which sets 
 
 * This, and the Kulracl, page SI. and the first Piece of thi« 
 Class, are from the nnpubliyhed Poem of which some account 
 is given in the prefice to the E.\cuRSiox. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 155 
 
 4s at some moment might not be unfelt 
 
 .mong the bowers of paradise itselO 
 
 'he budding rose above the rose full blown. 
 
 Vhat Temper at the prospect did not wake 
 
 ["o happiness unthought of! The inert 
 
 Vere roused, and lively Nature rapt away ! 
 
 They who had fed their childhood upon dreams, 
 
 !'he playfellows of fancy, who had made 
 
 Ul powers of swiftness, subtilty and strength 
 
 ?heir ministers, — who in lordly wise had stirred 
 
 imong the grandest objects of the sense, 
 
 Lnd dealt with whatsoever they found there 
 
 IlS if they had within some lurking right 
 
 ?o wield it ; — they, too, who of gentle mood, 
 
 lad watched all gentle motions, and to these 
 
 lad fitted their own thoughts, scliemers more mild, 
 
 Vnd in the region of their peaceful selves ; — 
 
 ^ow was it that both found, the Meek and Lofty 
 
 )id both find helpers to their heart's desire, 
 
 Vnd stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish ; 
 
 iVere called upon to exercise their skill, 
 
 ^ot in Utopia, subterranean Fields, 
 
 3r some secreted Island, Heaven knows where! 
 
 Jut in the very world, which is the world 
 
 )f all of us, — the place where in the end 
 
 /Ve find our happiness, or not at all !* 
 
 GOLD AND SILVER FISHES, 
 
 IN A VASE. 
 
 The soaring Lark is blest as proud, 
 
 When at Heaven's gate she sings; 
 The roving Bee proclaims aloud 
 
 Her flight by vocal wings; 
 While Ye, in lasting durance pent. 
 
 Your silent lives employ 
 For something "more than dull content 
 
 Though haply less than joy." 
 
 Yet might your glassy prison seem 
 
 A place where joy is known. 
 Where golden flash and silver gleam 
 
 Have meanings of their own ; 
 While, higli and low, and all about. 
 
 Your motions, glittering Elves I 
 Ye weave — no danger from without, 
 
 And peace among yourselves. 
 
 Type of a sunny human breast 
 
 Is your transparent Cell ; 
 Where Fear is but a transient Guest, 
 
 No sullen humours dwell ; 
 Where, sensitive of every ray 
 
 That smites this tiny sea, 
 Your scaly panoplies repay 
 
 The loan with usury. 
 
 See Note 2, p. 312. 
 
 How beautifiil ! yet none knows why 
 
 This ever-graceful change. 
 Renewed — renewed incessantly — 
 
 Within your quiet range. 
 Is it that ye with conscious skill 
 
 For mutual pleasure glide; 
 And sometimes, not without your will 
 
 Are dwarfed, or magnified'! 
 
 Fays — Genii of gigantic size — 
 
 And now, in twilight dim. 
 Clustering like constellated Byes 
 
 In wings of Cherubim, 
 When they abate their fiery glare: 
 
 Whate'er your forms express, 
 Whate'er ye seem, whate'er ye are. 
 
 All leads to gentleness. 
 
 Cold though your nature be, 't is pure ; 
 
 Your birthright is a fence 
 From all that haughtier kinds endure 
 
 Through tyranny of sense. 
 Ah ! not alone by colours bright 
 
 Are ye to Heaven allied, 
 When, like essential Forms of light. 
 
 Ye mingle, or divide. 
 
 For day-dreams soft as e'er beguiled 
 
 Day-thoughts while limbs repose ; 
 For moonlight fascinations mild 
 
 Your gift, ere shutters close ; 
 Accept, mute Captives! thanks and praise; 
 
 And may this tribute prove 
 That gentle admirations raise 
 
 Delight resembling love. 
 
 LIBERTY. 
 
 (SEaUEL TO THE ABOVE.) 
 
 [Addressed to a Friend ; the Gold and Silver Fishes having heen 
 removed to a pool in the pleasure-ground of Rydal Mount.] 
 
 "The liberty of a people consists in being governed by laws 
 which they have made for themselves, under whatever form it 
 be of government, The hberty of a private man, in being mas- 
 ter of his own time and actions, as far as may consist with the 
 laws of God and of his countrey. Of this latter we are here to 
 discourse." — Cowley. 
 
 Those breathing Tokens of your kind regard, 
 (Suspect not, Anna, that their fate is hard ; 
 Not soon does aught to which mild fancies cling. 
 In lonely spots, become a slighted thing ;) 
 
156 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Those silent Inmates now no longer share, 
 
 Nor do they need, our hospitable care. 
 
 Removed in kindness from their glassy Cell 
 
 To the fresh waters of a living Well ; 
 
 That spreads into an elfin pool opaque 
 
 Of which close boughs a glimmering mirror make, 
 
 On whose smooth breast with dimples light and small 
 
 The fly may settle, leaf or blossom fall. 
 
 — There swims, of blazing sun and beating shower 
 
 Fearless (but how obscured !) the golden Power, 
 
 That from his bauble prison used to cast 
 
 Gleams by the richest jewel unsurpast; 
 
 And near him, darkling like a sullen Gnome, 
 
 The silver Tenant of the crystal dome ; 
 
 Dissevered both from all the mysteries 
 
 Of hue and altering shape that charmed all eyes. 
 
 They pined, perliaps, they languished while they shone ; 
 
 And, if not so, what matters beauty gone 
 
 And admiration lost, by change of place 
 
 That brings to the inward Creature no disgrace 1 
 
 But if the change restore his birthright, then, 
 
 Whate'er the difference, boundless is the gain. 
 
 Who can divine what impulses from God 
 
 Reach the caged Lark, within a town-abode. 
 
 Prom his poor inch or two of daisied sod I 
 
 yield him back his privilege ! No sea 
 Swells like the bosom of a man set free ; 
 A wilderness is rich with liberty. 
 
 Roll on, ye spouting Whales, who die or keep 
 Your independence in the fathomless Deep ! 
 Spread, tiny Nautilus, the living sail ; 
 Dive, at thy choice, or brave the freshening gale! 
 If unreproved the ambitious Eagle mount 
 Sunward to seek the daylight in its fount. 
 Bays, gulfs, and Ocean's Indian width, shall be. 
 Till the world perishes, a field for thee ! 
 
 While musing here I sit in shadow cool. 
 And watch these mute Companions, in the pool, 
 Among reflected boughs of leafy trees. 
 By glimpses caught — disporting at their ease — 
 Enlivened, braced, by hardy luxuries, 
 
 1 ask what warrant fixed them (like a spell 
 Of witchcraft fixed them) in the crystal Cell ; 
 To wheel with languid motion round and round. 
 Beautiful, yet in a mournful durance bound. 
 Their peace, perhaps, our lightest footfall marred ; 
 On their quick sense our sweetest music jarred; 
 And whither could they dart, if seized with fear? 
 No sheltering stone, no tangled root was near. 
 When fire or taper ceased to cheer the room. 
 They wore away the night in starless gloom 
 And, when the sun first dawned upon the streams. 
 How faint their portion of his vital beams ! 
 Thus, and unable to complain, they fared. 
 While not one joy of ours by them was shared. 
 
 Is there a cherished Bird (I venture now 
 To snatch a sprig from Chaucer's reverend brow) — 
 Is there a brilliant Fondling of the cage. 
 Though sure of plaudits on his costly stage, 
 Though fed with dainties from the snow-white hand 
 Of a kind Mistress, fairest of the land. 
 But gladly would escape ; and, if need were. 
 Scatter the colours from the plumes that bear 
 The emancipated captive through blithe air 
 Into strange woods, where he at large may live 
 On best or worst which they and Nature give 1 
 The Beetle loves his unpretending track. 
 The Snail the house he carries on his back : 
 The far-fetched Worm with pleasure would disown 
 The bed we give him, though of softest down ; 
 A noble instinct ; in all Kinds the same, 
 All Ranks ! What Sovereign, worthy of the name. 
 If doomed to breathe against his lawful will 
 An element that flatters him — to kill. 
 But would rejoice to barter outward show 
 For the least bcon that freedom can bestow 1 
 
 But most the Bard is true to inborn right, 
 Lark of the dawn, and Philomel of night, 
 Exults in freedom, can with rapture vouch 
 For the dear blessings of a lowly couch, 
 A natural meal — days, months, from Nature's hand; 
 Time, place, and business, all at his command 
 Who bends to happier duties, who more wise 
 Than the industrious Poet, taught to prize. 
 Above all grandeur, a pure life uncrossed 
 By cares in which simplicity is lost! 
 That life — the flowery path which winds by stealth, 
 Wliich Horace needed for his spirit's health; 
 Sighed for, in heart and genius, overcome 
 By noise, and strife, and questions wearisome. 
 And the vain splendours of Imperial Rome "i 
 Let easy mirth his social hours inspire. 
 And fiction animate his sportive lyre. 
 Attuned to verse that crowning light Distress 
 With garlands cheats her into happiness ; 
 Give me the humblest note of those sad strains 
 Drawn forth by pressure of his gilded chains. 
 As a chance sunbeam from his memory fell 
 Upon the Sabine Farm ho loved so well ; 
 Or when the prattle of Bandusia's spring 
 Haunted his ear — he only listening — 
 He proud to please, above all rivals, fit 
 To win the palm of gaiety and wit ; 
 He, doubt not, with involuntary dread, 
 Shrinking from each new favour to be shed, 
 By the World's Ruler, on his honoured head ! 
 
 In a deep vision's intellectual scene. 
 Such earnest longings and regrets as keen 
 Depressed the melancholy Cowley, laid 
 Under a fancied yew-tree's luckless shade ; 
 
 I 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 157 
 
 A doleful bower for penitential song, 
 
 Where Man and Muse complained of mutual wrong; 
 
 While Cam's ideal current glided by, 
 
 And antique towers nodded their foreheads high, 
 
 Citadels dear to studious privacy. 
 
 But Fortune, who had long been used to sport 
 
 With this tried servant of a thanliless Court, 
 
 Relenting met his wishes ; and to You 
 
 The remnant of his days at least was true ; 
 
 You, whom, though long deserted, he loved* best; 
 
 You, Muses, Books, Fields, Liberty, and Rest ! 
 
 But happier they who, fixing hope and aim 
 
 On the humanities of peaceful fame 
 
 Enter betimes with more than martial fire 
 
 The generous course, aspire, and still aspire ; 
 
 Upheld by warnings heeded not too late 
 
 Stifle tlie contradictions of their fate. 
 
 And to one purpose cleave, their Being's godlike mate ! 
 
 Thus, gifted Friend, but with the placid brow 
 That Woman ne'er should forfeit, keep thy vow ; 
 With modest scorn reject whate'er would blind 
 The ethereal eyesight, cramp the winged mind ! 
 Then, with a blessing granted from above 
 To every act, word, thought, and look of love. 
 Life's book for Thee may lie unclosed, till age 
 Shall with a thankful tear bedrop its latest page.* 
 
 ODE. 
 
 THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE. 
 
 Within the mind strong fancies work, 
 A deep delight the bosom thrills, 
 Oft as I pass along the fork 
 Of these fraternal hills : 
 Where, save the rugged road, we find 
 No appanage of human kind ; 
 Nor hint of man, if stone or rock 
 Seem not his handy-work to mock 
 
 * There is now, alas! no possibility of the anticipation, with 
 which the above Epistle concludes, being realised ; nor were 
 the verses ever seen by the Individual for whom they were in- 
 tended. She accompanied her husband, the Rev. Wra. Fletcher, 
 to India, and died of cholera, at the age of thirty-two or thirty- 
 three years, on her way from Shalapore to Bombay, deeply la- 
 mented by all who knew her. 
 
 Her enthusiasm was ardent, her piety steadfast ; and her great 
 talents would have enabled her to be eminently useful in the 
 difficult path of life to which she had been called. The 
 opinion she entertained of her own performances, given to the 
 world under her maiden name, Jewsbury, was modest and 
 humble, and, indeed, far below their merits; as is often the 
 case with those who are making trial of their powers with a 
 hope to discover what they are best fitted for. In one quality, 
 viz., quickness in the motions of her mind, she was in the 
 author's estimation unequalled. 
 
 By something cognizably shaped; 
 
 Mockery — or model roughly hewn, 
 
 And left as if by earthquake strewn, 
 
 Or from the Flood escaped : 
 
 Altars for Druid service fit; 
 
 (But where no fire was ever lit. 
 
 Unless the glow-worm to the skies 
 
 Thence offer nightly sacrifice;) 
 
 Wrinkled Egyptian monument; 
 
 Green moss-grown tower ; or hoary tent ; 
 
 Tents of a camp that never shall be raised ; 
 
 On which four thousand years have gazed ! 
 
 Ye plough-shares sparkling on the slopes! 
 
 Ye snow-white lambs that trip 
 
 Imprisoned 'mid the formal props 
 
 Of restless ownership ! 
 
 Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall 
 
 To feed the insatiate Prodigal ! 
 
 Lawns, houses, chattels, groves, and fields, 
 
 All that the fertile valley shields ; 
 
 Wages of folly — baits of crime, — 
 
 Of life's uneasy game the stake. 
 
 Playthings that keep the eyes awake 
 
 Of drowsy, dotard Time ; — 
 
 O care ! O guilt ! — O vales and plains, 
 
 Here, 'mid his own unvexed domains, 
 
 A Genius dwells, that can subdue 
 
 At once all memory of You, — 
 
 Most potent when mists veil the sky, 
 
 Mists that distort and magnify ; 
 
 While the coarse ruslies, to the sweeping breeze, 
 
 Sigh forth their ancient melodies! 
 
 List to those shriller notes ! — that march 
 Perchance was on the blast. 
 When, through this Height's inverted arch, 
 Rome's earliest legion passed ! 
 — They saw, adventurously impelled, 
 And older eyes than theirs beheld, 
 This block — and yon, whose Church-like frame 
 Gives to the savage Pass its name. 
 Aspiring Road ! that lov'st to hide 
 Thy daring in a vapoury bourn, 
 Not seldom may the hour return 
 When thou shalt be my Guide: 
 And I (as often we find cause, 
 When life is at a weary pause. 
 And we have panted up the hill 
 Of duty with reluctant will) 
 Be thankful, even though tired and faint, 
 For the rich bounties of Constraint. 
 Whence oft invigorating transports flow 
 That Choice lacked courage to bestow! 
 14 
 
158 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 4. 
 
 My soul was grateful for delight 
 
 That wore a threatening brow ; 
 
 A veil is lifted — can she slight 
 
 The scene that opens now 1 
 
 Though habitation none appear, 
 
 The greenness tells, man must be there ; 
 
 The shelter — that the perspective 
 
 Is of the clime in which we live ; 
 
 Where Toil pursues his daily round; 
 
 Where pity sheds sweet tears, and Love, 
 
 In woodbine bower or birchen grove. 
 
 Inflicts his tender wound. 
 
 — Who comes not hither ne'er shall know 
 
 How beautiful the world below; 
 
 Nor can he guess how lightly leaps 
 
 The brook adown the rocky steeps. 
 
 Farewell, thou desolate Domain ! 
 
 Hope, pointing to the cultured Plain, 
 
 Carols like a shepherd boy ; 
 
 And who is she ! — Can that be Joy ! 
 
 Who, with a sunbeam for her guide, 
 
 Smoothly skims the meadows wide ; 
 
 While Faith, from yonder opening clou'. 
 
 To hill and vale proclaims aloud, 
 
 " Whate'er the weak may dread, the wicked dare. 
 
 Thy lot, O Man, is good, thy portion fair !" 
 
 EVENING ODE, 
 
 COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OP EXTRAORDINARY SPLENDOUR 
 AND BEAUTY. 
 
 1. 
 
 Had this effulgence disappeared 
 
 With flying haste, I might have sent. 
 
 Among the speecliless clouds, a look 
 
 Of blank astonishment ; 
 
 But 't is endued with power to stay, 
 
 And sanctify one closing day. 
 
 That frail mortality may see — 
 
 What is 7 — all no, but what can be ! 
 
 Time was when field and watery cove 
 
 With modulated echoes rang. 
 
 While choirs of fervent Angels sang 
 
 Their vespers in the grove 
 
 Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height. 
 
 Warbled, for lieaven above and earth below. 
 
 Strains suitable to both. — Such holy rite, 
 
 Methinks, if audibly repeated now 
 
 From hill or valley, could not move 
 
 Sublimer transport, purer love, 
 
 Than doth this silent spectacle — the gleam — 
 
 The shadow — and the peace supreme ! 
 
 I' 
 
 41 
 
 2. 
 
 No sound is uttered, — but a deep 
 
 And solemn harmony pervades 
 
 Tlie hollow vale from steep to steep. 
 
 And penetrates the glades. 
 
 Far-distant images draw nigh. 
 
 Called forth by wonderous potency 
 
 Of beamy radiance, that imbues 
 
 Whate'er it strikes, with gem-like hues! 
 
 In vision exquisitely clear. 
 
 Herds range along the mountain side; 
 
 And glistening antlers are described; 
 
 And gilded flocks appear. 
 
 Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve '. 
 
 But long as god-like wish, or hope divine. 
 
 Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe 
 
 That this magnificence is wholly thine ! 
 
 — From worlds not quickened by the sun 
 
 A portion of the gift is won ; 
 
 An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread 
 
 On ground which British shepherds tread ! 
 
 And, if there be whom broken ties 
 
 Afflict, or injuries assail. 
 
 Yon hazy ridges to their eyes* 
 
 Present a glorious scale. 
 
 Climbing suffused with sunny air, 
 
 To stop — no record hath told where ! 
 
 And tempting Fancy to ascend. 
 
 And with immortal Spirits blend ! 
 
 — Wings at mv shoulder seem to play ;f 
 
 But, rooted here, I stand and gaze 
 
 On those bright steps that heaven-ward raise 
 
 Their practicable way. 
 
 Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad. 
 
 And see to what fair countries ye are bound ! 
 
 And if some Traveller, weary of his road. 
 
 Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy ground, 
 
 Ye Genii! to his covert speed; 
 
 And wake him with such gentle heed 
 
 As may attune his soul to meet the dower 
 
 Bestowed on this transcendant hour ! 
 
 Such hues from their celestial Urn 
 Were wont to stream before my eye, 
 
 * T!ie multiplication of mountain-ridges, described, at the 
 commencement of the third Stanza of this ode, as a kind of 
 Jacob's Ladder, leading to Heaven, is produced either by 
 watery vapours, or sunny haze; — in the present instance, by 
 the latter cause. Allusions to the Ode, entitled *' Intimationa 
 of Immortality," pervade the last stanza of the foregoing 
 Poem. 
 
 + In these lines I am under obligation to the exquisite picture 
 of Jacob's Dream, by Mr. AUston, now in America. Il is 
 pleasant to make this public acknowledgment to a man of 
 genius, whom I have the honour to rank among my friends. 
 
 J 
 
POEMS OP THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 159 
 
 Where'er it wandered in the morn 
 
 Of blissful infancy. 
 
 This glimpse of glory why renewed ? 
 
 Nay, rather speak with gratitude ; 
 
 For, if a vestige of those gleams 
 
 Survivedj'twas only in my dreama 
 
 Dread Power ! whom peace and calmness serve 
 
 No less than Nature's threatening voice, 
 
 If aught unworthy be my choice, 
 
 From Thee if I would swerve. 
 
 Oh, let thy grace remind nie of the light 
 
 Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored ; 
 
 Which, at this moment, on my waking sight 
 
 Appears to shine, by miracle restored ! 
 
 My soul, though yet confined to earth, 
 
 Rejoices in a second birth; 
 
 — 'Tis past, the visionary splendour fades; 
 
 And night approaches with her shades. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVSITING 
 
 THE BANKS OF THE WYE DirnINQ A TOUR. 
 
 JULY 13, 1798. 
 
 Five years have past ; five summers, with the length 
 
 Of five long winters ! and again I hear 
 
 These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs 
 
 With a sweet inland murmur.* — Once again 
 
 Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 
 
 That on a wild secluded scene impress 
 
 Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect 
 
 The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
 
 The day is come when I again repose 
 
 Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 
 
 These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, 
 
 Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, 
 
 Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 
 
 Among the woods and copses, nor disturb 
 
 The wild green landscape. Once again I see 
 
 These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines 
 
 Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral farms, 
 
 Green to tlie very door ; and wreaths of smoke 
 
 Sent up, in silence, from among the trees 
 
 With some uncertain notice, as might seem 
 
 Of vagrant Dwellers in the houseless woods, 
 
 Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire 
 
 The Hermit sits alone. 
 
 These beauteous Forms, 
 Through a long absence, have not been to me 
 As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
 But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
 Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, 
 In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 
 
 * The river i? not effected by the tides a few miles above 
 Tintern. 
 
 Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; 
 And passing even into my purer mind. 
 With tranquil restoration: — feelings too 
 Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps, 
 As have no slight or trivial influence 
 On that best portion of a good man's life, 
 His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
 Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 
 To them I may have owed another gift. 
 Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood, 
 In which the burthen of the mystery, 
 In which the heavy and the weary weight 
 Of all this unintelligible world, 
 Is lightened ; — that serene and blessed mood, 
 In which the affections gently lead us on, — 
 Until the breath of this corporeal frame 
 And even the motion of our human blood 
 Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
 In body, and become a living soul : 
 While with an eye made quiet by the power 
 Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, 
 We see into the life of things. 
 
 If this 
 Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft. 
 In darkness, and amid the many shapes 
 Of joyless daylight ; when the fretful stir 
 Unprofitable, and the fever of the world. 
 Have hung upon the beatings of my heart. 
 How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 
 
 sylvan Wye ! Thou wanderer thro' the woods, 
 How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 
 
 And now, with gleams of half-e.xtinguished thought, 
 With many recognitions dim and faint. 
 And somewhat of a sad perplexity. 
 The picture of the mind revives again : 
 While here I stand, not only with the sense 
 Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 
 That in this moment there is life and food 
 For future years. And so I dare to hope. 
 Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 
 
 1 came among these hills ; when like a roe 
 I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
 Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 
 Wherever nature led : more like a man 
 Flying from something that he dreads, than one 
 Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then 
 (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days. 
 
 And their glad animal movements all gone by) 
 To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 
 What then I was. The sounding cataract 
 Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock. 
 The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood. 
 Their colours and their forms, were then to me 
 An appetite ; a feeling and a love. 
 That had no need of a remoter charm. 
 By thought supplied, or any interest 
 Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past. 
 
160 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And all its aching joys are now no more, 
 
 And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
 
 Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts 
 
 Have followed, for such loss, I would believe, 
 
 Abundant recompense. For I have learned 
 
 To look on nature, not as in the hour 
 
 Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 
 
 The still, sad music of humanity. 
 
 Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
 
 To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
 
 A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
 
 Of elevated thouglits ; a sense sublime 
 
 Of something far more deeply interfused, 
 
 Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns. 
 
 And the round ocean and the living air, 
 
 And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: 
 
 A motion and a spirit, that impels 
 
 All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 
 
 And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 
 
 A lover of the meadows and the woods. 
 
 And mountains ; and of all that we behold 
 
 From this green earth ; of all the miglity world 
 
 Of eye and ear, both what they half create*. 
 
 And what perceive ; well pleased to recognise 
 
 In nature and the language of the sense. 
 
 The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse. 
 
 The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
 
 Of all my moral being. 
 
 Nor perchance, 
 If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
 Suffer my genial spirits to decay : 
 For thou art with me, here, upon the banks 
 Of this fair river ; thou, my dearest Friend, 
 My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I catch 
 The language of my former heart, and read 
 My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
 Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 
 Jlay I behold in thee what I was once, 
 Aly dear, dear Sister ! and this prayer I make, 
 Knowing that Nature never did betray 
 The heart that loved her ; 't is lier privilege, 
 Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
 From joy to joy : for she can so inform 
 The mind that is within us, so impress 
 With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
 With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
 Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men. 
 Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
 The dreary intercourse of daily life. 
 Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
 Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
 Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
 Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; 
 And let the misty mountain winds be free 
 To blow against thee : and, in after years. 
 
 *This line has a close resemblance to an admirable line of 
 Young, the exact expression of which I do not recollect. 
 
 When these wild ecstacies shall be matured 
 
 Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind 
 
 Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 
 
 Thy memory be as a dwelling place 
 
 For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, 
 
 If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. 
 
 Should be tliy portion, with what healing thoughts 
 
 Of tender joy wilt thou remember me. 
 
 And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance 
 
 If I should be where I no more can hear 
 
 Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams 
 
 Of past e.xistence, wilt thou then forget 
 
 That on the banks of this delightful stream 
 
 We stood together ; and that I, so long 
 
 A worshipper of Nature, hither came 
 
 Unwearied in that service : rather say 
 
 With warmer love, oh ! with far deeper zeal 
 
 Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, 
 
 That after many wanderings, many years 
 
 Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs. 
 
 And this green pastoral landscape, were to me 
 
 More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake ! 
 
 PETER BELL. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 What's in a Name? 
 ****** It 
 Brutus will start a Spirit as soon as Ceesot ! 
 
 i 
 
 TO •» 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEY Esq. P.L. 
 &c. &c. 
 
 My Dear Friend. 
 
 The Tale of Peter Bell, which I now introduce to 
 your notice, and to that of the Public, has, in its Man- 
 uscript state, nearly survived its minority ; — for it 
 first saw the light in the summer of 1798. During this 
 long interval, pains have been taken at different times 
 to make the production less unworthy of a favourable 
 reception ; or, rather, to fit it for filling permanently 
 a station, however humble, in the Literature of my ■' 
 Country. This has, indeed, been the aim of all my 
 endeavours in Poetry, which, you know, have been 
 sufficiently laborious to prove that I deem the Art not 
 lightly to be approached ; and that the attainment of 
 excellence in it, may laudably be made the principal 
 object of intellectual pursuit by any man, who, with 
 reasonable consideration of circumstances, has faith in 
 his own impulses. 
 
 The Poem of Peter Bell, as the Prologue will show, 
 was composed under a belief that the Imagination not 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 161 
 
 (only does not require for its exercise the intervention 
 i of supernatural apfency, but that, though such agency 
 be excluded, the faculty may be called forth as impe- 
 Iriously, and for kindred results of pleasure, by incidents, 
 within the compass of poetic probability, in the hum- 
 I blest departments of daily life. Since that Prologue 
 ; was written, you have exhibited most splendid effects 
 of judicious daring, in the opposite and usual course. 
 Let this acknowledgment make my peace with the 
 lovers of the supernatural ; and I am persuaded it will 
 I be admitted, that to you, as a Master in that province 
 ! of the art, the following Tale, whether from contrast 
 or congruity, is not an unappropriate offering. Accept 
 it, then, as a public testimony of affectionate admira- 
 jtion from one with whose name yours has been oflen 
 coupled (to use your own words) for evil and for good ; 
 and believe me to be, with earnest wishes that life and 
 health may be granted you to complete the many im- 
 portant works in which you are engaged, and with 
 high respect, 
 
 Most faithfully yours, 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Rydal Mount, April 7, 1819. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 ThERE 's something in a flying horse, 
 There 's something in a huge balloon ; 
 But through the clouds I '11 never float 
 Until I have a little Boat, 
 Whose shape is like the crescent-moou. 
 
 And now I have a little Boat, 
 In shape a very crescent-moon : — 
 Fast through the clouds my boat can sail ; 
 But if perchance your faith should fail, 
 Look up — and you shall see me soon! 
 
 The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring, 
 Rooking and roaring like a sea; 
 The noise of danger fills your ears. 
 And ye have all a thousand fears 
 Both for my little Boat and me ! 
 
 Meanwhile untroubled I admire 
 The pointed horns of my canoe; 
 And, did not pity touch my breast, 
 To see how ye are all distrest. 
 Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you! 
 
 Away we go, my Boat and I — 
 Frail man ne'er sate in such another; 
 Whether among the winds we strive. 
 Or deep into the clouds we dive, 
 Each is contented with the other. 
 V 
 
 Away we go — and what care we 
 For treasons, tumults, and for wars? 
 We are as calm in our delight 
 As is the crescent moon so bright 
 Among the scattered stars. 
 
 Up goes my Boat among the stars 
 Through many a breathless field of light, 
 Through many a long blue field of ether. 
 Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her. 
 Up goes my little Boat so bright ! 
 
 The Crab — the Scorpion — and the Bull — 
 We pry among them all — have shot 
 High o'er the red-haired race of Mars, 
 Covered from top to toe with scars; 
 Such company I like it not ! 
 
 The towns in Saturn are decayed, 
 And melancholy Spectres throng them ; 
 The Pleiads, that appear to kiss 
 Each other in the vast abyss. 
 With joy I sail among them ! 
 
 Swift Mercury resounds with mirth, 
 Great Jove is full of stately bowers ; 
 But these, and all that they contain, 
 What are they to that tiny grain. 
 That little Earth of ours 1 
 
 Then back to Earth, the dear green Earth ; 
 Whole ages if I here should roam, 
 The world for my remarks and me 
 Would not a whit the better be; 
 I've left my heart at home. 
 
 And there it is, the matchless Earth! 
 There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean! 
 Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear 
 Through the gray clouds — the Alps are here, 
 Like waters in commotion ! 
 
 Yon tawny slip is Libya's sands — 
 That silver thread the river Dnieper — 
 And look, where clothed in brightest green 
 Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen ; 
 Ye fairies, from all evil keep her! 
 
 And see the town where I was born ! 
 Around those happy fields we span 
 In boyish gambols — I was lost 
 Where I have been, but on this coast 
 I feel I am a man. 
 
 Never did fifty things at once 
 Appear so lovely, never, never, — 
 How tunefully the forests ring ! 
 To hear the earth's soft murmuring 
 Thus could I hang for ever ! 
 14* 
 
162 WORDSWORTH'S 
 
 POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 " Shame on you 1" cried my little Boat, 
 
 Go — (but the world 's a sleepy world, 
 
 " Was ever such a homesick Loon, 
 
 And 'tis, I fear, an age too late) 
 
 Within a living Boat to sit. 
 
 Take with you some ambitious Youth; 
 
 And make no better use of it, — 
 
 For, restless Wanderer ! I, in truth. 
 
 A Boat twin-sister of the crescent moon ! 
 
 Am all unfit to be your mate. 
 
 Ne'er in the breast of full-grown Poet 
 
 Long have I loved what I behold. 
 
 Fluttered so faint a heart before ; — 
 
 The night that calms, the day that cheers; 
 
 Was it the music of the spheres 
 
 The common growth of mother Earth 
 
 That overpowered your mortal ears'! 
 
 Suffices me — her tears, her mirth, 
 
 — Such din shall trouble them no more. 
 
 Her humblest mirth and tears. 
 
 These nether precincts do not lack 
 
 The dragon's wing, the magic ring. 
 
 Charms of their own ; — then come with me — 
 
 I shall not covet for my dower. 
 
 I want a Comrade, and for you 
 
 If I along that lowly way 
 
 There's nothing that I would not do; 
 
 With sympathetic heart may stray. 
 
 Nought is there that you shall not see. 
 
 And with a soul of power. 
 
 Haste ! and above Siberian snows 
 
 These given, what more need I desire 
 
 We'll sport amid the boreal morning. 
 
 To stir — to soothe — or elevate ? 
 
 Will mingle with her lustres, gliding 
 
 What nobler marvels than the mind 
 
 Among the stars, the stars now hiding, 
 
 May in life's daily prospect find, 
 
 And now the stars adorning. 
 
 May find or there create ? 
 
 I know the secrets of a land 
 
 A potent wand doth Sorrow wield ; 
 
 Where human foot did never stray; 
 
 What spell so strong as guilty fear! 
 
 Fair is that land as evening skies. 
 
 Repentance is a tender Sprite ; 
 
 And cool, — though in the depth it lies 
 
 If aught on earth have heavenly might, 
 
 Of burning Africa. 
 
 'Tis lodged within her silent tear. 
 
 Or we'll into the realm of Faery, 
 
 But grant my wishes, — let us now 
 
 Among the lovely shades of things ; 
 
 Descend from this ethereal height; 
 
 The shadowy forms of mountains bare. 
 
 Then take thy way, adventurous Skiff, 
 
 And streams, and bowers, and ladies fair, 
 
 More daring far than Hippogriff, 
 
 The shades of palaces and kings ! 
 
 And be thy own delight ! 
 
 Or, if you thirst with hardy zeal 
 
 To the stone-table in my garden. 
 
 Less quiet regions to explore, 
 
 Loved haunt of many a summer hour. 
 
 Prompt voyage shall to you reveal 
 
 The Squire is come; — his daughter Bess 
 
 How earth and heaven are taught to feel 
 
 Beside him in the cool recess 
 
 The might of magic lore !" 
 
 Sits blooming like a flower. 
 
 " My little vagrant Form of light, 
 
 With these are many more convened; 
 
 My gay and beautiful Canoe, 
 
 They know not I have been so far; — 
 
 Well have you played your friendly part; 
 
 I see them there, in number nine. 
 
 As kindly take what from my heart 
 
 Beneath the spreading Weymouth pine — 
 
 Experience forces — then adieu ! 
 
 I see them — there they are ! 
 
 Temptation lurks among your words ; 
 
 There sits the Vicar and his Dame ; 
 
 But, while these pleasures you're pursuing 
 
 And there my good friend, Stephen Otter; 
 
 Without impediment or let. 
 
 And, ere the light of evening fail, 
 
 My radiant Pinnace, you forget 
 
 To them I must relate the Tale 
 
 What on the earth is doing. 
 
 Of Peter Bell the Potter." 
 
 There was a time when all mankind 
 
 Off flew my sparkling Boat in scorn, 
 
 Did listen with a faith sincere 
 
 Spurning her freight with indignation ! 
 
 To tuneful tongues in mystery versed; 
 
 And I, as well as I was able. 
 
 Then Poets fearlessly rehearsed 
 
 On two poor legs, tow'rd my stone-table 
 
 The wonders of a wild career. 
 
 Limped on with some vexation. 
 
 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 163 
 
 "O, here he is!" cried little Bess — 
 She saw me at the garden door, 
 "We've waited anxiously and long-," 
 They cried, and all around me throng, 
 Full nine of them or more ! 
 
 "Reproach me not — your fears be still - 
 Be thankful we again have met ; — 
 Resume, my Friends ! within the shade 
 Your seats, and quickly shall be paid 
 The well-remembered debt." 
 
 I spake with faltering voice, like one 
 Not wholly rescued from the Pale 
 Of a wild dream, or worse illusion; 
 But, straight, to cover my confusion, 
 Began the promised Tale. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 All by the moonlight river side 
 Groaned the poor Beast — alas ! in vain ; 
 The staff was raised to loftier height, 
 And the blows fell with heavier weight 
 As Peter struck — and struck again. 
 
 Like winds that lash the waves, or smite 
 The woods, autumnal foliage thinning — 
 "Hold!" said the Squire, "I pray you hold! 
 Who Peter was let that be told, 
 And start from the beginning." 
 
 "A Potter*, Sir, he was by trade," 
 
 Said I, becoming quite collected ; 
 "And wheresoever he appeared. 
 Full twenty times was Peter feared 
 For once that Peter was respected. 
 
 He, two-and-thirty years or more. 
 Had been a wild and woodland rover 
 Had heard the Atlantic surges roar 
 On farthest Cornwall's rocky shore, 
 And trod the cliffs of Dover. 
 
 And he had seen Caernarvon's towers. 
 And well he knew the spire of Sarum; 
 And he had been where Lincoln bell 
 Flings o'er the fen its ponderous knell, 
 Its far-renowned alarum ! 
 
 At Doncaster, at York, and Leeds, 
 And merry Carlisle had he been ; 
 And all along the Lowlands fair, 
 All through the bonny shire of Ayr — 
 And far as Aberdeen. 
 
 *In the dialect of the North, a hawker of earthen-ware is thus 
 designated. 
 
 And he had been at Inverness; 
 
 And Peter, by the mountain rills. 
 
 Had danced his round with Highland lasses; 
 
 And he had lain beside his asses 
 
 On lofly Cheviot Hills: 
 
 And he had trudged through Yorkshire dales. 
 Among the rocks and winding scars; 
 Where deep and low the hamlets lie 
 Beneath their little patch of sky 
 And little lot of stars : 
 
 And all along the indented coast, 
 Bespattered with the salt-sea foam; 
 Where'er a knot of houses lay 
 On headland, or in hollow bay ; — 
 Sure never man like him did roam! 
 
 As well might Peter, in the Fleet, 
 
 Have been fast bound, a begging Debtor ; — 
 
 He travelled here, he travelled there; — 
 
 But not the value of a hair 
 
 Was heart or head the better. 
 
 He roved among the vales and streams, 
 In the green wood and hollow dell ; 
 They were his dwellings night and day, — 
 But Nature ne'er could find the way 
 Into the heart of Peter Bell. 
 
 In vain, through every changeful year. 
 Did Nature lead him as before; 
 A primrose by a river's brim 
 A yellow primrose was to him, 
 And it was nothing more. 
 
 Small change it made in Peter's heart 
 To see his gentle panniered train 
 With more than vernal pleasure feeding. 
 Where'er the tender grass was leading 
 Its earliest green along the lane. 
 
 In vain, through water, earth, and air. 
 The soul of happy sound was spread, 
 When Peter, on some April morn, 
 Beneath the broom or budding thorn, 
 Made the warm earth his lazy bed. 
 
 At noon, when, by the forest's edge, 
 He lay beneath the branches high, 
 The sofl blue sky did never melt 
 Into his heart, — he never felt 
 The witchery of the soft blue sky ! 
 
 On a fair prospect some have looked 
 And felt, as I have heard them say. 
 As if the moving time had been 
 A thing as steadfast as the scene 
 On which they gazed themselves away. 
 
164 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Within the breast of Peter Bell 
 
 One night, (and now my little Bess ! 
 
 Tliese silent raptures found no place ; 
 
 We've reached at last the promised Tale;) 
 
 He was a Carl as wild and rude 
 
 One beautiful November night. 
 
 As ever hue-and-cry pursued, 
 
 When the full moon was shining bright 
 
 As ever ran a felon's race. 
 
 Upon the rapid river Swale, 
 
 Of all that lead a lawless life, 
 
 Along the river's winding banks 
 
 Of all that love their lawless lives, 
 
 Peter was travelling all alone ; — 
 
 In city or in village small, 
 
 Whether to buy or sell, or led 
 
 He was the wildest far of all 
 
 By pleasure running in his head. 
 
 He had a dozen wedded wives. 
 
 To me was never known. 
 
 Nay, start not! — wedded wives — and twelve! 
 But how one wife could e'er come near him. 
 In simple truth I cannot tell ; 
 For, be it said of Peter Bel), 
 To see him was to fear him. 
 
 Though Nature could not touch his heart 
 By lovely forms, and silent weather. 
 And tender sounds, yet you might see 
 At once, that Peter Bell and she 
 Had often been together. 
 
 A savage wildness round him hung 
 As of a dweller out of doors ; 
 In his whole figure and his mien 
 A savage character was seen 
 Of mountains and of dreary moors. 
 
 To all the unshaped half-human thoughts 
 
 Which solitary Nature feeds 
 
 'Mid summer storms or winter's ice, 
 
 Had Peter joined whatever vice 
 
 The cruel city breeds. 
 
 His face was keen as is the wind 
 That cuts along the hawthorn fence ; 
 Of courage you saw little there. 
 But, in its stead, a medley air 
 Of cunning and of impudence. 
 
 He had a dark and sidelong walk. 
 And long and slouching was his gait ; 
 Beneath his looks so bare and bold, 
 You might perceive, his spirit cold 
 Was playing with some inward bait. 
 
 His forehead wrinkled was and furred ; 
 
 A work, one half of which was done 
 By thinking of his whens and hows; 
 And half, by knitting of his brows 
 Beneath the glaring sun. 
 
 There was a hardness in his cheek, 
 There was a hardness in his eye. 
 As if the man had fixed his face. 
 In many a solitary place, 
 Against the wind and open sky ! 
 
 He trudged along through copse and brake, 
 He trudged along o'er hill and dale; 
 Nor for the moon cared he a tittle, 
 And for the stars he cared as little. 
 And for the murmuring river Swale. 
 
 But, chancing to espy a path 
 Tliat promised to cut short the way. 
 As many a wiser man hath done. 
 He left a trusty guide for one 
 That might his steps betray. 
 
 To a thick wood he soon is brought 
 Where cheerfully his course he weaves. 
 And whistling loud may yet be heard. 
 Though often buried like a bird 
 Darkling among the boughs and leaves. 
 
 But quickly Peter's mood is changed. 
 And on he drives with cheeks that burn 
 In downright fury and in wrath — 
 There's little sign the treacherous path 
 Will to the road return ! 
 
 The path grows dim and dimmer still ; 
 Now up — now down — the Rover wends. 
 With all the sail that he can carry 
 Till brought to a deserted quarry — 
 And there the pathway ends. 
 
 He paused — for shadows of strange shape, 
 Massy and black, before him lay; 
 But through the dark, and through the cold, 
 And through the yawning fissures old. 
 Did Peter boldly press his way. 
 
 Right through the quarry; — and behold 
 A scene of soft and lovely hue ! 
 Where blue and gray, and tender green, 
 Together make as sweet a scene 
 As ever human eye did view. 
 
 Beneath the clear blue sky he saw 
 A little field of meadow ground ; 
 But field or meadow name it not; 
 Call it of earth a small green plot, 
 With rocks encompassed round. 
 
 m 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 165 
 
 The Swale flowed under the gray rocks, 
 But he flowed quiet and unseen ; — 
 You need a strong and stormy gale 
 To bring the noises of the Swale 
 To that green spot, so calm and green ! 
 
 And is there no one dwelling here, 
 
 No hermit with his beads and glass) 
 
 And does no little cottage look 
 
 Upon this soft and fertile nook) 
 
 Does no one live near this green grass — 
 
 Across the deep and quiet spot 
 Is Peter driving through the grass — 
 And now he is among the trees; 
 When, turning round his head, he sees 
 A solitary Ass. 
 
 "A prize," cried Peter, stepping back 
 To spy about him far and near ; 
 There 's not a single house in sight. 
 No woodman's hut, no cottage light — 
 Peter, you need not fear ! 
 
 There 's nothing to be seen but woods, 
 And rocks that spread a hoary gleam. 
 And this one beast that from the bed 
 Of the green meadow hangs his head 
 Over the silent stream. 
 
 His head is with a halter bound ; 
 The halter seizing, Peter leapt 
 Upon the Creature's back, and plied 
 With ready heel his shaggy side ; 
 But still the Ass his station kept. 
 
 "What's this!" cried Peter, brandishing 
 A new-peeled sapling ; — though I deem 
 This threat was understood full well, 
 Firm, as before, the Sentinel 
 Stood by the silent stream. 
 
 Then Peter gave a sudden jerk, 
 A jerk that from a dungeon floor 
 Would have pulled up an iron ring; 
 But still the heavy-headed Thing 
 Stood just as he had stood before ! 
 
 Quoth Peter, leaping from his seat, 
 " There is some plot against me laid ;" 
 Once more the little meadow ground 
 And all the hoary clifis around 
 He cautiously surveyed. 
 
 All, all is silent — rocks and woods, 
 All still and silent — far and near! 
 Only the Ass, with motion dull, 
 Upon the pivot of his skull 
 Turns round his long left ear. 
 
 Thought Peter, What can mean all this) — 
 Some ugly witchcrafl must be here! 
 Once more the Ass with motion dull, 
 Upon the pivot of his skull 
 Turned round his long left ear. 
 
 Suspicion ripened into dread ; 
 Yet with deliberate action slow. 
 His staff high-raising, in the pride 
 Of skill upon the sounding hide, 
 He dealt a sturdy blow. 
 
 What followed 1 — yielding to the shock, 
 The Ass, as if to take his ease. 
 In quiet uncomplaining mood. 
 Upon the spot where he had stood. 
 Dropped gently down upon his knees. 
 
 And then upon his side he fell. 
 And by the river's brink did lie; 
 And, as he lay like one that mourned. 
 The Beast on his tormentor turned 
 His shining hazel eye. 
 
 'T was but one mild reproachful look, 
 A look more tender than severe ; 
 And straight in sorrow, not in dread. 
 He turned the eye-ball in his head 
 Towards the river deep and clear. 
 
 Upon the beast the sapling rings, — 
 
 His lank sides heaved, his limbs they stirred; 
 
 He gave a groan — and then another. 
 
 Of that which went before the brother. 
 
 And then he gave a third. 
 
 And Peter halts to gather breath. 
 And, while he halts, was clearly shown 
 (What he before in part had seen) 
 How gaunt the Creature was, and lean. 
 Yea, wasted to a skeleton. 
 
 With legs stretched out and stiff he lay : 
 No word of kind commiseration 
 Fell at the sight from Peter's tongue; 
 With hard contempt his heart was wrung, 
 With hatred and vexation. 
 
 The meagre beast lay still as death — 
 And Peter's lips with fury quiver — 
 Quoth he, " You little mulish dog, 
 I'll fling your carcass like a log 
 Head-foremost down the river !" 
 
 An impious oath confirmed the threat: 
 That instant, while outstretched he lay, 
 To all the echoes, south and north. 
 And east and west, the Ass sent forth 
 A loud and piteous bray ! 
 
166 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 This outcry, on the heart of Peter, 
 Seems like a note of joy to strike, — 
 Joy at the heart of Peter knocks ; 
 But in the echo of the rocks 
 Was something Peter did not like. 
 
 Whether to cheer his coward breast, 
 Or that he could not break the chain, 
 In this serene and solemn hour. 
 Twined round him by demoniac power. 
 To the blind work he turned again. — 
 
 Among the rocks and winding crags — 
 Among the mountains far away — 
 Once more the Ass did lengthen out 
 More ruefully an endless shout, 
 The long dry see-saw of this horrible bray ! 
 
 What is there now in Peter's heart! 
 
 Or whence the might of this strange sound 1 
 
 The moon uneasy looked and dimmer. 
 
 The broad blue heavens appeared to glimmer, 
 
 And the rocks staggered all around. 
 
 From Peter's hand the sapling dropped! 
 Threat has he none to execute — 
 " If any one should come and see 
 That I am here, they'll think," quoth he, 
 "I'm helping this poor dying brute." 
 
 He scans the Ass from limb to limb ; 
 And Peter now uplifts his eyes ; 
 Steady the moon doth look, and clear. 
 And like themselves the rocks appear, 
 And quiet are the skies. 
 
 Whereat, in resolute mood, once more, 
 He stoops the Ass's neck to seize — 
 Foul purpose, quickly put to flight ! 
 For in the pool a startling sight 
 Meets him, beneath the shadowy trees. 
 
 Is it the moon's distorted face? 
 The ghost-like image of a cloud? 
 Is it the gallows there portrayed 1 
 Is Peter of himself afraid I 
 Is it a coffin, — or a shroud 1 
 
 A grisly idol hewn in stone 1 
 Or imp from witch's lap let fall 1 
 Or a gay ring of shining fairies, 
 Such as pursue their brisk vagaries 
 In sylvan bower, or haunted hall! 
 
 Is it a fiend that to a stake 
 
 Of fire his desperate self is tethering? 
 
 Or stubborn spirit doomed to yell 
 
 In solitary ward or cell. 
 
 Ten thousand miles from all his brethren! 
 
 Never did pulse so quickly throb. 
 And never heart so loudly panted ; 
 He looks, he cannot choose but look; 
 Like one intent upon a book — 
 A book that is enchanted. 
 
 Ah, well-a-day for Peter Bell I — 
 He will be turned to iron soon, 
 JNIeet Statue for the court of Fear ! 
 His hat is up — and every hair 
 Bristles — and whitens in the moon ! 
 
 He looks — he ponders — looks again; 
 
 He sees a motion — hears a groan ; — 
 
 His eyes will burst — his heart will break — 
 
 He gives a loud and frightful shriek, 
 
 And drops, a senseless weight, as if his life were flown! 1 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 We left our Hero in a trance, 
 Beneath the alders, near the river; 
 The Ass is by the river side, 
 And, where the feeble breezes glide. 
 Upon the stream the moonbeams quiver. 
 
 A happy respite ! — but at length 
 He feels the glimmering of the moon; 
 Wakes with glazed eye, and feebly sighing - 
 To sink, perhaps, where he is lying, 
 Into a second swoon I 
 
 He lifts his head — he sees his stafi'; 
 He touches — 't is to him a treasure ! 
 Faint recollection seems to tell 
 That he is yet where mortals dwell — 
 A thought received with languid pleasure ! 
 
 His head upon his elbow propped, 
 
 Becoming less and less perplexed, 
 Sky- ward he looks — to rock and wood — 
 And then — upon the glassy flood 
 His wandering eye is fixed. 
 
 Thought he, that is the face of one 
 In his last sleep securely bound ! 
 So toward the stream his head he bent. 
 And downward thrust his stafl^, intent 
 The river's depth to sound. 
 
 Now — like a tempest-shattered bark, 
 That overwhelmed and prostrate lies, 
 And in a moment to the verge 
 Is lifted of a foaming surge — 
 Full suddenly the Ass doth rise ! 
 
POEMS OP THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 167 
 
 His staring bones all shake with joy — 
 And close by Peter's side be stands: 
 While Peter o'er the river bends, 
 The little Ass his neck extends, 
 And fondly licks his hands. 
 
 Such life is in the Ass's eyes — 
 Such life is in his limbs and ears — 
 That Peter Bell, if he had been 
 The veriest coward ever seen. 
 Must now have thrown aside his fears. 
 
 The Ass looks on — and to his work 
 Is Peter quietly resigned; 
 He touches here — he touches there — 
 And now among the dead man's hair 
 His sapling Peter has entwined. 
 
 He pulls — and looks — and pulls again ; 
 And he whom the poor Ass had lost, 
 The Man who had been four days dead, 
 Head foremost from the river's bed 
 Uprises — like a ghost! 
 
 And Peter draws him to dry land; 
 And through the brain of Peter pass 
 Some poignant twitches, fast and faster, 
 "No doubt," quoth he, "he is the Master 
 Of this poor miserable Ass !" 
 
 The meagre Shadow all this while — 
 What aim is his "i what is he doing 1 
 His sudden fit of joy is flown, - — 
 He on his knees hath laid him down, 
 As if he were his grief renewing. 
 
 But no — his purpose and his wish 
 The Suppliant shows, well as he can; 
 Thought Peter, whatsoe'er betide, 
 I'll go, and he my way will guide 
 To the cottage of the drowned man. 
 
 This hoping, Peter boldly mounts 
 Upon the pleased and thankful Ass; 
 And then, without a moment's stay, 
 That earnest Creature turned away, 
 Leaving the body on the grass. 
 
 Intent upon his faithful watch. 
 The Beast four days and nights had past; 
 A sweeter meadow ne'er was seen. 
 And there the Ass four days had been, 
 Nor ever once did break his fast. 
 
 Yet firm his step, and stout his heart; 
 The mead is crossed — the quarry's mouth 
 Is reached — but there the trusty guide 
 Into a thicket turns aside. 
 And takes his way towards the south. 
 
 When hark a burst of doleful sound ! 
 And Peter honestly might say. 
 The like came never to his ears, 
 Though he has been, full thirty years, 
 A Rover — night and day ! 
 
 'Tis not a plover of the moors, 
 
 'Tis not a bittern of the fen; 
 
 Nor can it be a barking fox — 
 
 Nor night-bird chambered in the rocks — 
 
 Nor wild-cat in a woody glen! 
 
 The Ass is startled — and stops short 
 Right in the middle of the thicket; 
 And Peter, wont to whistle loud 
 Whether alone or in a crowd. 
 Is silent as a silent cricket. 
 
 What ails you now, my little Bessl 
 Well may you tremble and look grave ! 
 This cry — that rings along the wood. 
 This cry — that floats adown the flood, 
 Comes from the entrance of a cave : 
 
 I see a blooming Wood-boy there, 
 And, if I had the power to say 
 How sorrowful the wanderer is. 
 Your heart would be as sad as his 
 Till you had kissed his tears away ! 
 
 Holding a hawthorn branch in hand. 
 All bright with berries ripe and red. 
 Into the cavern's mouth he peeps — 
 Thence back into the moonlight creeps ; 
 What seeks the boy 1 — the silent dead — 
 
 His father! — Him doth he require, 
 Whom he hath sought with fruitless pains. 
 Among the rocks, behind the trees. 
 Now creeping on his hands and knees, 
 Now running o'er the open plains. 
 
 And hither is he come at last, 
 When lie througb such a day has gone, 
 By this dark cave to be distrest 
 Like a poor bird — her plundered nest 
 Hovering around with dolorous moan ! 
 
 Of that intense and piercing cry 
 The listening Ass conjectures well; 
 Wild as it is, he there can read 
 Some intermingled notes that plead 
 With touches irresistible ; 
 
 But Peter, when he saw the Ass 
 Not only stop but turn, and change 
 The cherished tenor of his pace 
 That lamentable noise to chase. 
 It wrought in him conviction strange ; 
 
168 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 A faith that, for the dead man's sake 
 And this poor slave who loved him vfell, 
 Vengeance upon his head will fall, 
 Some visitation worse than all 
 Which ever till this night befel. 
 
 Meanwhile the Ass to reach his home, 
 Is striving stoutly as he may; 
 But, while he climbs the woody hill, 
 The cry grows weak — and weaker still, 
 And now at last it dies away. 
 
 So with his freight the Creature turns 
 Into a gloomy grove of beech. 
 Along the shade with footstep true 
 Descending slowly, till the two 
 The open moonlight reach. 
 
 And there, along a fiarrow dell, 
 A fair smooth pathway you discern, 
 A length of green and open road — 
 As if it from a fountain flowed — 
 Winding away between the fern. 
 
 The rocks that tower on either side 
 
 Build up a wild fantastic scene ; 
 
 Temples like those among the Hindoos, 
 
 And mosques, and spires, and abbey windows, 
 
 And castles all with ivy green ! 
 
 And, while the Ass pursues his way. 
 
 Along this solitary dell. 
 
 As pensively his steps advance. 
 
 The mosques and spires change countenance, 
 
 And look at Peter Bell! 
 
 That unintelligible cry 
 Hath left him high in preparation, 
 Convinced that he, or soon or late, 
 Tliis very night, will meet his fate — 
 And so he sits in expectation ! 
 
 The strenuous Animal hath clomb 
 With the green path, — and now he wends 
 Where, shining like the smoothest sea, 
 In undisturbed immensity 
 A level plain extends. 
 
 But whence that faintly-rustling sound 
 Which, all too long, the pair hath chased ! 
 — A dancing leaf is close behind. 
 Like plaything for the sportive wind 
 Upon that solitary waste. 
 
 When Peter spies the withered leaf, 
 It yields no cure to his distress; 
 " Where there is not a bush or tree, 
 The very leaves they follow me — 
 So huge hath been my wickedness '." 
 
 To a close lane they now are come, 
 Where, as before, the enduring Ass 
 Moves on without a moment's stop, 
 Nor once turns round his head to crop 
 A bramble leaf or blade of grass. 
 
 Between the hedges as they go. 
 The white dust sleeps upon the lane ; 
 And, Peter, ever and anon 
 Back-looking, sees, upon a stone 
 Or in the dust, a crimson stain. 
 
 A stain — as of a drop of blood 
 
 By moonlight made more faint and wau — 
 
 Ha ! why this comfortless despair 1 
 
 He knows not how the blood comes there. 
 
 And Peter is a wicked man. 
 
 At length he spies a bleeding wound, 
 Where he had struck the Creature's head; 
 He sees the blood, knows what it is, — 
 A glimpse of sudden joy was his, 
 But then it quickly fled; 
 
 Of him whom sudden death had seized 
 
 He thought, — of thee, O faithful Ass! 
 
 And once again those darting pains. 
 
 As meteors shoot through heaven's wide plains, 
 
 Pass through his bosom — and repass! 
 
 PART THIRD. 
 
 I've heard of one, a gentle Soul, 
 Though given to sadness and to gloom, 
 And for the fact will vouch, — one night 
 It chanced that by a taper's light 
 This man was reading in his room ; 
 
 Bending, as you or I might bend 
 At night o'er any pious book. 
 When sudden blackness overspread 
 The snow-white page on which he read. 
 And made the good man round him look. 
 
 The chamber walls were dark all round, — 
 
 And to his book he turned again; 
 
 — The light had left the good man's taper 
 
 And formed itself upon the paper 
 
 Into large letters — bright and plain ! 
 
 The godly book was in his hand — 
 And, on the page, more black than coal. 
 Appeared, set forth in strange array, 
 A word — which to his dying day 
 Perplexed the good man's gentle soul. 
 
 I 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 169 
 
 The ghostly word, full plainly seen, 
 Did never from his lips depart; 
 But he hath said, poor gentle wight! 
 It brought foil many a sin to light 
 Out of the bottom of his heart. 
 
 Dread Spirits ! to torment the good 
 Why wander from your course so far, 
 Disordering colour, form, and stature ! 
 
 — Let good men feel the soul of Nature, 
 And see things as they are. 
 
 I know you, potent Spirits ! well, 
 How, with the feeling and the sense 
 Playing, ye govern foes or friends, 
 Yoked to your will, for fearful ends — 
 And this I speak in reverence ! 
 
 But might I give advice to you. 
 Whom in my fear I love so well, 
 From men of pensive virtue go, 
 Dread Beings ! and your empire show 
 On hearts like that of Peter Bell. 
 
 Your presence I have often felt 
 
 In darkness and the stormy night; 
 
 And well I know, if need there be, 
 
 Ye can put forth your agency 
 
 When earth is calm, and heaven is bright. 
 
 Tlien, coming from the wayward world. 
 That powerful world in which ye dwell, 
 Come, spirits of the Mind ! and try 
 To-night, beneath the moonlight sky. 
 What may be done with Peter Bell ! 
 
 — O would that some more skilful voice 
 My further labour might prevent ! 
 
 Kind Listeners, that around me sit, 
 I feel that I am all unfit 
 For such high argument. 
 
 I've played and danced with my narration — 
 I loitered long ere I began : 
 Ye waited then on my good pleasure, — 
 Pour out indulgence, still, in measure 
 As liberal as ye can! 
 
 Our travellers, ye remember well. 
 Are thridding a sequestered lane ; 
 And Peter many tricks is trying. 
 And many anodynes applying, 
 To ease his conscience of its pain. 
 
 By this his heart is lighter far ; 
 And, finding that he can account 
 So clearly for that crimson stain. 
 His evil spirit up again 
 Does like an empty bucket mount. 
 W 
 
 And Peter is a deep logician 
 
 Who hath no lack of wit mercurial ; 
 
 " Blood drops — leaves rustle — yet," quoth he, 
 
 " This poor man never, but for me, 
 
 "Could have had Christian burial. 
 
 "And, say fhe best you can, 'tis plain, 
 " That here hath been some wicked dealing ; 
 "No doubt the devil in me wrought; 
 "I'm not the man who could have thought 
 " An Ass like this was worth the stealing !" 
 
 So from his pocket Peter takes 
 His shining horn tobacco-box; 
 And, in a light and careless way, 
 As men who with their purpose play. 
 Upon the lid he knocks. 
 
 Let them whose voice can stop the clouds — 
 
 Whose cunning eye can see the wind — 
 
 Tell to a curious world the cause 
 
 Why, making here a sudden pause. 
 
 The Ass turned round his head — and grinned. 
 
 Appalling process ! — I have marked 
 The like on heath — in lonely wood. 
 And, verily, have seldom met 
 A spectacle more hideous — yet 
 It suited Peter's present mood. 
 
 And, grinning in his turn, his teeth 
 He in jocose defiance showed — 
 When, to confound his spiteful mirth, 
 A murmur, pent within the earth. 
 In the dead earth beneath the road, 
 
 Rolled audibly! — it swept along — 
 A muflled noise — a rumbling sound ! 
 'T was by a troop of miners made, 
 Plying with gunpowder their trade. 
 Some twenty fathoms under ground. 
 
 Small cause of dire effect ! — for, surely. 
 If ever mortal. King or Cotter, 
 Believed that earth was charged to quake 
 And yawn for his unworthy sake, 
 'T was Peter Bell the Potter. 
 
 But, as an oak in breathless air 
 Will stand though to the centre hewn; 
 Or as the weakest things, if frost 
 Have stiffened them, maintain their post; 
 So he, beneath the gazing moon ! — 
 
 Meanwhile the pair have reached a spot 
 Where, sheltered by a rocky cove, 
 A little chapel stands alone, 
 With greenest ivy overgrown. 
 And tufted with an ivy grove. 
 15 
 
170 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Dying insensibly away 
 From human thoughts and purposes, 
 The building seems, wall, roof, and tower, 
 To bow to some transforming power, 
 And blend with the surrounding trees. 
 
 Deep-sighing as he passed along. 
 Quoth Peter, " In the shire of Fife, 
 "'Mid such a ruin, following still 
 " From land to land a lawless will, 
 " I married my sixth wife !" 
 
 The unheeding Ass moves slowly on, 
 And now is passing by an inn 
 Brim-full of a carousing crew. 
 That make, with curses not a few, 
 An uproar and a drunken din. 
 
 I cannot well express the thoughts 
 Which Peter in those noises found ; — 
 A stifling power compressed his frame, 
 And a confusing darkness came 
 Over that dull and dreary sound. 
 
 For well did Peter know the sound ; 
 The language of those drunken joys 
 To him, a jovial soul, I ween. 
 But a few hours ago, had been 
 A gladsome and a welcome noise. 
 
 Now, turned adrift into the past, 
 He finds no solace in his course ; 
 Like planet-stricken men of yore, 
 He trembles, smitten to the core 
 By strong compunction and remorse. 
 
 But, more than all, his heart is stung 
 To think of one, almost a child ; 
 A sweet and playful Highland girl. 
 As light and beauteous as a squirrel, 
 As beauteous and as wild ! 
 
 A lonely house her dwelling was, 
 A cottage in a heathy dell ; 
 And she put on her gown of green, 
 And left her mother at sixteen, 
 And followed Peter Bell. 
 
 But many good and pious thoughts 
 
 Had she; and, in the kirk to pray. 
 
 Two long Scotch miles, through rain or snow. 
 
 To kirk she had been used to go. 
 
 Twice every Sabbath-day. 
 
 And, when she followed Peter Bell, 
 It was to lead an honest life ; 
 For he, with tongue not used to falter. 
 Had pledged his troth before the altar 
 To love her as his wedded wife. 
 
 A mother's hope is hers ; — but soon 
 She drooped and pined like one forlorn ; 
 From Scripture she a name did borrow ; 
 Benoni, or the child of sorrow. 
 She called her babe unborn. 
 
 For she had learned how Peter lived, 
 And took it in most grievous part; 
 She to the very bone was worn, 
 And, ere that little child was born, 
 Died of a broken heart. 
 
 And now the Spirits of the Mind 
 Are busy with poor Peter Bell ; 
 Upon the rights of visual sense 
 Usurping, with a prevalence 
 More terrible than magic spell. 
 
 Close by a brake of flowering furze 
 (Above it shivering aspens play) 
 He sees an unsubstantial creature, 
 His very self in form and feature. 
 Not four yards from the broad highway : 
 
 And stretched beneath the furze he sees 
 The Highland girl — it is no other; 
 And hears her crying as she cried, 
 The very moment that she died, 
 " My mother ! oh my mother !" 
 
 The sweat pours down from Peter's face, 
 So grievous is his heart's contrition ; 
 With agony his eye-balls ache 
 While he beholds by the furze-brake 
 This miserable vision'. 
 
 Calm is the well deserving brute, 
 His peace, hath no offence betrayed ; 
 But now, while down that slope he wends, 
 A voice to Peter's ear ascends. 
 Resounding from the woody glade: 
 
 The voice, though clamourous as a horn 
 
 Re-echoed by a naked rock. 
 
 Is from that tabernacle — List ! 
 
 Within, a fervent Methodist 
 
 Is preaching to no heedless flock 
 
 " Repent ! repent !" he cries aloud, 
 " While yet ye may find mercy ; — strive 
 "To love the Lord with all your might; 
 "Turn to him, seek him day and night, 
 " And save your souls alive ! 
 
 " Repent ! repent ! though ye have gone, 
 " Through paths of wickedness and woe, 
 "After the Babylonian harlot, 
 " And, though your sins be red as scarlet, 
 " They shall be white as snow !" 
 
 f 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 171 
 
 Even as he passed the door, these words 
 Did plainly come to Peter's ears ; 
 And they sucli joyful tidings were, 
 The joy was more than he could bear ! — 
 He melted into tears. 
 
 Sweet tears of hope and tenderness ! 
 And fast they fell, a plenteous shower! 
 His nerves, his sinews seemed to melt; 
 Through all his iron frame was felt 
 A gentle, a relaxing power ! 
 
 Each fibre of his frame was weak ; 
 Weak all the animal within ; 
 But, in its helplessness, grew mild 
 And gentle as an infant child, 
 An infant that has known no sin. 
 
 'Tis said, that, through prevailing grace, 
 He, not unmoved, did notice now 
 The cross upon thy shoulders scored. 
 Meek Beast ! in memory of the Lord 
 To whom all human-kind shall bow; 
 
 In memory of that solemn day 
 When Jesus humbly deigned to ride. 
 Entering the proud Jerusalem, 
 By an immeasurable stream 
 Of shouting people deified ! 
 
 Meanwhile the persevering Ass, 
 Towards a gate in open view. 
 Turns up a narrow lane ; his chest 
 Against the yielding gate he pressed, 
 And quietly passed through. 
 
 And up the stony lane he goes ; 
 No ghost more softly ever trod; 
 Among the stones and pebbles, he 
 Sets down his hoofs inaudibly. 
 As if with felt his hoofs were shod. 
 
 Along the lane the trusty Ass 
 Had gone two hundred yards, not more; 
 When to a lonely house he came ; 
 He turned aside towards the same, 
 And stopped before the door. 
 
 Thought Peter, 'tis the poor man's home! 
 He listens — not a sound is heard 
 Save from the trickling household rill; 
 But, stepping o'er the cottage-sill, 
 Forthwith a little Girl appeared. 
 
 She to the Meeting-house was bound 
 In hope some tidings there to gather; — 
 No glimpse it is— no doubtful gleam — 
 She saw — and uttered with a scream, 
 "My father! here's my father!" 
 
 The very word was plainly heard. 
 Heard plainly by the wretched Mother — 
 Her joy was like a deep affright : 
 And forth she rushed into the light. 
 And saw it was another ! 
 
 And, instantly, upon the earth. 
 Beneath the full moon shining bright, 
 Close to the Ass's feet she fell ; 
 At the same moment Peter Bell 
 Dismounts in most unhappy plight. 
 
 As he beheld the Woman lie 
 Breathless and motionless, the mind 
 Of Peter sadly was confused ; 
 But, though to such demands unused 
 And helpless almost as the blind. 
 
 He raised her up ; and, while he held 
 Her body propped against his knee. 
 The Woman waked — and when she spied 
 The poor Ass standing by her side. 
 She moaned most bitterly. 
 
 " Oh ! God be praised — my heart's at ease — 
 "For he is dead — I know it welU" 
 
 — At this she wept a bitter flood ; 
 And, in the best way that he could, 
 His tale did Peter tell. 
 
 He trembles — he is pale as death — 
 His voice is weak with perturbation — 
 He turns aside his head — he pauses ; 
 Poor Peter from a thousand causes 
 Is crippled sore in his narration. 
 
 At length she learned how he espied 
 The Ass in that small meadow ground ; 
 And that her husband now lay dead, 
 Beside that luckless river's bed 
 In which he had been drowned. 
 
 A piercing look the Sufferer cast 
 Upon the Beast that near her stands; 
 She sees 'tis he, that 'tis the same; 
 She calls the poor Ass by his name. 
 And wrings, and wrings her hands. 
 
 "O wretched loss — untimely stroke ! 
 " If he had died upon his bed ! 
 
 — " He knew not one forewarning pain — 
 " He never will come home again — 
 
 " Is dead — for ever dead !" 
 
 Beside the Woman Peter stands ; 
 His heart is opening more and more ; 
 A holy sense pervades his mind ; 
 He feels wliat he for human kind 
 Had never felt before. 
 

 
 
 172 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 At length, by Peter's arm sustained, 
 
 With weary pace is drawing nigh — 
 
 
 The Woman rises from the ground — 
 
 He sees the Ass — and nothing living 
 
 
 " Oh, mercy, something must be done, — 
 
 Had ever such a fit of joy 
 
 
 " My little Rachael, you must run, — 
 
 As hath this little orphan Boy, 
 
 
 Some willing neighbour must be found. 
 
 For he has no misgiving ! 
 
 
 "Make haste — my little Rachael — do, 
 
 Towards the gentle Ass he springs, 
 
 
 "The first you meet with — bid him come, — 
 
 And up about his neck he climbs; 
 
 
 "Ask him to lend his horse to-night — 
 
 In loving words he talks to him, 
 
 
 "And tliis good Man, whom Heaven requite, 
 
 He kisses, kisses face and limb, — 
 
 
 "Will help to bring the body home." 
 
 He kisses him a thousand times ! 
 
 
 Away goes Rachael weeping loud; — 
 
 This Peter sees, while in the shade 
 
 
 An Infant waked by her distress. 
 
 He stood beside^the cottage-door; 
 
 
 Makes in the house a piteous cry ; 
 
 And Peter Bell, the rufiian wild. 
 
 
 And Peter hears the Mother sigh. 
 
 Sobs loud, he sobs even like a child, 
 
 
 " Seven are tliey, and all fatherless !" 
 
 " Oh ! God, I can endure no more ! 
 
 
 And now is Peter taught to feel 
 
 — Here ends my Tale : — for in a trice 
 
 
 That man's heart is a holy thing; 
 
 Arrived a neighbour with his horse; 
 
 
 And Nature, through a world of death. 
 
 Peter went forth with him straightway; 
 
 
 Breathes into him a second breath. 
 
 And, with duo care, ere break of day. 
 
 
 More searching than the breath of spring. 
 
 Together they brought back the Corse. 
 
 
 Upon a stone the Woman sits 
 
 And many years did this poor Ass, 
 
 
 In agony of silent grief — 
 
 Whom once it was my luck to see 
 
 
 From his own thoughts did Peter start ; 
 
 Cropping the shrubs of Leming-Lane, 
 
 
 He longs to press her to his heart, 
 
 Help by his labour to maintain 
 
 
 From love that cannot find relief. 
 
 The Widow and her family. 
 
 
 But roused, as if through every limb 
 
 And Peter Bell, who, till that night. 
 
 
 Had passed a sudden shock of dread, 
 
 Had been the wildest of his clan, 
 
 
 The Mother o'er the threshold flies. 
 
 Forsook his crimes, renounced his folly, 
 
 
 And up the cottage stairs she hies, 
 
 And, after ten months' melancholy, 
 
 
 And to the pillow gives her burning head. 
 
 Became a good and honest man. 
 
 
 And Peter turns his steps aside 
 Into a shade of darksome trees. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Where he sits down, he knows not how, 
 
 THE EGYPTIAN MAID; 
 
 
 With his hands pressed against his brow, 
 
 
 
 His elbows on his tremulous knees. 
 
 OK, 
 
 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF THE WATER LILY. 
 
 There, self-involved, does Peter sit 
 
 
 
 Until no sign of life he makes. 
 As if his mind were sinking deep 
 
 
 
 [For the names and persons in the folloviing poem, 
 
 see the 
 
 Through years that have been long asleep ! 
 
 "History of the renowned Prince Arthur and his 
 
 Knights 
 
 The trance is past away — he wakes, — 
 
 of the Round Table;" for the rest the Author is answerable; 
 
 
 only it may be proper to add, that the Lotus, with the 
 
 bust of 
 
 He lifts his head — and sees the Ass 
 
 the goddess appearing to rise out of the fuU-blowr 
 
 flower, 
 
 Yet standing in the clear moonshine ; 
 
 was suggested by the beautiful work of ancient art, 
 
 once in- 
 
 
 eluded among the Townley Marbles, and now in the JJnUBti 
 
 "When shall I be as good as thou? 
 
 Museum.] 
 
 
 "Oh! would, poor beast, that I had now 
 
 
 
 
 " A heart but half as good as thine !" 
 
 While Merlin paced the Cornish sands. 
 
 
 But He — who deviously hath sought 
 
 Forth-looking toward the Rocks of Scilly, 
 
 
 His Father through the lonesome woods, 
 
 The pleased Enchanter was aware 
 
 
 Hath sought, proclaiming to the ear 
 
 Of a bright Ship that seemed to hang in air 
 
 
 Of night his inward grief and fear — 
 
 Yet v.'as she work of mortal liands, 
 
 
 He comes — escaped from fields and floods ; — 
 
 And took from men her name — The Water Lily. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 173 
 
 Soft was the wind, that landward blew ; 
 And, as the RIoon, o'er some dark hill ascendant, 
 Grows from a little edge of light 
 To a full orb, this Pinnace bright 
 Became, as nearer to the Coast she drew, 
 More glorious, with spread sail and streaming pendant. 
 
 Upon this winged Shape so fair 
 Sage Merlin gazed with admiration : 
 Her lineaments, thought he, surpass 
 Aught that was ever shown in magic glass ; 
 Was ever built with patient care ; 
 Or, at a touch, set forth with wondrous transformation. 
 
 Now, though a Mechanist, whose skill 
 Shames the degenerate grasp of modern science. 
 Grave Merlin (and belike the more.jf,' 
 For practising occult and perilous- lore) 
 Was subject to a freakish will 
 That sapped good thoughts, or scared them with de- 
 fiance. 
 
 Provoked to envious spleen, he cast 
 An altered look upon the advancing Stranger 
 Whom he had hailed with joy, and cried, 
 "My Art shall help to tame her pride — " 
 Anon the breeze became a blast. 
 And the waves rose, and sky portended danger. 
 
 With thrilling word, and potent sign 
 Traced on the beach, his work the Sorcerer urges ; 
 The clouds in blacker clouds are lost, 
 Like spiteful Fiends that vanish, crossed 
 By Fiends of aspect more malign ; 
 And the winds roused the Deep with fiercer scourges. 
 
 But worthy of the name she bore- 
 Was this Sea-flower, this buoyant Galley ; 
 Supreme in loveliness and grace 
 Of motion, whether in the embrace 
 Of trusty anchorage, or scudding o'er 
 The main flood roughened into hill and valley. 
 
 Behold, how wantonly she laves 
 Her sides, the Wizard's craft confounding ; 
 Like something out of Ocean sprung 
 To be for ever fresh and young. 
 Breasts the sea-flashes, and huge waves 
 Top-gallant high, rebounding and rebounding ! 
 
 But Ocean under magic heaves, 
 And cannot spare the Thing he cherished : 
 Ah ! what avails that She was fair, 
 Luminous, blithe, and debonair ? 
 The storm has stripped her of her leaves ; 
 The Lily floats no longer ! — She hath perished. 
 
 Grieve for her, — She deserves no less ; 
 So like, yet so unlike, a living Creature ! 
 No heart had she, no busy brain ; 
 Though loved, she could not love again; 
 Though pitied, feel her own distress ; 
 Nor aught that troubles us, the fools of Nature. 
 
 Yet is there cause for gushing tears; 
 So richly was this Galley laden ; 
 A fairer than Herself she bore. 
 And, in her struggles, cast ashore ; 
 A lovely One, who notliing hears 
 Of wind or wave — a meek and guileless Maiden. 
 
 Into a cave had Merlin fled 
 
 From mischief, caused by spells himself had mut- 
 tered ; 
 And, while repentant all too late. 
 In moody posture there he sate. 
 He heard a voice, and saw, with half-raised head, 
 A Visitant by whom these words were uttered : 
 
 " On Christian service this frail Bark 
 Sailed" (hear me. Merlin !) " under high protection, 
 Though on her prow a sign of heathen power 
 Was carved — a Goddess with a Lily flower, 
 The old Egyptian's emblematic mark 
 Of joy immortal and of pure affection. 
 
 " Her course was for the British strand, 
 Her freight it was a Damsel peerless ; 
 God reigns above, and Spirits strong 
 May gather to avenge this wrong 
 Done to the Princess, and her Land 
 Which she in duty left, though sad not cheerless. 
 
 "And to Caerleon's loftiest tower 
 Soon will the Knights of Arthur's Table 
 A cry of lamentation send ; 
 And all will weep who there attend. 
 To grace that Stranger's bridal hour. 
 For whom the sea was made unnavigable. 
 
 " Shame ! should a Child of Royal Line 
 Die through the blindness of thy malice :" 
 Thus to the Necromancer spake 
 Nina, the Lady of the Lake, 
 A gentle Sorceress, and benign. 
 Who ne'er embittered any good man's chalice. 
 
 "What boots," continued she, "to mourn'! 
 To expiate thy sin endeavour! 
 From the bleak isle where she is laid. 
 Fetched by our art, the Egyptian Maid 
 May yet to Arthur's court be borne 
 Cold as she is, ere life be fled for ever. 
 15* 
 
174 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 "My pearly Boat, a shining Lig-ht, 
 That brought me down that sunless river, 
 Will bear me on from wave to wave, 
 And back with her to this sea-cave ; 
 Then, Merlin ! for a rapid flight 
 Through air to thee my charge will I deliver. 
 
 " The very swiftest of thy Cars 
 Must, when my part is done, be ready ; 
 Meanwhile, for further guidance, look 
 Into thy own prophetic book ; 
 And, if that fail, consult the Stars 
 To learn thy course ; farewell ! be prompt and steady." 
 
 This scarcely spoken, she again 
 Was seated in her gleaming Shallop, 
 That, o'er the yet-distempered Deep, 
 Pursued its way with bird-like sweep. 
 Or like a steed, without a rein, 
 Urged o'er the wilderness in sportive gallop. 
 
 Soon did the gentle Nina reach 
 That Isle without a house or haven; 
 Landing, she found not what she sought. 
 Nor saw of wreck or ruin aught 
 But a carved Lotus cast upon the shore 
 By the fierce waves, a flower in marble graven. 
 
 Sad relique, but how fair the while ! 
 For gently each from each retreating 
 With backward curve, the leaves revealed 
 The bosom half, and half concealed, 
 Of a Divinity, that seemed to smile 
 On Nina as she passed, with hopeful greeting. 
 
 No quest was hers of vague desire. 
 Of tortured hope and purpose shaken ; 
 Following the margin of a bay. 
 She spied the lonely Cast-away, 
 Unmarred, unstripped of her attire. 
 But with closed eyes, — of breath and bloom forsaken. 
 
 Then Nina, stooping down, embraced, 
 With tenderness and mild emotion. 
 The Damsel, in that trance embound; 
 And, while she raised her from the ground. 
 And in the pearly shallop placed. 
 Sleep fell upon the air, and stilled the ocean. 
 
 The turmoil hushed, celestial springs 
 Of music opened, and there came a blending 
 Of fragrance, underived from earth. 
 With gleams that owed not to the Sun their birth. 
 And that soft ru.^tling of invisible wings 
 Which Ang( Is make, on works of love descending. 
 
 And Nina heard a sweeter voice 
 Than if the Goddess of t!ie Flower had spoken : 
 " Thou hast achieved, fair Dame ! what none 
 Less pure in spirit could have done ; 
 Go, in tliy enterprise rejoice ! 
 Air, earth, sea, sky, and heaven, success betoken." 
 
 So cheered she left that Island bleak, 
 A bare rock of the Scilly cluster ; 
 And, as they traversed the smooth brine. 
 The self-illumined Brigantine 
 Shed, on the Slumberer's cold wan cheek 
 And pallid brow, a melancholy lustre. 
 
 Fleet was their course, and when they came 
 To the dim cavern, whence the river 
 Issued into the salt-sea flood. 
 Merlin, as fixed in thought lie stood. 
 Was thus accosted by tlie Dame : 
 " Behold to thee my Charge I now deliver ! 
 
 " But where attends thy chariot — where !" 
 Quoth Merlin, " Even as I was bidden. 
 So have I done ; as trusty as thy barge 
 My vehicle shall prove — O precious Charge ! 
 If this be sleep, how soft ! if death, how fair ! 
 Much have my books disclosed, but the end is hidden." 
 
 He spake, and gliding into view 
 Forth from the grotto's dimmest chamber 
 Came two mute Swans, whose plumes of dusky wl 
 Changed, as the pair approached the light, 
 Drawing an ebon car, their hue 
 (Like clouds of sunset) into lucid amber. 
 
 Once more did gentle Nina lift 
 The Princess, passive to all changes : 
 Tlie Car received her ; then up-went 
 Into the ethereal element 
 The Birds with progress smooth and swift 
 As thought, when through bright regions memory i 
 ranges. 
 
 Sage Merlin, at the Slumberer's side, 
 Instructs the Swans tlieir way to measure ; 
 And soon Caerleon's towers appeared. 
 And notes of minstrelsy w-ere heard 
 From rich pavilions spreading wide. 
 For some high day of long-e.\pected pleasure. 
 
 Awe-stricken stood both Knights and Dames 
 Ere on firm ground tlie Car alighted; 
 Eftsoons astonishment was past. 
 For in that face they saw the last. 
 Last lingering look of clay, that tames 
 All pride, by which all liappiness is blighted. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 175 
 
 Said Merlin, " Mighty King, fair Lords, 
 Away with feast and tilt and tourney ! 
 Ye saw, througliout this Royal House, 
 Ye heard, a rocking marvellous 
 Of turrets, and a clash of swords 
 Self-shaken, as I closed my airy journey. 
 
 " Lo ! by a destiny well known 
 To mortals, joy is turned to sorrow ; 
 This is the wished-for Bride, the Maid 
 Of Egypt, from a rock conveyed 
 Wliere she by shipwreck had been thrown ; 
 ni sight ! but grief may vanish ere the morrow." 
 
 " Though vast thy power, thy words are weak," 
 Exclaimed the King, " a mockery hateful ; 
 Dutiful Child ! her lot how hard ! 
 Is this her piety's reward ] 
 Those watery locks, that bloodless cheek ! 
 winds without remorse ! O shore ungrateful ! 
 
 " Rich robes are fretted by the moth ; 
 Towers, temples, fall by stroke of thunder ; 
 Will that, or deeper thoughts, abate 
 A Father's sorrow for her fate ? 
 He will repent hira of his troth ; 
 His brain will burn, his stout heart split asunder. 
 
 " Alas ! and I have caused this woe ; 
 For, when my prowess from invading Neighbours 
 Had freed his Realm, he plighted word 
 That lie would turn to Christ our Lord, 
 And his dear daughter on a Knight bestow 
 V\''hom I should choose for love and matchless labours. 
 
 " Her birth was heathen, but a fence 
 Of holy angels round her hovered ; 
 A Lady added to my court 
 So fair, of such divine report 
 And worship, seemed a recompense 
 For filly kingdoms by my sword recovered. 
 
 "Ask not for whom, O champions true ! 
 She was reserved by me, her life's betrayer; 
 She who was meant to be a bride 
 Is now a corse ; then put aside 
 Vain thoughts, and speed ye, with observance due 
 Of Christian rites, in Christian ground to lay her." 
 
 "The tomb," said Merlin, "may not close 
 Upon her yet, earth hide her beauty ; 
 Not froward to thy sovereign will 
 Esteem me, Liege ! if I, whose skill 
 Wafted her hither, interpose 
 ro check this pious haste of erring duty. 
 
 " My books command me to lay bare 
 The secret thou art bent on keeping 
 Here must a high attest be given. 
 What Bridegroom was for her ordained by Heaven ; 
 And in my glass significants there are 
 Of things that may to gladness turn this weeping. 
 
 " For this, approaching, One by One, 
 Tliy Knights must touch the cold hand of the Virgin ; 
 So, for the favoured One, the Flower may bloom 
 Once more ; but, if unchangeable her doom. 
 If life departed be for ever gone, 
 Some blest assurance, from this cloud emerging, 
 
 May teach him to bewail his loss ; 
 Not with a grief that, like a vapour, rises 
 And melts ; but grief devout that shall endure, 
 And a perpetual growth secure 
 Of purposes which no false thought shall cross, 
 A harvest of high hopes and noble enterprises." 
 
 "So be it," said the King; — "anon. 
 Here, where the Princess lies, begin the trial ; 
 Knights each in order as ye stand 
 Step forth." — To touch the pallid hand 
 Sir Agravaine advanced ; no sign he won 
 From Heaven or Earth ; — Sir Kaye had like denial. 
 
 Abashed, Sir Dinas turned away ; 
 Even for Sir Percival was no disclosure ; 
 Though he, devoutest of all Champions, ere 
 He reached that ebon car, the bier 
 Whereon difilised like snow the Damsel lay. 
 Full thrice had crossed himself in meek composure. 
 
 Imagine (but ye Saints ! who can 1) 
 How in still air the balance trembled; 
 The wishes, peradventure the despites 
 That overcame some not ungenerous Knights ; 
 And all the thoughts that lengthened out a span 
 Of time to Lords and Ladies thus assembled. 
 
 What patient confidence was here !. 
 And there how many bosoms panted! 
 While drawing toward the Car Sir Gawaine, mailed, 
 For tournament, his Beaver vailed. 
 And softly touched ; but, to his princely cheer 
 And high expectancy, no sign was granted. 
 
 Next, disencumbered of his harp. 
 Sir Tristram, dear to thousands as a brother. 
 Came to the proof, nor grieved that there ensued 
 No change, — the fair Izonda he had wooed 
 With love too true, a love with pangs too sharp. 
 From hope too distant, not to dread another. 
 
 1- 
 
176 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Not so Sir Launcelot ; — from Heaven's grace 
 A sign he craved, tired slave of vain contrition ; 
 The royal Guinever looked passing glad 
 When his touch failed. — Ne.xt came Sir Galahad ; 
 He paused, and stood entranced by that still face 
 Whose features he had seen in noontide vision. 
 
 For late, as near a murmuring stream 
 He rested 'mid an arbour green and shady 
 Nina, the good Enchantress, shed, 
 A light around his mossy bed ; 
 And, at her call, a waking dream 
 Prefigured to his sense the Egyptian Lady. 
 
 Now, while his bright-haired front he bowed, 
 And stood, far-kenned by mantle furred with ermine, 
 As o'er the insensate Body hung 
 The enrapt, the beautiful, the young, 
 Belief sank deep into the crowd 
 That he the solemn issue would determine. 
 
 Nor deem it strange; the Youth had worn 
 That very mantle on a day of glory, 
 The day when he achieved that matchless feat, 
 The marvel of the Perilous Seat, 
 Which whosoe'er approached of strength was shorn, 
 Though King or Knight the most renowned in story. 
 
 He touched with hesitating hand, 
 
 And lo ! those Birds, far-famed through Love's 
 dominions. 
 
 The Swans, in triumph, clap their wings; 
 
 And their necks play, involved in rings. 
 
 Like sinless snakes in Eden's happy land ; — 
 "Mine is she," cried the Knight; — again they clap- 
 ped their pinions. 
 
 "Mine was she — mine she is, though dead, 
 And to her name my soul shall cleave in sorrow ;" 
 Whereat, a tender twilight streak 
 Of colour dawned upon the Damsel's cheek; 
 And her lips, quickening with uncertain red. 
 Seemed from each other a faint warmth to borrow. 
 
 Deep was the awe, the rapture high, 
 Of love emboldened, hope with dread entwining. 
 When, to the mouth, relenting Death 
 Allowed a soft and flower-like breath. 
 Precursor to a timid sigh. 
 To lifted eyelids, and a doubtful shining. 
 
 In silence did King Arthur gaze 
 
 Upon the signs that pass away or tarry ; 
 
 In silence watched tlie gentle strife 
 Of Nature leading back to life ; 
 Then eased his Soul at length by praise 
 Of God, and Heaven's pure Qeeen — the blissful Mary. 
 
 Then said he, " Take her to tliy heart. 
 Sir Galahad I a treasure that God giveth. 
 Bound by indissoluble ties to thee 
 Through mortal change and immortality ; 
 Be happy and unenvied, thou who art 
 A goodly Knight tliat hath no Peer that liveth !" 
 
 Not long the nuptials were delayed; 
 And sage tradition still rehearses 
 The pomp, the glory of that hour 
 When toward the Altar from her bower 
 King Arthur led the Egyptian Maid, 
 And Angels carolled these far-echoed verses : — 
 
 Who shrinks not from alliance 
 Of evil with good Powers, 
 To God proclaims defiance. 
 And mocks whom he adores. 
 
 A Ship to Christ devoted 
 From the Land of Nile did go ; 
 Alas! the bright Ship floated. 
 An Idol at her Prow. 
 
 By magic domination, 
 The Heaven-permitted vent 
 Of purblind mortal passion. 
 Was wrought her punishment 
 
 The Flower, the Form within it, 
 What served they in her need] 
 Her port she could not win it, 
 Nor from mishap be freed. 
 
 The tempest overcame her, 
 And she was seen no more ; 
 But gently gently blame her, 
 She cast a Pearl ashore. 
 
 The Maid to Jesu hearkened. 
 And kept to him her faith. 
 Till sense in death was darkened. 
 Or sleep akin to death. 
 
 But Angels round her pillow 
 Kept watch, a viewless band ; 
 And, billow favouring billow. 
 She reached the destined strand. 
 
 Blest Pair ! whate'er befall you. 
 Your faith in Ilim approve 
 Who from frail earth can call you, 
 To bowers of endless love ! 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 177 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 ON 
 
 THE POWER OF SOUND. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 The Ear addressed, as occupied by a spiritual functionary, in 
 communion witli sounds, individual, or combined in studied 
 harmony. — Sources and effects of those sounds (to the close of 
 Gth Stanza). — The power of music, whence proceeding, exem- 
 plified in the idiot. — Origin of music, and its effect in early 
 ages — how produced (to the middle of 10th Stanza).. — The 
 mind recalled to sounds acting casually and severally. — Wish 
 uttered (11th Stanza) that these could be united into a scheme 
 or system ibr m_oral interests and intellectual contemplation. — 
 (Stanza 12th.) The Pythagorean theory of numbers and music, 
 i with their supposed power over the motions of the universe — 
 imaginations consonant with such a theory. — Wish expressed 
 (in 11th Stanza) realized, in some degree, by the represent.a- 
 tion of all sounds under the form of thanksgiving to the Creator. 
 — (Last Stanza) the destruction of earth and the planetary sys- 
 tem — the survival of audible harmony, and its support in the 
 Divine Nature, as revealed in Holy Writ. 
 
 Thy functions are etherial, 
 
 As if within thee dwelt a glancing Mind, 
 
 Organ of Vision ! And a Spirit aerial 
 
 Informs the cell of hearing, dark and blind ; 
 
 Intricate labyrinth, more dread for thought 
 
 To enter than oracular cave ; 
 
 Strict passage, through which sighs are brought, 
 
 And whispers, for the heart, their slave ; 
 
 And shrieks, that revel in abuse 
 
 Of shivering flesh ; and warbled air. 
 
 Whose piercing sweetness can unloose 
 
 The chains of frenzy, or entice a smile 
 
 Into the ambush of despair ; 
 
 Hosannas pealing down the long-drawn aisle, 
 
 And requiems answered by the pulse that beats 
 
 Devoutly, in life's last retreats! 
 
 The headlong Streams and Fountains 
 Serve Thee, Invisible Spirit, with untired powers ; 
 Cheering the wakeful Tent on Syrian mountains. 
 They lull perchance ten thousand thousand Flowers. 
 That roar, the prowling Lion's Here / am, 
 How fearful to the desert wide ! 
 That bleat, how tender ! of the Dam 
 Calling a straggler to her side. 
 Shout, Cuckoo! let the vernal soul 
 Go with thee to the frozen zone ; 
 Toll from thy loftiest perch, lone Bell-bird, toll ! 
 At the still hour to Mercy dear, 
 Mercy from her twilight throne 
 Listening to Nun's faint sob of holy fear. 
 To Sailor's prayer breathed from a darkening sea, 
 Or Widow's cottage lullaby. 
 X 
 
 Ye Voices, and ye Shadows, 
 
 And Images of voice — to hound and horn 
 
 From rocky steep and rock-bestudded meadows 
 
 Flung back, and, in the sky's blue caves, reborn. 
 
 On with your pastime ! till the church-tower bells 
 
 A greeting give of measured glee ; 
 
 And milder echoes from their cells 
 
 Repeat the bridal symphony. 
 
 Then, or far earlier, let us rove 
 
 Where mists are breaking up or gone, 
 
 And from aloft look down into a cove 
 
 Besprinkled with a careless quire, 
 
 Happy Milk-maids, one by one 
 
 Scattering a ditty each to her desire, 
 
 A liquid concert matchless by nice Art, 
 
 A stream as if from one full heart. 
 
 Blest be the song that brightens 
 
 The blind Man's gloom, exalts the Veteran's mirth : 
 
 Unscorned the Peasant's whistling breath, that lightens 
 
 His duteous toil of furrowing the green earth. 
 
 For the tired Slave, Song lifts the languid oar. 
 
 And bids it aptly fall, with chime 
 
 That beautifies the fairest shore. 
 
 And mitigates the harshest clime. 
 
 Yon Pilgrims see — in lagging file 
 
 They move ; but soon the appointed way 
 
 A choral Ave Marie shall beguile. 
 
 And to their hope the distant shrine 
 
 Glisten with a livelier ray : 
 
 Nor friendless He, the Prisoner of the Mine, 
 
 Who from the well-spring of his own clear breast 
 
 Can draw, and sing his griefs to rest. 
 
 5. 
 
 When civic renovation 
 
 Dawns on a kingdom, and for needful haste 
 
 Best eloquence avails not, Inspiration 
 
 Mounts with a tune, that travels like a blast 
 
 Piping- through cave and battlemented tower; 
 
 Then starts the Sluggard, pleased to meet 
 
 That voice of Freedom, in its power 
 
 Of promises, shrill, wild, and sweet ! 
 
 Who, from a martial pageant, spreads 
 
 Incitements of a battle-day. 
 
 Thrilling the unweaponed crowd with plumeless heads ; 
 
 Even She whose Lydian airs inspire 
 
 Peaceful striving, gentle play 
 
 Of timid hope and innocent desire 
 
 Shot from the dancing Graces, as they move 
 
 Fanned by the plausive wings of Love. 
 
 6. 
 
 How oft along tliy mazes, 
 
 Regent of Sound, have dangerous Passions trod ! 
 
178 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 O Thou, through whom the Temple rings with praises, 
 
 And blackeninof clouds in thunder speak of God, 
 
 Betray not by the cozenage of sense 
 
 Thy Votaries, wooingly resigned 
 
 To a voluptuous influence 
 
 That taints the purer, better mind ; 
 
 But lead sick Fancy to a harp 
 
 That hatli in noble tasks been tried ; 
 
 And, if the Virtuous feel a pang too sharp, 
 
 Soothe it into patience, — stay 
 
 The uplifted arm of Suicide; 
 
 And let some mood of tliine in firm array 
 
 Knit every thought tlie impending issue needs, 
 
 Ere Martyr burns, or Patriot bleeds! 
 
 7. 
 
 As Conscience, to the centre 
 
 Of Being, smites with irresistible pain, 
 
 So shall a solemn cadence, if it enter 
 
 The mouldy vaults of the dull Idiot's brain. 
 
 Transmute him to a wretch from quiet hurled — 
 
 Convulsed as by a jarring din ; 
 
 And then aghast, as at the world 
 
 Of reason partially let in 
 
 By concords winding with a sway 
 
 Terrible for sense and soul ! 
 
 Or, awed he weeps, struggling to quell dismay. 
 
 Point not these mysteries to an Art 
 
 Lodged above the starry pole ; 
 
 Pure modulations flowing from the heart 
 
 Of divine Love, where Wisdom, Beauty, Truth, 
 
 With Order dwell, in endless youth 1 
 
 Oblivion may not cover 
 All treasures hoarded by the Miser, Time. 
 Orphean Insight! Truth's undaunted Lover, 
 To the first leagues of tutored passion climb. 
 When Music deigned within this grosser sphere 
 Her subtle essence to enfold. 
 And Voice and Shell drew forth a tear 
 Softer than Nature's self could mould. 
 Yet strenunus was the infant Age : 
 Art, daring because souls could feel. 
 Stirred nowhere but an urgent equipage 
 Of rapt imagination sped her march 
 Through the realms of woe and weal : 
 Hell to the lyre bowed low ; the upper arch 
 Rejoiced tliat clamorous spell and magic verse 
 Her wan disasters could disperse. 
 
 9. 
 The Gift to King Amphion 
 That walled a city with its melody 
 Was for belief no dream ; thy skill, Arion ! 
 Could humanise the creatures of the sea, 
 Where men were monsters. A last grace he craves, 
 Leave for one chant; — the dulcet sound 
 Steals from the deck o'er willing waves. 
 
 And listening Dolphins gather round. 
 Self-cast, as with a desperate course, 
 'Mid that strange audience, he bestrides 
 A proud One docile as a managed horse ; 
 And singing, while the accordant hand 
 Sweeps his harp, the Master rides; 
 So shall he touch at length a friendly strand, 
 And he, with his Preserver, shine star-bright 
 In memory, through silent niglit. 
 
 10. 
 
 The pipe of Pan, to Shepherds 
 
 Couched in the shadow of Menalian Pines, 
 
 Was passing sweet ; the eyeballs of the Leopards, ' 
 
 That in high triumph drew the Lord of vines, I 
 
 How did they sparkle to the cymbal's clang! ' 
 
 While Fauns and Satyrs beat the ground 
 
 In cadence, — and Silenus swang 
 
 This way and tliat, with wild-flowers crowned. 
 
 To life, to life give back thine Ear: 
 
 Ye who are longing to be rid 
 
 Of Fable, though to truth subservient, hear 
 
 The little sprinkling of cold earth that fell 
 
 Echoed from the coffin lid ; 
 
 The Convict's summons in the steeple knell. 
 
 " The vain distress-gun," from a leeward shore, 
 
 Repeated — heard, and heard no more ! 
 
 11. 
 
 For terror, joy, or pity. 
 
 Vast is the compass, and the swell of notes : 
 
 From the Babe's first cry to voice of regal City, 
 
 Rolling a solemn sea-like bass, that floats 
 
 Far as the woodlands — with the trill to blend 
 
 Of that shy Songstress, whose love-tale 
 
 Might tempt an Angel to descend. 
 
 While hovering o'er the moonlight vale. 
 
 O for some soul-afiecting scheme 
 
 Of moral music, to unite 
 
 Wanderers whose portion is the faintest dream 
 
 Of memory ! — O that they might stoop to bear 
 
 Chains, such precious chains of sight 
 
 As laboured minstrelsies through ages wear ! 
 
 O for a balance fit the truth to tell 
 
 Of the Unsubstantial, pondered well ! 
 
 12. 
 
 By one pervading Spirit 
 
 Of tones and numbers all things are controlled, 
 
 As Sages taught, where faith was found to merit 
 
 Initiation in that mystery old. 
 
 The Heavens, whose aspect makes our minds as still 
 
 As they themselves appear to be. 
 
 Innumerable voices fill 
 
 With everlasting harmony; 
 
 The towering Headlands, crowned with mist. 
 
 Their feet among the billows, know 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 179 
 
 That Ocean is a mighty harmonist; 
 
 Thy pinions, universal Air, 
 
 Ever waving to and fro. 
 
 Are delegates of harmony, and hear 
 
 Strains that support the Seasons in their round : 
 
 Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound. 
 
 13. 
 
 Break forth into thanksgiving. 
 
 Ye banded Instruments of wind and chords ; 
 
 Unite, to magnify the Ever-living, 
 
 Your inarticulate notes with the voice of words ! 
 
 Nor hushed be service from the lowing mead. 
 
 Nor mute the forest hum of noon ; 
 
 Thou too be heard, lone Eagle ! freed 
 
 From snowy peak and cloud, attune 
 
 Thy hungry barkings to the hymn 
 
 Of joy, that from her utmost walls 
 
 The six-days' Work, by flaming Seraphim, 
 
 Transmits to Heaven ! As Deep to Deep 
 
 Shouting through one valley calls. 
 
 All worlds, all natures, mood and measure keep 
 For praise and ceaseless gratulation, poured 
 Into the ear of God, their Lord ! 
 
 14. 
 
 A Voice to Light gave Being; 
 
 To Time, and Man his earth-born Chronicler; 
 
 A Voice shall finish doubt and dim foreseeing, 
 
 And sweep away life's visionary stir; 
 
 The Trumpet (we, intoxicate with pride, 
 
 Arm at its blast for deadly wars) 
 
 To archangelic lips applied, 
 
 The grave shall open, quench the stars. 
 
 O Silence ! are Man's noisy years 
 
 No more than moments of tliy life 3 
 
 Is Harmony, blest Queen of smiles and tears. 
 
 With her smooth tones and discords just. 
 
 Tempered into rapturous strife. 
 
 Thy destined Bond-slave ^ No! though Earth be dust 
 
 And vanish, though the Heavens dissolve, her stay 
 
 Is in the Word, that shall not pass away. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 To- 
 
 Happy the feeling from the bosom thrown 
 
 In perfect shape, whose beauty Time shall spare 
 
 Though a breath made it, like a bubble blown 
 
 For summer pastime into wanton air ; 
 
 Happy the thought best likened to a stone 
 
 Of the sea-beach, when, polished with nice care. 
 
 Veins it discovers exquisite and rare. 
 
 Which for the loss of that moist gleam atone 
 
 That tempted first to gather it. O chief 
 
 Of Friends ! such feelings if I here present. 
 
 Such thoughts, with others mixed less fortunate ; 
 
 Then smile into my heart a fond belief 
 
 That thou, if not with partial joy elate, 
 
 Receivest the gift for more than mild content ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Ntras fret not at their convent's narrow room ; 
 And Hermits are contented with their cells ; 
 And Students with their pensive citadels : 
 Maids at the wheel, the Weaver at his loom, 
 Sit blithe and happy ; Bees that soar for bloom, 
 
 High as the highest Peak of Furness Fells, 
 Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells : 
 In truth, the prison, unto which we doom 
 Ourselves, no prison is: and hence to me. 
 In sundry moods, 't was pastime to be bound 
 Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground : 
 Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be) 
 Who have felt the weight of too much liberty. 
 Should find brief solace there, as I have found. 
 
 III. 
 
 WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH. 
 
 Calm is all nature as a resting wheel. 
 
 The Kine are couched upon the dewy grass ; 
 
 The Horse alone, seen dimly as I pass. 
 
 Is cropping audibly his later meal : 
 
 Dark is the ground ; a slumber seems to steal 
 
 O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky. 
 
 Now, in this blank of things, a harmony 
 
 Homefelt, and home-created, seems to heal 
 
 That grief for which the senses still supply 
 
 Fresh food ; for only then, when memory 
 
 Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends ! restrain 
 
 Those busy cares that would allay my pain ; 
 
 Oh ! leave me to iriyself, nor let me feel 
 
 The officious touch that makes me droop again. 
 
180 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 ADMONITION. 
 
 Intended more particularly for the Perusal of those who may 
 have happened to be enamoured of some beautiful Place of 
 Retreat, in the Coimlry of the Lakes! 
 
 Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye ! 
 
 — The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook 
 
 Hath stirred thee deeply ; with its own dear brook, 
 
 Its own small pasttire, almost its own sky ! 
 
 But covet not the Abode ; — forbear to sigh, 
 
 As many do, repining while they look ; 
 
 Intruders — who would tear from Nature's book 
 
 Tliis precious leaf with harsh impiety. 
 
 Think what the Home must be if it were thine. 
 
 Even thine, though few thy wants! — Roof, window, 
 
 door, 
 The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, 
 The roses to the porch which they entwine : 
 Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day 
 On which it should be touched, would melt, and melt 
 
 away. 
 
 V. 
 
 " Beloved Vale !" I said, " when I shall con 
 Those many records of my childish years. 
 Remembrance of myself and of my peers 
 Will press me down : to think of what is gone 
 Will be an awful thought, if life have one." 
 But, when into the Vale I came, no fears 
 Distressed me ; from mine eyes escaped no tears ; 
 Deep thought, or awful vision, had I none. 
 By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost, 
 I stood of simple shame the blushing Thrall ; 
 So narrrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small. 
 A Juggler's balls old Time about him tossed ; 
 I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; and all 
 The weight of sadness was in wonder lost. 
 
 VI. 
 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 Skiddawl in his natural sovereignty 
 Our British Hill is fairer far; he shrouds 
 His double front among Atlantic clouds, 
 And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly. 
 
 VII. 
 
 There is a little unpretending Rill 
 
 Of limpid water, humbler far than aught 
 
 That ever among Men or Naiads sought 
 
 Notice or name ! — it quivers down the hill. 
 
 Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will; 
 
 Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is brought 
 
 Oflener than Ganges or the Nile ; a thought 
 
 Of private recollection sweet and still ! 
 
 Months perish with their moons; year treads on year;; 
 
 But, faithful Emma, thou with me canst say 
 
 That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear. 
 
 And flies their memory fast almost as they, 
 
 The immortal Spirit of one happy day 
 
 Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Her only Pilot the soft breeze, the Boat 
 
 Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied; 
 
 With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her side, 
 
 And the glad Muse at liberty to note 
 
 All that to each is precious, as we float 
 
 Gently along; regardless who shall chide 
 
 If the Heavens smile, and leave us free to glide, 
 
 Happy Associates breathing air remote 
 
 From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the Muse, 
 
 Wliy have I crowded this small Bark with you 
 
 And others of your kind. Ideal Crew ! 
 
 While here sits One whose brightness owes its hues 
 
 To flesli and blood ; no Goddess from above, 
 
 No fleeting Spirit, but my own true Love ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 The fairest, brightest hues of ether fade ; 
 The sweetest notes must terminate and die ; 
 O Friend ! thy flute has breathed a harmony 
 Softly resounded through this rocky glade ; 
 Such strains of rapture as* the Genius played 
 In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit high; 
 He who stood visible to Mirza's eye, 
 Never before to human sight betrayed. 
 Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening spread ! 
 The visionary arches are not there. 
 Nor the green Islands, nor the shining seas ; 
 Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head. 
 From which I have been lifted on the breeze 
 Of harmony, above all earthly care. 
 
 * See the vision of Mirza, in the Spectator. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 181 
 
 UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE, 
 PAINTED BY SIR G. H. BEAUMONT, BART. 
 
 Praised te the Art whose subtle power could stay 
 Yon Cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape ; 
 Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape, 
 Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day ; 
 Which stopped that Band of Travellers on their way, 
 Ere tliey were lost within the shady wood ; 
 And showed the Bark upon the glassy flood 
 For ever anchored in her sheltering- Bay. 
 Soul-soothing Art ! which Morning, Noon-tide, Even, 
 Do serve with all their changeful pageantry ; 
 Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime, 
 Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given 
 To one brief moment caught from fleeting time 
 The appropriate calm of blest eternity. 
 
 XI. 
 
 "Why, Minstrel, these untuneful murmnrings — 
 
 Dull, flagging notes that with each other jar l 
 
 " Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far 
 
 From its own Country, aijd forgive the strings." 
 
 A simple Answer ! but even so forth springs, 
 
 From the Castalian fountain of the heart, 
 
 The Poetry of Life, and all that Art 
 
 Divine of words quickening insensate Things. 
 
 From the submissive necks of guiltless Men 
 
 Stretched on the block, the glittering axe recoils ; 
 
 Sun, Moon, and Stars, all struggle in the toils 
 
 Of mortal sympathy ; what wonder then 
 
 If the poor Harp distempered music yields 
 
 To its sad Lord, far from his native Fields 1 
 
 XIL 
 
 Aebial Rock — whose solitary brow 
 Prom this low threshold daily meets my sight ; 
 When I step forth to hail the morning light ; 
 Or quit the stars with lingering farewell — hoV7 
 Shall Fancy pay to thee a grateful vow ? 
 How, with the Muse's aid, her love attest ? 
 By planting on thy naked head the crest 
 Of an imperial Castle, which the plough 
 Of ruin shall not touch. Innocent scheme ! 
 That doth presume no more than to supply 
 A grace the sinuous vale and roaring stream 
 Want, through neglect of hoar Antiquity. 
 Rise, then, ye votive Towers, and catch a gleam 
 Of golden sunset, ere it fade and die ! 
 
 xin. 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 OENTLE Sleep ! do they belong to thee, 
 These twinklings of oblivion 3 Thou dost love 
 To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove, 
 
 A Captive never wishing to be free. 
 This tiresome night, O Sleep ! thou art to me 
 A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove, 
 Upon a fretful rivulet, now above, 
 Now on the water, vexed with mockery. 
 
 1 have no pain that calls for patience, no ; 
 Hence am I cross and peevish as a child : 
 Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe, 
 Yet ever willing to be reconciled : 
 
 O gentle Creature ! do not use me so. 
 But once and deeply let me be beguiled. 
 
 XIV. 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by, 
 One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees 
 Murmuring ; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, 
 Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky ; 
 By turns have all been thought of, yet I lie 
 Sleepless ; and soon the small birds' melodies 
 Must hear, first uttered fi:om my orchard trees ; 
 And the first Cuckoo's melancholy cry. 
 Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay. 
 And could not win thee. Sleep ! by any stealth : 
 So do not let me wear to-night away : 
 Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth 1 
 Come, blessed barrier between day and day. 
 Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health ! 
 
 XV. 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 Fond words have oft been spoken to thee. Sleep ! 
 And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names ; 
 The very swe(!test words that fancy frames, 
 When thankfulness of heart, is strong and deep ! 
 Dear bosom Child we call thee, that dost steep 
 In rich reward all suffering ; Balm that tames 
 All anguish ; Saint that evil thoughts and aims 
 Takest away, and into souls dost creep, 
 Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone, 
 I surely not a man ungently made. 
 Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost"! 
 Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown. 
 Mere Slave of them who never for thee prayed. 
 Still last to come where thou art wanted most ! 
 16 
 
182 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 THE WILD DUCK'S NEST. 
 
 The Imperial Consort of the Fairy King 
 Owns not a sylvan bower ; or gorgeous cell 
 With emerald floored, and with purpureal shell 
 Ceilinged and roofed ; that is so fair a thing 
 As this low Structure — for the tasks of Spring 
 Prepared by one who loves the buoyant swell 
 Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to dwell ; 
 And spreads in steadfast peace her brooding wing. 
 Words cannot paint the o'ershadowing yew-tree bough, 
 And dimly-gleaming Nest, — a hollow crown 
 Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down, 
 Fine as the Mother's softest plumes allow : 
 I gaze — and almost wish to lay aside 
 Humanity, weak slave of cumbrous pride ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 WRITTEN UPON A BLANK LEAF IN "THE COM- 
 PLETE ANGLER." 
 
 While flowing Rivers yield a blameless sport, 
 
 Sliall live the name of Walton ; — Sage benign ! 
 
 Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line 
 
 Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort 
 
 To reverend watching of each still report 
 
 That Nature utters from her rural shrine. — 
 
 Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline. 
 
 He found the longest summer day too short, 
 
 To his loved pastime given by sedsy Lee, 
 
 Or down the tempting maze of Shawford brook ! 
 
 Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book, 
 
 The cowslip bank and shady willow-tree. 
 
 And the fresh meads ; where flowed, from every nook 
 
 Of his full bosom, gladsome Piety ! 
 
 xnn. 
 
 TO THE POET, JOHN DYER. 
 Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made 
 That work a living landscape fiir and bright ; 
 Nor hallowed less with musical delight 
 Than those soft scenes through which tliy Cliildhood 
 
 strayed, 
 Those southern Tracts of Cambria, "deep embayed, 
 VVitli green hills fenced, with Ocean's murmur lulled ;"' 
 Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplct culled 
 For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade 
 Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced, 
 Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still, 
 A grateful few, shall love thy modest Lay, 
 Long as the Shepherd's bleating flock shall stray 
 O'er naked Snovvdon's wide aerial waste ; 
 Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED THE 
 PUBLICATION OF A CERTAIN POEftl. 
 
 ^'ee Milton's Sojwct, beginning 
 " A Book was writ of lale. called " Tetrachordon .' " 
 
 A Book came fortli of late, called " Peter Boll ;" 
 
 Not negligent the style ; — the matter 7 — good 
 
 As aught that song records of Robin Ilood ; 
 
 Or Roy, renowned through many a Scottish dell ; 
 
 But some (who brook these hacknied themes full well, 
 
 Nor heat, at Tam o' Shanter's name, their blood) 
 
 Waxed wroth, and witli foul claws, a harpy brood, 
 
 On Bard and Hero clamorously fell. 
 
 Heed not, wild Rover once through heath and glen. 
 
 Who madest at length the better life thy choice, 
 
 Heed not such onset I nay, if praise of men 
 
 To thee appear not an unmeaning voice, 
 
 Lift up that gray-haired forehead, and rejoice 
 
 In the just tribute of thy Poet's pen ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 TO THE RIVER DERWENT. 
 
 Among the mountains were we nursed, loved Stream ! 
 Thou, near the eagle's nest — within brief sail, 
 I, of his bold wing floating on the gale. 
 Where thy deep voice could lull me! — Faint the 
 
 beam 
 Of human life when first allowed to gleam 
 On mortal notice. — Glory of the Vale, 
 Such thy meek outset, with a crown though frail 
 Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam 
 Of thy soft breath ! — Less vivid wreath entwined 
 Nema;an Victors brow ; less bright was worn. 
 Meed of some Roman Chief — in triumph borne 
 With captives chained ; and shedding from his car 
 The sunset splendours of a finished war 
 Upon the proud enslavers of mankind ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE VALLEYS OF AVEST- 
 MORELAND, ON EASTER SUNDAY. 
 
 With each recurrence of this glorious morn 
 That saw the Saviour in his human frame 
 Rise from the dead, erewhile tlie Cottage-dame 
 Put on fresh raiment — till that hour unworn: 
 Domestic hands the home-bred wool had shorn, 
 And she who span it culled the daintiest fleece. 
 In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of Peace, 
 Whose temples bled beneath tlie platted thorn. 
 A blest estate when piety sublime 
 These humble props disdained not ! O green dales! 
 Sad may I be who heard your sabbath chime 
 When Art's abused inventions were unknown ; 
 Kind Nature's various wealth was all your own ; 
 And benefits were weighed in Reason's scales ! 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 183 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Grief, tliou hast lost an ever-ready Friend, 
 Now that the cottage spinning-wheel is mute ; 
 And Care — a Comforter that best could suit 
 Her fvoward mood, and softliest reprehend ; 
 And Love — a Charmer's voice, that used to lend. 
 More efEcaciously than aught that flows 
 From harp or lute, kind influence to compose 
 The throbbing pulse, — else troubled without end : 
 Even Joy could tell, Joy craving truce and rest 
 From her own overflow, what power sedate 
 On those revolving motions did await 
 Assiduously, to soothe her aching breast — 
 And — to a point of just relief — abate 
 The mantling triumphs of a day too blest. 
 
 XXIII.— TO S.H. 
 
 Excuse is needless when with love sincere 
 
 Of occupation, not by fashion led, 
 
 Thou turn'st the Wheel that slept with dust o'erspread ; 
 
 My nerves from no such murmur shrink, — tho' near. 
 
 Soft as the Dorhawk's to a distant ear. 
 
 When twilight shades bedim the mountain's head. 
 
 She who was feigned to spin our vital thread 
 
 Might smile, O Lady ! on a task once dear 
 
 To household virtues. Venerable Art, 
 
 Torn from the Poor I yet will kind Heaven protect 
 
 Its own, not left without a guiding chart, 
 
 If Rulers, trusting with undue respect 
 
 To proud discoveries of the Intellect, 
 
 Sanction the pillage of man's ancient heart. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 DECAY OF PIETY. 
 
 Opt have I seen, ere Time had ploughed my cheek 
 Matrons and Sires — who, punctual to the call 
 Of their loved Church, on Fast or Festival 
 Through the long- year the House of Prayer would 
 
 seek : 
 By Christmas snows, by visitation bleak 
 Of Easter winds, unscared, from Hut or Hall 
 They came to lowly bench or sculptured Stall, 
 But with one fervour of devotion meek. 
 I see the places where they once were known, 
 And ask, surrounded even by kneeling crowds. 
 Is ancient Piety for ever flown 'i 
 Alas 1 even then they seemed like fleecy clouds 
 That, struggling through the western sky, have won 
 Their pensive light from a departed sun ! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 COMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE OF A 
 FRIEND IN THE VALE OF GRASMERE. 
 
 What need of clamorous bells, or ribands gay. 
 
 These humble Nuptials to proclaim or grace 1 
 
 Angels of Love, look down upon the place. 
 
 Shed on the chosen Vale a sun-bright day ! 
 
 Yet no proud gladness would the Bride display 
 
 Even for such promise : — serious is her face. 
 
 Modest her mien ; and she, whose thoughts keep pace 
 
 With gentleness, in that becoming way 
 
 Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid appear ; 
 
 No disproportion in her soul, no strife : 
 
 But, Vv'hen the closer view of wedded life . 
 
 Hath shown that nothing human can be clear 
 
 From frailty, for that insight may the Wife 
 
 To her indulgent Lord become more dear. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO. 
 
 Yes ! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, 
 
 And I be undeluded, unbetrayed ; 
 
 For if of our afliections none find grace 
 
 In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made 
 
 The world which we inhabit? Better plea 
 
 Love cannot have, than that in loving thee 
 
 Glory to that eternal Peace is paid. 
 
 Who such divinity to thee imparts 
 
 As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. 
 
 His hope is treacherous only whose love dies 
 
 With beauty, which is varying every hour ; 
 
 But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power 
 
 Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower, 
 
 That breathes on earth the air of paradise. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 No mortal object did these eyes behold 
 
 Wlien first they met the placid light of thine 
 
 And my Soul felt her destiny divine, 
 
 And hope of endless peace in me grew bold : 
 
 Heaven-born, the Soul a heavenward course must hold; 
 
 Beyond the visible world She soars to seek 
 
 (For what delights the sense is false and weak) 
 
 Ideal Form, the universal mould. 
 
 The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest 
 
 In that which perishes ; nor will he lend 
 
 His heart to aught which doth on time depend. 
 
 'T is sense, unbridled will, and not true love. 
 
 That kills the soul : love betters what is best. 
 
 Even here below, but more in heaven above. 
 
184 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 FROiM THE SAME. 
 
 TO THE SUPREME BEING. 
 
 The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed, 
 
 If Thou the spirit give by which I pray : 
 
 My unassisted heart is barren clay, 
 
 That of its native self can nothing feed : 
 
 Of good and pious works thou art the seed, 
 
 That quickens only where thou sayest it may : 
 
 Unless thou shew to us thine own true way. 
 
 No man can find it: Father! thou must lead. 
 
 Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind 
 
 By which such virtue may in me be bred 
 
 That in thy holy footsteps I may tread ; 
 
 The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind. 
 
 That I may have the power to sing of thee, 
 
 And sound thy praises everlastingly. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind 
 
 I turned to share the transport — Oh ! with whom 
 
 But Thee, deep buried in the silent Tomb, 
 
 That spot which no vicissitude can findl 
 
 Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind — 
 
 But how could I forget thee? Through what power. 
 
 Even for the least division of an hour, 
 
 Have I been so beguiled as to be blind 
 
 To my most grievous loss '> — That thought's return 
 
 Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, 
 
 Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, 
 
 Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more ; 
 
 That neither present time, nor years unborn 
 
 Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne 
 Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud - 
 Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed ; 
 But all the steps and ground about were strewn 
 With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone 
 Ever put on ; a miserable crowd. 
 Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud, 
 " Thou art our king, O Death ! to thee we groan." 
 I seemed to mount those steps ; the vapours gave 
 Smooth way ; and I beheld the face of one 
 Sleeping alone within a mossy cave. 
 With her fece up to heaven ; that seemed to have 
 Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone; 
 A lovely Beauty in a summer grave ! 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 "Weak is the will of Man, his judgment blind; 
 "Remembrance persecutes, and Hope betrays; 
 " Heavy is woe ; — and joy, for human-kind, 
 " A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze ! 
 Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days 
 Who wants the glorious faculty assigned 
 To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind, 
 And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays. 
 Imagination is that sacred power, 
 Imagination lofty and refined : 
 'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine Flower 
 Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples bind 
 Wreathes that endure affliction's heaviest shower, 
 And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 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 is on 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'st untouched by solemn thought, 
 
 Thy nature is not therefore less divine : 
 
 Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; 
 
 And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 
 
 God being with thee when we know it not.* 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go: 
 
 Festively she puts forth in trim array ; 
 
 As vigorous as a Lark at break of day: 
 
 Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow 1 
 
 What boots the inquiry 1 — Neither friend nor foe 
 
 She cares for ; let her travel where she may. 
 
 She finds familiar names, a beaten way 
 
 Ever before her, and a wind to blow. 
 
 Yet, still I ask, what Haven is her mark? 
 
 And, almost as it was when ships were rare, 
 
 (From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there 
 
 Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark, 
 
 Of the old Sea some reverential fear, 
 
 Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark ! 
 
 * [In the same spirit Coleridge speaks of " the sacred light 
 Cliildhood."— 'The Friend,'!!!, p. 46. — H. R.] 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 185 
 
 xxxrv. 
 
 With Ships the Sea was sprinkled far and nigh, 
 
 Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed : 
 
 Some lying fast at anchor in the road, 
 
 Some veering up and down, one knew not why. 
 
 A goodly Vessel did I then espy 
 
 Come like a giant from a haven broad ; 
 
 And lustily along the Bay she strode, 
 
 " Her tackling rich, and of apparel high." 
 
 This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her, 
 
 Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look ; 
 
 This Ship to all the rest did I prefer: 
 
 When will she turn, and whither 1 She will brook 
 
 No tarrying ; where she comes the winds must stir: 
 
 On went She, and due north her journey took. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 The world is too much with us ; late and soon, 
 Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: 
 Little we see in Nature that is ours; 
 We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
 This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
 The winds that will be howling at all hours. 
 And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; 
 For this, for every thing, we are out of tune ; 
 It moves us not. — Great God ! I 'd rather be 
 A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea. 
 Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
 j Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 I 
 
 A VOLANT Tribe of Bards on earth are found, 
 Who, while the flattering Zephyrs round them play. 
 On " coignes of vantage" hang their nests of clay ; 
 How quickly from that aery hold unbound. 
 Dust for oblivion ! To the solid ground 
 ■ Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye ; 
 Convinced that there, there only, she can lay 
 [Secure foundations. As the year runs round. 
 Apart she toils within the chosen ring ; 
 While the stars shine, or while day's purple eye 
 [fs gently closing with the flowers of spring; 
 |Where even the motion of an Angel's wing 
 'Would interrupt the intense tranquillity 
 [Of silent hills, and more than silent sky. 
 Y 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks 
 
 The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood ! 
 
 An old place, full of many a lovely brood, 
 
 Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks ; 
 
 And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks. 
 
 Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile pranks 
 
 At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks, — 
 
 When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and mocks 
 
 The crowd beneath her. Verily I think. 
 
 Such place to me is sometimes like a dream 
 
 Or map of the whole world : thoughts, link by link. 
 
 Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam 
 
 Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink. 
 
 And leap at once from the delicious stream. 
 
 XXXVIH. 
 
 PERSONAL TALK. 
 
 I AM not One who much or ofl; delight 
 To season my fireside with personal talk, — 
 Of Friends, who live within an easy walk. 
 Or Neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight : 
 And, for my chance-acquaintance, Ladies bright. 
 Sons, Mothers, Maidens withering on the stalk. 
 These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk 
 Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night. 
 Better than such discourse doth silence long', 
 Long, barren silence, square with my desire ; 
 To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, 
 In the loved presence of my cottage-fire. 
 And listen to the flapping of the flame. 
 Or kettle whispering its faint under-song. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 " Yet life," you say, " is life ; we have seen and see, 
 And with a living pleasure we describe ; 
 And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe 
 The languid mind into activity. 
 Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee 
 Are fostered by the comment and the gibe." 
 Even be it so : yet still among your tribe. 
 Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me ! 
 Children are blest, and powerful ; their world lies 
 More justly balanced ; partly at their feet. 
 And part far from them ; — sweetest melodies 
 Are those that are by distance made more sweet ; 
 Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes. 
 He is a Slave ; the meanest we can meet ! 
 16* 
 
186 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 XL. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 Wings have we, — and as far as we can go 
 
 We may find pleasure : wilderness and wood, 
 
 Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood 
 
 Which with the lofly sanctifies the low. 
 
 Dreams, Books, are each a world ; and books, we know. 
 
 Are a substantial world, both pure and good : 
 
 Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, 
 
 Our pastime and our happiness will grow. 
 
 There find I personal themes, a plenteous store, 
 
 Matter wherein right voluble I am. 
 
 To which I listen witli a ready ear; 
 
 Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear, — 
 
 The gentle Lady married to the Moor ; 
 
 And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb. 
 
 XLL 
 
 CONCLUDED. 
 
 Nor can I not believe but that hereby 
 
 Great gains are mine ; for thus I live remote 
 
 Prom evil-speaking ; rancour never sought. 
 
 Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie. 
 
 Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I 
 
 Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought: 
 
 And thus from day to day my little Boat 
 
 Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. 
 
 Blessings be with them — and eternal praise, 
 
 Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares — 
 
 The Poets, who on earth have made us Heirs 
 
 Of truth and pure delight by lieavenly lays ! 
 
 Oh ! might my name be numbered among theirs. 
 
 Then gladly would I end my mortal days. 
 
 XLIL 
 
 I WATCH, and long have watched, with calm regret, 
 
 Yon slowly-sinking star — immortal Sire 
 
 (So might he seem) of all the glittering quire ! 
 
 Blue ether still surrounds him — yet — and yet ; 
 
 But now the horizon's rocky parapet 
 
 Is reached, where, forfeiting his bright attire. 
 
 He burns — transmuted to a sullen fire. 
 
 That droops and dwindles, — and, the appointed debt 
 
 To the flying moments paid, is seen no more. 
 
 Angels and gods ! we struggle with our fate. 
 
 While health, power, glory, pitiably decline. 
 
 Depressed and then exlinguislied : and our state. 
 
 In this, how diflerent, lost star, from thine. 
 
 That no to-morrow shall our beams restore ! 
 
 XLIII. 
 TO R. B. HAYDON, ESQ. 
 
 High is our calling. Friend ! — Creative Art 
 (Whether the instrument of words she use, 
 Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues,) 
 Demands the service of a mind and heart. 
 Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part, 
 Heroically fashioned — to infuse 
 Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse, 
 While the whole world seems adverse to desert 
 And, oh ! when Nature sinks, as oft she may. 
 Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress. 
 Still to be strenuous for the bright reward. 
 And in the soul admit of no decay. 
 Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness — 
 Great is the glory, for the strife is hard ! 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 From the dark chambers of dejection freed, 
 
 Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care. 
 
 Rise, Gillies, rise : the gales of youth shall bear 
 
 Thy genius forward like a winged steed. 
 
 Though bold Bellerophon (so Jove decreed 
 
 In wrath) fell headlong from the fields of air, 
 
 Yet a rich guerdon waits on minds that dare, 
 
 If aught be in them of immortal seed, 
 
 And reason govern that audacious flight 
 
 Which heavenward they direct. — Then droop not 
 
 thou, 
 Erroneously renewing a sad vow 
 In the low dell 'mid Roslin's faded grove : 
 A cheerful life is what the Muses love, 
 A soaring spirit is their prime delight. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Fair Prime of life ! were it enough to gild 
 
 With ready sunbeams every straggling shower; 
 
 And, if an unexpected cloud should lower. 
 
 Swiftly thereon a rainbow arch to build 
 
 For Fancy's errands, — then, from fields half-tilled 
 
 Gathering green weeds to mix with poppy flower. 
 
 Thee might thy Minions crown, and chant thy power, 
 
 Unpitied by the wise, all censure stilled. 
 
 Ah ! show that worthier honours are thy due ; 
 
 Fair Prime of Life ! arouse the deeper heart ; 
 
 Confirm the Spirit glorying to pursue 
 
 Some path of steep ascent and lofty aim ; 
 
 And, if there be a joy that slights the claim 
 
 Of grateful memory, bid that joy depart. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 187 
 
 XLVI. 
 I HEARD (alas! 'twas only in a dream) 
 Strains — which, as sage Antiquity believed, 
 By waking ears have sometimes been received, 
 Wafted adown the wind from lake or stream ; 
 A most melodious requiem, a supreme 
 And perfect harmony of notes, achieved 
 By a fair Swan on drowsy billows heaved, 
 O'er which Iier pinions shed a silver gleam. 
 For is she not the votary of Apollo ? 
 And knows she not, singing as he inspires. 
 That bliss awaits her which the ungenial hollow* 
 Of the dull earth partakes not, nor desires 1 
 Mount, tuneful Bird, and join the immortal quires ! 
 She soared — and I awoke, struggling in vain to follow. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 If the whole weight of what we think and feel, 
 
 Save only far as thought and feeling blend 
 
 With action, were as nothing, patriot Friend ! 
 
 From thy remonstrance would be no appeal ; 
 
 But to promote and fortify the weal 
 
 Of our own Being is her paramount end ; 
 
 A truth which they alone shall comprehend 
 
 Who shun the mischief which they cannot heal. 
 
 Peace in these feverish times is sovereign bliss ; 
 
 Here, with no thirst but what the stream can slake. 
 
 And startled only by the rustling brake, 
 
 Cool air I breathe ; while the unincumbered Mind 
 
 By some weak aims at services assigned 
 
 To gentle Natures, thanks not Heaven amiss. 
 
 XLvm. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY CALVERT. 
 
 Calvert ! it must not be unheard by them 
 Who may respect my name, that I to thee 
 Owed many years of early liberty. 
 This care was thine when sickness did condemn 
 Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem : 
 That I, if frugal and severe, might stray 
 Where'er I liked ; and finally array 
 My temples with the Muse's diadem. 
 Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth. 
 If there be aught of pure, or good, or great. 
 In my past verse ; or shall be, in the lays 
 Of higher mood, which now I meditate, — 
 It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived Youth ! 
 To think how much of this will be thy praise. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 I. 
 
 Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned. 
 Mindless of its just honours ; with this Key 
 Shakspeare unlocked his heart ; the melody 
 Of this small Lutg gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; 
 A thousand times this Pipe did Tasso sound ; , 
 Camoens soothed with it an Exile's grief; 
 The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle Leaf 
 Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned 
 His visionary brow : a glow-worm Lamp, 
 It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land 
 To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp 
 Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 
 The Thing became a Trumpet, whence he blew 
 Soul-animating strains — alas, too few ! 
 
 * See the Phedo of Plato, by which tliis Sonnet was suggested- 
 
 IL 
 
 Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell 
 Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change. 
 Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strange. 
 Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell; 
 But where untroubled peace and concord dwell, 
 There also is the Muse not loth to range. 
 Watching the blue smoke of the elmy grange, 
 Skyward ascending from the twilight dell. 
 Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour. 
 And sage content, and placid melancholy ; 
 She loves to gaze upon- a crystal river, 
 Diaphanous, becatise it travels slowly ; 
 Soil is the music, that would charm for ever ; 
 The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly. 
 
 in. 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1815. 
 
 While not a leaf seems faded, — while the fields, 
 
 With ripening harvest prodigally fair. 
 
 In brightest sunshine bask, — this nipping air. 
 
 Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields 
 
 His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields 
 
 Of bitter change — and bids the Flowers beware ; 
 
 And whispers to the silent Birds, " Prepare 
 
 Against the threatening Foe your trustiest shields." 
 
 For me, who under kindlier laws belong 
 
 To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry 
 
 Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline sky, 
 
 Announce a season potent to renew, 
 
 'Mid frost and snov/, the instinctive joys of song. 
 
 And nobler cares than listless summer knew. 
 
188 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 rv. 
 
 NOVEMBER 1. 
 
 How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright 
 The effluence from yon distant mountain's head, 
 Which, strewn with snow smooth as the heaven can 
 
 shed. 
 Shines like another Sun — on mortal sight 
 Uprisen, as if to check approaching night. 
 And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread. 
 If so he might, yon mountain's glittering head- 
 Terrestrial — but a surface, by the flight 
 Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing, 
 Unswept, unstained ! Nor sliall the aerial Powers 
 Dissolve that beauty — destined to endure, 
 White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure, 
 Through all vicissitudes — till genial spring 
 Have filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers. 
 
 V. 
 
 COMPOSED DURING A STORM. 
 
 One who was suffering tumult in his soul 
 
 Vet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer. 
 
 Went forth — his course surrendering to the care 
 
 Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl 
 
 Insidiously, untimely thunders growl; 
 
 While trees, dim seen, in frenzied numbers, tear 
 
 The lingering remnant of their yellow hair, 
 
 And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl 
 
 As if the sun were not. He raised his eye 
 
 Soul fmilten, for, that instant, did appear 
 
 Large space, 'mid dreadful clouds, of purest sky, 
 
 An azure orb — shield of Tranquillity, 
 
 Invisible, unlooked-for minister 
 
 Of providential goodness ever nigh ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 TO A SNOW-DROP. 
 Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they. 
 But hardier far, once more I see thee bend 
 Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend. 
 Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day, 
 Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, waylay 
 The rising sun, and on the plains descend ; 
 Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend 
 Whose zeal outruns his promise ! Blue-eyed May 
 Shall soon behold this border thickly set 
 With bright jonquils, their odours lavishing 
 On the soft west-wind and his frolic peers; 
 Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, 
 Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, 
 And pensive monitor of fleeting years ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 COMPOSED A FEW DAYS AFTER THE FOREGOING. I 
 
 When haughty expectations prostrate lie, 
 
 And grandeur crouches like a guilty thing. 
 
 Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring 
 
 Mature release, in fair society 
 
 Survive, and Fortune's utmost anger try ; 
 
 Like tliese frail snow-drops that together cling, 
 
 And nod their helmets, smitten by the wing 
 
 Of many a furious whirl-blast sweeping by. 
 
 Observe the faithful flowers ! if small to great 
 
 May lead the thoughts, thus struggling used to stand 
 
 The Emathian phalanx, nobly obstinate ; 
 
 And so the bright immortal Theban band. 
 
 Whom onset, fiercely urged at Jove's command. 
 
 Might overwhelm, but could not separate ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The Stars are mansions built by Nature's hand, 
 The sun is peopled ; and with Spirits blest : 
 Say, can the gentle Moon be unpossessed f 
 Huge Ocean shows, within his yellow strand, 
 A Habitation marvellously planned, 
 For life to occupy in love and rest ; 
 All that we see — is dome, or vault, or nest, 
 Or fort, erected at her sage command. 
 Glad thouglit for every season ! but the Spring 
 Gave it while cares were weighing on my heart, 
 'Mid song of birds, and insects murmuring; 
 And while the youthful year's prolific art — 
 Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower — was fashioning 
 Abodes where self-disturbance hath no part. 
 
 1 
 
 ,•1 
 
 IX. 
 
 TO THE LADY BEAUMONT. 
 
 Lady ! the songs of Spring were in the grove 
 While I was shaping beds for winter flowers ; 
 While I was planting green unfading bowers. 
 And shrubs to hang upon the warm alcove. 
 And sheltering wall ; and still, as Fancy wove 
 The dream, to time and nature's blended powers 
 I gave this paradise for winter hours, 
 A labyrinth. Lady ! which your feet shall rove. 
 Yes ! when the sun of life more feebly shines, 
 Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom 
 Or of high gladness, you shall hither bring ; 
 And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines 
 Be gracious as the music and the bloom 
 And all the mighty ravishment of spring. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 189 
 
 X. 
 
 TO THE LADY MARY LO\VTHER, 
 
 With a selection from the Poems of Anne, Countess of Win- 
 chelsea ; and extracts of similar character from other writers ; 
 transcribed by a female friend. 
 
 Lady! I rifled a Parnassian Cave 
 (But seldom trod) of mildly-gleaming ore ; 
 And culled, from sundry beds, a lucid store 
 Of genuine crystals, pure as those that pave 
 The azure brooks where Dian joys to lave 
 Her spotless limbs ; and ventured to explore 
 Dim shades — for reliques, upon Lethe's shore, 
 Cast up at random by the sullen wave. 
 To female hands the treasures were resigned ; 
 And lo, this Work ! a grotto bright and clear 
 From stain or taint ! in which thy blameless mind 
 May feed on thoughts though pensive not austere ; 
 Or, if thy deeper spirit be inclined 
 To holy musing, it may enter here. 
 
 XI. 
 
 There is a pleasure in poetic pains 
 
 Which only Poets know ; — 'twas rightly said ; 
 
 Whom could the Muses else allure to tread 
 
 Their smoothest paths, to wear their lightest chains 1 
 
 When happiest Fancy has inspired the Strains, 
 
 How oft the malice of one luckless word 
 
 Pursues the Enthusiast to the social board. 
 
 Haunts him belated on the silent plains! 
 
 Yet he repines not, if his thought stand clear, 
 
 At last, of hinderance and obscurit}'. 
 
 Fresh as the Star that crowns the brow of Morn ; 
 
 Bright, speckless, as a softly moulded tear 
 
 The moment it has left the Virgin's eye. 
 
 Or rain-drop lingering on the pointed Thorn. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The Shepherd, loolting eastward, softly said, 
 "Bright is thy veil, O Moon, as thou art bright !" 
 Forthwith, that little Cloud, in ether spread. 
 And penetrated all with tender light. 
 She cast away, and showed her fulgent head 
 Uncovered ; — dazzling the Beholder's sight 
 As if to vindicate her beauty's right. 
 Her beauty thoughtlessly disparaged. 
 Meanwhile that Veil, removed or thrown aside, 
 Went, floating from her, darkening as it went ; 
 And a huge Mass, to bury or to hide. 
 Approached this glory of the firmament; 
 Who meekly yields, and is obscured ; — content 
 With one calm triumph of a modest pride. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour ! 
 Not dull art Thou, as undiscerning Night ; 
 But studious only to remove from sight 
 Day's mutable distinctions. — Ancient Power! 
 Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lower. 
 To the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin vest 
 Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest 
 On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower 
 Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen 
 The self-same Vision which we now behold, 
 At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power ! brought forth-. 
 These mighty barriers, and the gulf between ; 
 The floods, — the stars, — a spectacle as old 
 As the beginning of the heavens and earth ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climbest the sky. 
 How silently, and with how wan a face ! * 
 Where art thou'! Thou whom I have seen on high 
 Running among the clouds a wood-nymph's race ! 
 Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh 
 Which they would stifle, move at such a pace ! 
 The northern Wind, to call thee to the chase. 
 Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I 
 The power of Merlin, Goddess ! this should be : 
 And the keen Stars, fast as the clouds were riven. 
 Should sally forth, an emulous Company, 
 All hurrying with thee through the clear blue heaven ; 
 But, Cynthia ! should to thee the palm be given. 
 Queen both for beauty and for majesty. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Even as a dragon's eye that feels the stress 
 Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp 
 Suddenly glaring through sepulchral damp, 
 So burns yon Taper 'mid a black recess 
 Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless : 
 The Lake below reflects it not ; the sky, 
 Muffled in clouds, affords no company 
 To mitigate and cheer its loneliness. 
 Yet, round the body of that joyless Thing 
 Which sends so far its melancholy light, 
 Perhaps are seated in domestic ring 
 A gay society with faces bright, 
 Conversing, reading, laughing ; — or they sing, 
 While hearts and voices in the song unite. 
 
 ' From a Sonnet of Sir Philip Sidney. 
 
190 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Mark the concentred Hazels that enclose 
 
 Yon old gray Stone, protected from the ray 
 
 Of noontide suns : — and even the beams that play 
 
 And glance, while wantonly the rough wind blows, 
 
 Are seldom free to touch the moss that grows 
 
 Upon that roof, amid embowering gloom, 
 
 The very image framing of a Tomb, 
 
 In which some ancient Chieftain fmds repose 
 
 Among the lonely mountains. — Live, ye Trees ! 
 
 And Thou, gray Stone, the pensive likeness keep 
 
 Of a dark chamber where the Mighty sleep : 
 
 For more than Fancy to the influence bends 
 
 When solitary Nature condescends 
 
 To mimic Time's forlorn humanities. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 CAPTIVITY. 
 
 " As the cold aspect of a sunless way 
 
 Strikes through the Traveller's frame with deadlier 
 
 chill, 
 Oft as appears a grove, or obvious hill, 
 Glistening with unparticipated ray, 
 Or shining slope where he must never stray ; 
 So joys, remembered without wish or will, 
 Sharpen the keenest edge of present ill, — 
 On the crushed heart a heavier burthen lay. 
 Just Heaven, contract the compass of my mind 
 To fit proportion with my altered state ! 
 Quench those felicities whose light I find 
 Reflected in my bosom all too late! — 
 O be my spirit, like my thraldom, strait ; 
 And, like mine eyes that stream with sorrow, blind !" 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Brook ! whose society the Poet seeks. 
 Intent his wasted spirits to renew ; 
 And whom the curious Painter doth pursue 
 Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks. 
 And tracks thee dancing down thy water-brakes ; 
 If wish were mine some type of thee to view, 
 Thee, — and not thee thyself, I would not do 
 Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks, 
 Channels for tears ; no Naiad should'st thou be, — 
 Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints nor hairs : 
 It seems the Eternal Soul is clothed in thee 
 With purer robes than those of flesh and blood, 
 And hath bestowed on thee a better good ; 
 Unwearied joy, and life without its cares. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 COMPOSED ON THE BANKS OF A ROCKY STRE.4M. 
 
 Dogmatic Teachers, of the snow-white fur ! 
 Ye wrangling Schoolmen, of the scarlet hood ! 
 Who, with a keenness not to be withstood, 
 Press the point home, — or falter and demur, 
 Checked in your course by many a teasing burr; 
 These natural council-seats your acrid blood 
 Might cool ; — and, as the Genius of the flood 
 Stoops willingly to animate and spur 
 Each lighter function slumbering in the brain. 
 Yon eddying balls of foam — these arrowy gleams, 
 That o'er the pavement of the surging streams 
 Welter and flash — a synod might detain 
 With subtle speculations, haply vain. 
 But surely less so than your far-fetched themes ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 This, and the two following, were suggested by Mr. W. Westdi's I 
 Views of tile Caves, etc. in Yorlishire. 
 
 Pure element of waters ! wheresoe'er 
 Thou dost forsake thy subterranean haunts. 
 Green herbs, bright flowers, and berry-bearing plants, 
 Rise into life and in thy train appear : 
 And, through the sunny portion of the year, 
 Swift insects shine, thy hovering pursuivants : 
 And, if thy bounty fail, the forest pants; 
 And hart and hind and hunter with his spear, 
 Languish and droop together. Nor unfelt 
 In man's perturbed soul thy sway benign ; 
 And, haply, far within the marble belt 
 Of central earth, where tortured Spirits pine 
 For grace and goodness lost, thy murmurs melt 
 Their anguish, — and they blend sweet songs with 
 thine.* 
 
 XXI. 
 
 MALHAM COVE. 
 
 Was the aim frustrated by force or guile. 
 
 When giants scooped from out the roclcy ground 
 
 — Tier under tier — this semicirque profound ! 
 
 (Giants — tlie same who built in Erin's isle 
 
 That Causeway with incomparable toil !) 
 
 O, had this vast theatric structure wound 
 
 With finished sweep into a perfect round, 
 
 No mightier work had gained the plausive smile 
 
 Of all-beholding Phosbus ! But, alas. 
 
 Vain earth ! — false world ! — Foundations must be laid 
 
 In Heaven; for, 'mid the wreck of is and was. 
 
 Things incomplete and purposes betrayed 
 
 * Waters (as Mr. Westall informs us in the letter-press prefixed 
 to his admirable views) are invariably found to flow through 
 these caverns. 
 
u 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 191 
 
 Make sadder transits o'er truth's mystic glass 
 Tlian noblest objects utterly decayed. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 GORDALE. 
 
 At early dawn, or rather when the air 
 i Glimmers with fading light, and shadowy Eve 
 Is busiest to confer and to bereave, 
 Then, pensive Votary ! let thy feet repair 
 To Gordale-chasm, terrific as the lair 
 Where the young lions couch ; — for so, by leave 
 Of the propitious hour, thou may'st perceive 
 The local Deity, with oozy hair 
 And mineral crown, beside his jagged urn. 
 Recumbent : Him thou may'st behold, who hides 
 ; His lineaments by day, yet there presides, 
 1 Teaching the docile waters how to turn ; 
 ! Or, if need be, impediment to spurn, 
 ! And force their passage to the salt-sea tides ! 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 THE MONUMENT COMMONLY CALLED LONG MEG AND 
 HER DAUGHTERS, NEAR THE RIVER EDEN.* 
 
 A WEIGHT of awe not easy to be borne 
 
 Fell suddenly upon my Spirit — cast 
 
 From the dread bosom of the unknown past, 
 
 When first I saw that Sisterhood forlorn ; 
 
 And Her, wliose massy strength and stature scorn 
 
 The power of years — pre-emfnent, and placed 
 
 Apart — to overlook the circle vast. 
 
 Speak, Giant-mother ! tell it to the Morn 
 
 While she dispels the cumbrous shades of night; 
 
 Let the Moon hear, emerging from a cloud. 
 
 At whose behest uprose on British ground 
 
 Thy Progeny ; in hieroglyphic round 
 
 Forth-shadowing, some have deemed, the infinite, 
 
 The inviolable God, that tames the proud ! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY ACROSS THE HAM- 
 BLETON HILLS, YORKSHIRE. 
 
 Daek and more dark the shades of evening fell ; 
 The wished-for point was reached, but late the hour ; 
 
 *The Daughters of Long Meg, placed in a perfect circle eighty 
 yards in diameter, are seventy-two in number, and their height 
 is from three feet to so many yards above ground ; a little way 
 OQtofthe circle stands iono^ Meg herself, a single Stone, eighteen 
 feet high. When the Author first saw this Monument, as he 
 came upon it by surprise, he might over-rate its importance as 
 an object; but, though it will not bear a comparison with Stone- 
 henge, he must say, he has not seen any other Relique of those 
 dark ages, which can pretend to rival it in singularity and digni- 
 ty of appearance. 
 
 And little could be gained from all that dower 
 Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell. 
 Yet did the glowing west in all its 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, 
 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. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 -" they are of the sky, 
 
 And from our earthly memory fade away.' 
 
 These words were uttered as in pensive mood 
 We turned, departing from that solemn sight : 
 A contrast and reproach to gross delight. 
 And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed ! 
 But now upon this thought I cannot brood ; 
 It is unstable as a dream of night ; 
 Nor will I prai.se a Cloud, however bright. 
 Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food. 
 Grove, Isle, with every shape of sky-built dome, 
 Though clad in colours beautiful and pure, 
 Find in the heart of man no natural home : 
 The immortal Mind craves objects that endure : 
 These cleave to it ; from these it cannot roam, 
 Nor they from it : their fellowship is secure. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, 
 SEPT. 3, 1803. 
 
 Eakth has not any thing 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 glideth at his own sweet will : 
 Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
 And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 
 
192 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 OXFORD, MAY 30, 1820. 
 
 Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth ! 
 
 In whose collegiate shelter England's Flowers 
 
 Expand — enjoying through their vernal hours 
 
 The air of liberty, the light of truth ; 
 
 Much have ye suffered from Time's gnawing tooth, 
 
 Yet, O ye Spires of Oxford ! Domes and Towers ! 
 
 Gardens and Groves ! your presence overpowers 
 
 The soberness of Reason ; till, in sooth. 
 
 Transformed, and rushing on a bold exchange, 
 
 I slight my own beloved Cam, to range 
 
 Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet ; 
 
 Pace the long avenue, or glide adown 
 
 The stream-like windings of that glorious street, 
 
 — An eager Novice robed in fluttering gown! 
 
 XXVIII. 
 OXFORD, MAY 30, 1820. 
 
 Shame on this faithless heart ! that could allow 
 Such transport — though but for a moment's space ; 
 Not while — to aid the spirit of the place — 
 The crescent moon clove with its glittering prow 
 The clouds, or night-bird sang from shady bough, 
 But in plain daylight : — She, too, at my side. 
 Who, with her heart's experience satisfied, 
 Maintains inviolate its slightest vow ! 
 Sweet Fancy! other gifts must I receive; 
 Proofs of a higher sovereignty I claim ; 
 Take from her brow the withering flowers of eve. 
 And to that brow Life's morning wreath restore ; 
 Let her be comprehended in the frame 
 Of these illusions, or they please no more. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 RECOLLECTION OF THE PORTRAIT OF KING HENRY 
 EIGHTH, TRINITY LODGE, CA!\IBRIDGE. 
 
 The imperial Stature, the colossal stride. 
 Are yet before me ; yet do I behold 
 The broad full visage, chest of amplest mould. 
 The vestments 'broidered with barbaric pride : 
 And lo! a poniard, at the Monarch's side. 
 Hangs ready to be grasped in sympathy 
 With the keen threatenings of that fulgent eye. 
 Below the white-rimmed bonnet, far descried. 
 Who trembles now at thy capricious mood "! 
 'Mid those surrounding worthies, haughty King, 
 We rather think, with grateful mind sedate. 
 How Providence educeth, from the spring 
 Of lawless will, unlooked-for streams of good. 
 Which neither force shall check, nor time abate ! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF HIS MAJESTi', (GEORGE 
 THE THIRD.) 
 
 Ward of the Law ! — dread Shadow of a King ! 
 Whose realm had dwindled lo one stately room ; 
 Whoso universe was gloom immersed in gloom, 
 Darkness as thick as Life o'er Life could fling. 
 Save haply for some feeble glimmering 
 Of Faith and Hope ; if thou, by nature's doom. 
 Gently hast sunk into the quiet tomb. 
 Why should we bend in grief, to sorrow cling. 
 When thankfulness were best'! — Fresh-flowing tearal 
 Or, where tears flow not, sigh succeeding sigh. 
 Yield to such after-thought the sole reply 
 Which justly it can claim. The Nation hears 
 In this deep knell — silent for threescore years. 
 An unexampled voice of awful memory ! 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 JUNE, 1820. 
 Fame tells of Groves — from England far away — 
 * Groves that inspire the Nightingale to trill 
 And modulate, with subtle reach of skill 
 Elsewhere unmatched, her ever-varying lay; 
 Such bold report I venture to gainsay; 
 For I have heard the choir of Richmond hill 
 Chanting, with indefatigable bill. 
 Strains that recalled to mind a distant day; 
 When, haply under shade of that same wood. 
 And scarcely con.scious of the dasliing oars 
 Plied steadily between those willowy shores. 
 The sweet-souled Poet of the Seasons stood — 
 Listening, and listening long, in rapturous mood. 
 Ye heavenly Birds ! to your Progenitors. 
 
 xxxn. 
 
 A PARSONAGE IN OXFORDSHIRE.t 
 Where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends. 
 Is marked by no distinguishable line ; 
 The turf unites, the pathways intertwine ; 
 And, wheresoe'er the stealing footstep tends. 
 Garden, and that domain where Kindred, Friends, 
 And Neighbours rest together, here confound 
 Their several features, mingled like the sound 
 Of many waters, or as evening blends 
 With shady niglit. Soft airs, from shrub and flower, 
 Waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave ; 
 And while those lofty Poplars gently wave 
 Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky 
 Bright as the glimpses of Eternity, 
 To Saints accorded in their mortal hour. 
 
 * Wallachia is the country alluded to. 
 tSee Note, 23, p. 324. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 193 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 COMPOSED AMONG THE RUINS OF A CASTLE 
 IN NORTH WALES. 
 
 Through shattered galleries, 'mid roofless halls, 
 Wandering with timid footstep oft betrayed, 
 The Stranger sighs, nor scruples to upbraid 
 Old Time, though He, gentlest among the Thralls 
 Of Destiny, upon these wounds hath laid 
 His lenient touches, soft as light that falls. 
 From the wan Moon, upon the Towers and Walls, 
 Light deepening the profoundest sleep of shade. 
 Relic of Kings! Wreck of forgotten wars. 
 To winds abandoned and the prying stars, 
 Time loves Thee ! at his call the Seasons twine 
 Luxuriant wreaths around thy forehead hoar ; 
 And, though past pomp no changes can restore, 
 A soothing recompense, his gift, is Thine ! 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 TO THE LADY E. B. AND THE HON. MISS P. 
 
 COMPOSED IN THE GROUNDS OP PLASS NEWIDD, NEAR 
 LLANGOLLIN, 1824. 
 
 A Stream to mingle with your favourite Dee, 
 
 Along the Vale op Meditation* flows ; 
 
 So styled by those fierce Britons, pleased to see 
 
 In Nature's face the expression of repose ; 
 
 Or haply there some pious Hermit chose 
 
 To live and die, the peace of Heaven his aim ; 
 
 To whom the wild sequestered region owes, 
 
 At this late day, its sanctifying name. 
 
 Glyn Cafaillgaeoch, in the Cambrian tongue, 
 
 In ours the Vale of Friendship, let this spot 
 
 Be named ; where, faithful to a low-roofed Cot, 
 
 On Deva's banks, ye have abode so long ; 
 
 Sisters in love — a love allowed to climb. 
 
 Even on this earth, above the reach of Time ! 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 TO THE TORRENT AT THE DEVIL'S BRIDGE, 
 NORTH WALES. 
 
 How art thou named 1 In search of what strange land 
 
 Prom what huge height, descending! Can such force 
 
 Of waters issue from a British source. 
 
 Or hath not Pindus fed Thee, where the band 
 
 Of Patriots scoop their freedom out, with hand 
 
 Desperate as thine 1 Or come tlie incessant shocks 
 
 From that young Stream, that smites the throbbing rocks 
 
 Of Viamala 1 There I seem to stand. 
 
 As in Life's Morn ; permitted to behold. 
 
 From the dread chasm, woods climbing above woods; 
 
 In pomp that fades not ; everlasting snows ; 
 
 And skies that ne'er relinquish their repose; 
 
 Such power possess the Family of floods 
 
 Over the minds of Poets, young or old ! 
 
 "Glyn Myrvr. 
 Z 
 
 " gives to airy nothing 
 
 A local habitation and a name." 
 
 Though narrow be that Old Man's cares, and near, 
 The poor Old Man is greater than he seems : 
 For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams; 
 An ample sovereignty of eye and ear. 
 Rich are his walks with supernatural cheer ; 
 The region of his inner spirit teems 
 With vital sounds and monitory gleams 
 Of high astonishment and pleasing fear. 
 He the seven birds hath seen, that never part. 
 Seen the Seven Whistlers in their nightly rounds, 
 And counted them: and oftentimes will start — 
 For overhead are sweeping Gabriel's Hounds, 
 Doomed, with their impious Lord, the flying Hart 
 To chase for ever, on aerial grounds ! 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Strange visitation ! at Jemima's lip 
 
 Thus hadst thou pecked, wild Redbreast! Love might 
 
 say, 
 A half-blown rose had tempted thee to sip 
 Its glistening dews; but hallowed is the clay 
 Which the Muse warms ; and I, whose head is gray. 
 Am not unworthy of thy fellowship; 
 Nor could I let one thought — one motion — slip 
 That might thy sylvan confidence betray. 
 For are we not all His without whose care 
 Vouchsafed no sparrow falleth to the ground? 
 Who gives his Angels wings to speed through air, 
 And rolls the planets through the blue profound ; 
 Then peck or perch, fond Flutterer ! nor forbear 
 To trust a Poet in still vision bound. 
 
 XXXVIIL 
 
 When Philoctetes in the Lemnian Islo 
 Lay couched ; — upon that breathless Monument, 
 On him, or on his fearful bow unbent. 
 Some wild Bird oft might settle and beguile 
 The rigid features of a transient smile. 
 Disperse the tear, or to the sigh give vent, 
 Slackening the pains of ruthless banishment 
 From home aflections, and heroic toil. 
 Nor doubt that spiritual Creatures round us move. 
 Griefs to allay that Reason cannot heal ; 
 And very Reptiles have sufiiced to prove 
 To fettered Wretchedness, tliat no Bastile 
 Is deep enough to exclude the light of love, 
 Though Man for Brother Man has ceased to feel. 
 17 
 
194 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 1 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 While they, who once were Anna's Playmates, tread 
 
 The mountain turf and river's flowery marge ; 
 
 Or float with music in the festal barge; 
 
 Rein the proud steed, or through tlie dance are led ; 
 
 Her doom it is to press a weary bed — 
 
 Till oft her guardian Angel, to some Charge 
 
 More urgent called, will stretch liis wings at large, 
 
 And Friends too rarely prop the languid head. 
 
 Yet Genius is no feeble comforter : 
 
 The presence even of a stuffed Owl for her 
 
 Can cheat the time ; sending her fancy out 
 
 To ivied castles and to moonliglit skies. 
 
 Though he can neither stir a plume, nor shout ; 
 
 Nor veil, with restless film, his staring eyes. 
 
 XL. 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 Not the whole warbling grove in concert heard 
 When sunshine follows shower, the breast can thrill 
 Like the first summons, Cuckoo! of thy bill. 
 With its twin notes inseparably paired. 
 The Captive 'mid damp vaults unsunned, unaired, 
 Measuring the periods of his lonely doom. 
 That cry can reach ; and to the sick man's room 
 Sends gladness, by no languid smile declared. 
 The lordly Eagle-race througli hostile search 
 'May perish ; time may come when never more 
 The wilderness shall hear the Lion roar ; 
 But, long as Cock shall crow from household perch 
 To rouse the dawn, soft gales shall speed thy wing, 
 And thy erratic voice be faitliful to the Spring ! 
 
 XLL 
 
 THE INFANT M- 
 
 M- 
 
 Unqtjiet Childhood here by special grace 
 Forgets her nature, opening like a flower 
 That neither feeds nor wastes its vital power 
 In painful struggles. Months each other chase. 
 And nought untunes that Infant's voice ; a trace 
 Of fretful temper sullies not her cheek ; 
 Prompt, lively, self-sufficing, yet so meek 
 That one enrapt with gazing on her face 
 (Which even the placid innocence of Death 
 Could scarcely make more placid, Heaven more bright) 
 Might learn to picture, for the eye of faith, 
 The Virgin, as she shone with kindred light; 
 A Nursling couched upon her Mother's knee. 
 Beneath some shady Palm of Galilee. 
 
 XLII. 
 TO ROTH A Q- 
 
 RoTHA, my Spiritual Child ! this head was gray 
 When at the sacred Font for Thee I stood ; 
 Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood 
 And shalt become thy own sufficient stay : 
 Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan ! was the day 
 For steadfast hope the contract to fulfil; 
 Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still, 
 Embodied in the music of this Lay, 
 Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain Stream* 
 Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's ear 
 After her throes, this Stream of name more dear 
 Since thou dost bear it, — a memorial theme 
 For others ; for thy future self a spell 
 To summon fancies out of Time's dark cell. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 TO- 
 
 IN HER SEVENTIETH YEAR. 
 
 Such age how beautiful ! O Lady bright, 
 
 Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined 
 
 By favouring Nature and a saintly Mind 
 
 To something purer and more exquisite 
 
 Than flesh and blood ; whene'er thou meet'st my sight, 
 
 When I behold thy blanched unwithered cheek. 
 
 Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white, 
 
 And head that droops because the soul is meek. 
 
 Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare ; 
 
 That Child of Winter, prompting thoughts that climb. 
 
 From desolation toward the genial prime; 
 
 Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty air. 
 
 And filling more and more with crystal light 
 
 As pensive Evening deepens into night. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 A GRAVE-STONE UPON THE FLOOR IN THE CLOISTEESii 
 OF WORCESTER CATHEDRAL. 
 
 " MiSERRiMus !" and neither name nor date, 
 Prayer, text, or symbol, graven upon the stone; 
 Nought but that word assigned to the unknown. 
 That solitary word — to separate 
 From all, and cast a cloud around the fate 
 Of him who lies beneath. Most wretched one, 
 Who chose his Epitaph 1 Himself alone 
 Could thus have dared the grave to agitate, 
 And claim, among the dead, this awful crown; 
 Nor doubt that He marked also for his own. 
 Close to these cloistral steps a burial-place. 
 That every foot might fall with heavier tread. 
 Trampling upon his vileness. Stranger, pass 
 Softly ! — To save the contrite, Jesus bled. 
 
 * The River Rotha, tlmt flows into Windermere from the 
 Lakes of Grasmere and Ry<lal. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 195 
 
 XLV. 
 
 A TRADITION OF DARLEY DALE, DERBYSHIRE. 
 'T IS said that to the brow of yon fair hill 
 Two Brothers clomb, and, turning face from face, 
 Nor one looli more exchanging, grief to still 
 Or feed, each planted on that lofty place 
 A chosen Tree ; then, eager to fulfil 
 Their courses, like two new-born rivers, they 
 In opposite directions urged their way 
 Down from the far-seen mount. No blast might kill 
 Or blight that fond memorial ; — the trees grew, 
 And now entwine their arms ; but ne'er again 
 Embraced those Brothers upon earth's wide plain ; 
 Nor aught of mutual joy or sorrow knew 
 Until their spirits mingled in the sea 
 That to itself takes all — Eternity. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 FILIAL PIETY. 
 Untouched through all severity of cold, 
 Inviolate, whate'er the cottage hearth 
 Might need for comfort, or for festal mirth, 
 That Pile of Turf is half a century old: 
 Yes, Traveller ! fifty winters have been told 
 
 , Since suddenly the dart of death went forth 
 'Gainst him who raised it, — his last work on earth ; 
 Thence by his Son more prized than aught which gold 
 
 iCould purchase — watched, preserved by his own hands, 
 
 That, faithful to the Structure, still repair 
 
 Its waste. — Though crumbling with each breath of air, 
 
 lln annual renovation thus it stands — 
 Rude Mausoleum ! but wrens nestle there, 
 
 I And red-breasts warble when sweet sounds are rare. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 TO R. B. HAYDON, ESQ., 
 
 ON SEEING HIS PICTUEE OF NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE 
 ON THE ISLAND OP ST. HELENA. 
 
 Hatdon ! let worthier judges praise the skill 
 
 Here by thy pencil shown in truth of lines 
 
 And charm of colours ; I applaud those signs 
 
 Of thought, that give the true poetic thrill ; 
 
 That unencumbered whole of blank and still, 
 
 Sky without cloud — ocean without a wave ; 
 
 And the one Man that laboured to enslave 
 
 The World, sole-standing high on the bare hill — 
 
 Back turned, arms folded, the unapparent face 
 
 Tinged, we may fancy, in this dreary place 
 
 With light reflected from the invisible sun 
 
 Set like his fortunes ; but not set for aye 
 
 Like them. The unguilty Power pursues his way, 
 
 And before him doth dawn perpetual run. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Chatswoeth ! thy stately mansion, and the pride 
 
 Of thy domain, strange contrast do present 
 
 To house and home in many a craggy rent 
 
 Of the wild Peak ; where new-born waters glide 
 
 Through fields whose thrifty Occupants abide 
 
 As in a dear and chosen banishment, 
 
 With every semblance of entire content ; 
 
 So kind is simple Nature, fairly tried ! 
 
 Yet He whose heart in childhood gave lier troth 
 
 To pastoral dales, thin set with modest farms, 
 
 May learn, if judgment strengthen with his growth, 
 
 That, not for Fancy only, pomp hath charms ; 
 
 And, strenuous to protect from lawless harms 
 
 The extremes of favoured life, may honour both. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Desponding Father ! mark this altered bough. 
 
 So beautiful of late, with sunshine warmed, 
 
 Or moist with dews ; what more unsightly now, 
 
 Its blossoms shrivelled, and its fruit, if formed, 
 
 Invisible] yet Spring her genial brow 
 
 Knits not o'er that discolouring and decay 
 
 As false to expectation. Nor fret thou 
 
 At like unlovely process in the May 
 
 Of human life : a Stripling's graces blow, 
 
 Fade and are shed, that from their timely fall 
 
 (Misdeem it not a cankerous change) may grow 
 
 Rich mellow bearings, that for thanks shall call ; 
 
 In all men, sinful is it to be slow 
 
 To hope — in Parents, sinful above all. 
 
 ROMAN ANTIQUITIES DISCOVERED, 
 AT BISI-IOPSTONE, HEREFORDSHIRE. 
 
 While poring Antiquarians search the ground 
 
 Upturned with curious pains, the Bard, a Seer, 
 
 Takes fire : — The men that have been reappear ; 
 
 Romans for travel girt, for business gowned, 
 
 And some recline on couches, myrtle-crowned. 
 
 In festal glee : why not ? For fresh and clear. 
 
 As if its hues were of the passing year. 
 
 Dawns this time-buried pavement. From that mound 
 
 Hoards may come forth of Trajans, Maximins, 
 
 Shrunk into coins with all their warlike toil; 
 
 Or a fierce impress issues with its foil 
 
 Of tenderness — the Wolf, whose suckling Twins 
 
 The unlettered Ploughboy pities when he wins 
 
 The casual treasure from the furrowed soil. 
 
196 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 ■1 
 
 LI. 
 
 ST. CATHERINE OF LEDBURY. 
 
 When human touch, as monkish books attest, 
 
 Nor was applied nor could be, Ledbury bells 
 
 Broke forth in concert flung adown the dells, 
 
 And upward, high as Malvern's cloudy crest ; 
 
 Sweet tones, and caught by a noble Lady blest 
 
 To rapture ! Mabel listened at the side 
 
 Of her loved Mistress : soon the music died. 
 
 And Catherine said, " Here I set up my rest." 
 
 Warned in a dream, the Wanderer long had sought 
 
 A home that by such miracle of sound 
 
 Must be revealed : — she heard it now, or felt 
 
 The deep, deep joy of a confiding thought ; 
 
 And there, a saintly Anchoress, she dwelt 
 
 Till she exchanged for heaven that happy ground. 
 
 Ln. 
 
 Why art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant 
 
 Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air 
 
 Of absence withers what was once so fair] 
 
 Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant! 
 
 Vet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant 
 
 (As would my deeds have been) with hourly care, 
 
 The mind's least generous wish a mendican 
 
 For nought but what thy happiness could spare. 
 
 Speak, though this soft warm heart, once free to hold 
 
 A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, 
 
 Be left more desolate, more dreary cold 
 
 Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow 
 
 'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine ; 
 
 Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know ! 
 
 LIIL 
 
 FotjR fiery steeds impatient of the rein 
 Whirled us o'er sunless ground beneath a sky 
 As void of sunshine, when, from that wide Plain, 
 Clear tops of far-off" Mountains we descry. 
 Like a Sierra of cerulean Spain, 
 All light and lustre. Did no heart reply ■! 
 Yes, there was One ; — for One, asunder fly 
 The thousand links of that ethereal chain ; 
 And green vales open out, with grove and field. 
 And the fair front of many a happy Home ; 
 Such tempting spots as into vision come 
 While Soldiers, of the weapons that they wield 
 Weary, and sick of strifeful Christendom, 
 Gaze on the moon by parting clouds revealed. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 TO THE AUTHORS PORTRAIT. 
 
 [Painted at Rydal Mount, by W. Pickersgill, Esq., for St. John's 
 College, Cambridge.] 
 
 Go, faithful Portrait ! and where long hath knelt 
 Margaret, the saintly Foundress, take thy place ; 
 And, if Time spare the colours for the grace 
 Which to the work surpassing skill hath dealt. 
 Thou, on thy rock reclined, though Kingdoms melt, 
 And States be torn up by the roots, wilt seem 
 To breathe in rural peace, to hear the stream. 
 To think and feel as once the Poet felt. 
 Whate'er thy fate, those features have not grown 
 Unrecognized through many a household tear. 
 More prompt more glad to fall than drops of dew 
 By morning shed around a flower half blown; 
 Tears of delight, that testified how true 
 To life thou art, and, in thy truth, how dear ! 
 
 LV. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 TO 
 
 If these brief Records, by the Muses' art 
 Produced as lonely Nature or the strife 
 That animates the scenes of public life 
 Inspired, may in thy leisure claim a part; 
 And if these Transcripts of the private heart 
 Have gained a sanction from thy falling tears. 
 Then I repent not : but my soul hath fears 
 Breathed from eternity ; for as a dart 
 Cleaves the blank air. Life flies : now every day 
 Is but a glimmering spoke in the swift wheel 
 Of the revolving week. Away, away, 
 All fitful cares, all transitory zeal ; 
 So timely Grace the immortal wing may heal, 
 And honour rest upon the senseless clay. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 In my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud 
 
 Slowly surmounting some invidious hill, 
 
 Rose out of darkness : the bright Work stood still, 
 
 And might of its own beauty have been proud. 
 
 But it was fashioned and to God was vowed 
 
 By Virtues that diflhsed, in every part, 
 
 Spirit divine through forms of human art: 
 
 Faith had her arch — her arch, when winds blow loud, 
 
 Into the consciousness of safety thrilled ; 
 
 And Love her towers of dread foundation laid 
 
 Under the grave of things ; Hope had her spire 
 
 Star-high, and pointing still to something higher; 
 
 Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice — it said, 
 
 Hell-gates are powerless Phantoms when we build. 
 
POEMS OP THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 197 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803. 
 
 DEPARTURE FROM THE VALE OF GRASMERE, 
 
 AUGUST, 1803. 
 
 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 
 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. 
 pleasant transit, Grasmere ! to resign 
 Such happy fields, abodes so calm as thine; 
 Not like an outcast witli himself at strife ; 
 I 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. 
 
 II. 
 
 TO THE SONS OF BURNS, 
 AFTER VISITING THE GRAVE OP THEIR FATHER. 
 
 " The Poet's grave is in a comer of the churchyard. We 
 looked at it with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating 
 
 to each other his own verses 
 
 " ' 1b there a man wlioGe judgment clear,' &c." 
 
 Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-travelter. 
 
 '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 ! 
 But if the Poet's wit ye share, 
 
 Like him can speed 
 The social hour — for tenfold care 
 
 There will be need. 
 
 Even 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; 
 
 His judgment with benignant 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 ! 
 17* 
 
198 
 
 WORDSlVORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 III. 
 ELLEN IRWIN; 
 
 OR 
 
 THE BRAES OF KIRTLE.* 
 
 Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate 
 Upon the Braes of Kirtle, 
 Was lovely as a Grecian Maid 
 Adorned with wreaths of myrtle ; 
 Young Adam Bruce beside her lay, 
 And there did they beguile the day 
 With love and gentle speeches, 
 Beneath the budding beeches. 
 
 From many Knights and many Squires 
 The Bruce had been selected; 
 And Gordon, fairest of them all, 
 By Ellen was rejected. 
 Sad tidings to that noble Youth ! 
 For it may be proclaimed with truth, 
 If Bruce hath loved sincerely, 
 That Gordon loves as dearly. 
 
 But what is Gordon's beauteous face, 
 And what are Gordon's crosses. 
 To them who sit by Kirtle's Braes 
 Upon the verdant mosses'! 
 Alas that ever he was born ! 
 The Gordon, couched behind a thorn, 
 Sees them and their caressing; 
 Beholds them blest and blessing. 
 
 Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts 
 That through his brain are travelling, — 
 And, starting up, to Bruce's heart 
 He lanched a deadly javelin ! 
 Fair Ellen saw it when it came, 
 And, stepping forth to meet the same, 
 Did with her body cover 
 The Youth, her chosen Lover. 
 
 And, falling into Bruce's arms. 
 Thus died the beauteous Ellen, 
 Thus, from the heart of her True-love, 
 The mortal spear repelling. 
 And Bruce, as soon as he had slain 
 The Gordon, sailed away to Spain ; 
 And fought with rage incessant 
 Against the INIoorish Crescent. 
 
 But many days, and many months. 
 And many years ensuing. 
 This wretched Knight did vainly seek 
 The death that he was wooing. 
 
 *The Kirtle ia a River in tlie Southern part of Scotland, on 
 whose banks liic events here related took place. 
 
 So coming his last help to crave. 
 Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave 
 His body he extended. 
 And there his sorrow ended. 
 
 Now ye, who willingly have heard 
 The tale I have been telling. 
 May in Kirkonnel churchyard view 
 The grave of lovely Ellen : 
 By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid; 
 And, for the stone upon his head. 
 May no rude hand deface it, 
 And its forlorn Hic jacet!* 
 
 IV. 
 TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. 
 
 (AT INVERSENYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND.) 
 
 Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 
 
 Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 
 
 Twice seven consenting years have shed 
 
 Their utmost bounty on thy head : 
 
 And, these gray Rocks; this household Lawn; 
 
 These Trees, a veil just half withdrawn; 
 
 This fall of water, that doth make 
 
 A murmur near the silent L^ke; 
 
 This little Bay, a quiet Road 
 
 That holds in shelter thy Abode; 
 
 In truth together' do ye seem 
 
 Like something fashioned in a dream ; 
 
 Such Forms as from tbeir covert peep 
 
 When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 
 
 Yet, dream and vision as thou. art, 
 
 I bless thee with a human heart : 
 
 God shield thee to thy latest years ! 
 
 I neither know thee 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 shamefacedness : 
 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 ; 
 
 *See Note 3, p. 313. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 199 
 
 With no restraint, but such as springs 
 From quick and eager visitings 
 Of thoughts that lie 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 beautifuH 
 
 happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
 Beside thee in some heathy dell ; 
 Adopt your homely ways, and dres?, 
 A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess ! 
 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, any thing to thee ! 
 
 Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
 Hath led me to this lonely place. . 
 Joy have I had ; and going hence 
 
 1 bear away my recompense. 
 
 In spots like these it is we prize 
 
 Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes: 
 
 Then, why should I -be loth to stirl 
 
 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 ! 
 
 GLEN-ALMAIN ; OR, THE NARROW GLEN. 
 
 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, 
 I Have rightfullv 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 every thing unreconciled ; 
 
 In some complaining, dim retreat, 
 
 For fear and melancholy meet ; 
 
 But this is calm ; there cannot be 
 
 A more entire tranquillity. 
 
 Does then the Bard sleep here indeed ? 
 Or is it but a groundless creed] 
 What matters it"! — I blame them not 
 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. 
 
 VI. 
 STEPPING WESTWARD. 
 
 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 hospitably 
 entertained some weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest 
 parts of that solitary region, two weil-dressed Women, one of 
 whom said to us by way of greeting, " What, you are stepping 
 westward ?" 
 
 "What, you are stepping westward T' — "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 1 
 
 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 ; 
 
 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: ' 
 
200 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 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 enwroiight 
 A human sweetness with the thought 
 Of travelling through the world that lay 
 Before me in my endless way. 
 
 VII. 
 THE SOLITARY REAPER. 
 
 Behold her, single in the field, 
 Yon solitary Highland Lass ! 
 Reaping and singing by herself; 
 Stop here, or gently pass ! 
 Alone she cuts, and binds the grain. 
 And sings a melanclioly strain ; 
 
 listen ! for the Vale profound 
 Is overflowing with the sound. 
 
 No Nightingale did ever chant 
 More welcome notes to weary bands 
 Of Travellers in some shady haunt, 
 Among Arabian Sands: 
 Such thrilling voice was never heard 
 In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 
 Breaking the silence of the seas 
 Among tlie farthest Hebrides. 
 
 Will no one tell me what she sings'! 
 
 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
 
 For old, unhappy, far-ofi" things. 
 
 And battles long ago: 
 
 Or is it some more humble lay, 
 
 Familiar matter of to-day 1 
 
 Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 
 
 That has been, and may be again ! 
 
 Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang 
 As if lier song could have no ending; 
 
 1 saw her singing at her work, 
 And o'er the sickle bending; — 
 I listened — motionless and still ; 
 And when I mounted up the hill. 
 The music in my heart I bore, 
 Long afler it was heard no more. 
 
 VIII. 
 ADDRESS 
 
 TO 
 
 KILCHURN-CASTLE UPON LOCH AWE. 
 
 " From the top of the hill a most impressive scene opened 
 upon oiu-view,— a ruined Cusile on an Island at some distance 
 from the shore, backed by a Cove of the Mountain Cruachan, 
 down which came a foaming stream. The Castle occupied 
 every fool 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 tlie Castle 
 
 was wild, yet stately — not dismantled of Turrets — nor the 
 walls broken dowTi, 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 arc 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. 
 
 No soul to dream of What art Thou, from care 
 
 Cast ofl^ — abandoned by thy rugged Sire, 
 
 Nor by soft Peace adppted ; though, in place 
 
 And in diinension, 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 has 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 fkrewell gleam of evening light 
 
 Is fondly 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, wliich in thy presence might be called 
 
 Youthful as Spring. Shade of departed Power, 
 
 Skeleton of unfleshed humanity. 
 
 The Ciironicle were welcome that should call 
 
 Into the compass of distinct regard 
 
 The toils and struggles of thy infancy ! 
 
 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 !* 
 
 IX. 
 
 
 ROB ROY'S GRAVE. 
 
 The history of Rob Roy is sufliciently 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 ! 
 
 *The Tradition is, that the Caslle was built by a lady during 
 the absence of her Lord in Palestine. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION". 
 
 201 
 
 And Scotland has a Thief as good, 
 
 An Outlaw of as daring' mood ; 
 
 She has her brave Rob Roy ! 
 
 Then clear the weeds from off 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 I 
 
 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 ! 
 
 I And for the law itself we fight 
 
 I 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. 
 
 For why 1 — because the good old Rule 
 SutBceth 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; 
 j 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. 
 2A 
 
 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. 
 
 So was it — 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 soonl 
 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 Boy 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. 
 
 Of old things all are over old, 
 Of good things none are good enough: 
 We'll 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 Chieft,ain of a Savage Clan ! 
 Hadst this to boast of; thou didst love 
 The liberty of Man. 
 
202 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 COMPOSED AT 
 
 — CASTLE. 
 
 Deoenerate Dousrlas ! 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 fiite 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. 
 
 XI. 
 YARROW UNVISITED. 
 
 (See the various Poems the Scene of which is laid upon 
 Iho Banks of the Yarrow ; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of 
 Hamilton, bcfjinning 
 
 " Eii?k ye. busk yp, my bnnny. bonny BridR, 
 Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow I"— 
 
 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," 
 " Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, 
 " And see the Braes of Yarrow." 
 
 " Let Yarrow Folk, frae Selkirk Town, 
 "Who have been buying, selling, 
 "Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own; 
 "Each Maiden to her Dwelling! 
 " On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, 
 " Hares couch, and rabbits burrow I 
 " But we will downward with the Tweed, 
 "Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 
 
 "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 
 
 " Both lying right before us ; 
 
 " And Dryborough, where with the 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 t 
 
 "What's Yarrow but a River bare, 
 
 "That glides the dark hills under 1 
 
 " There are a thousand such elsewhere 
 
 " As worthy of your wonder." 
 
 — Strange words tliey seemed of slight and scorn; 
 
 My True-love sighed for sorrow ; 
 
 And looked me in the face, to think 
 
 I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 
 
 "Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's Holms, 
 
 " And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 
 
 " Fair hangs the apple frae the rock*, 
 
 " But we will leave it growing. 
 
 " O'er hilly path, and open Strath, 
 
 " We '11 wander Scotland thorough ; 
 
 " But, though so near, we will not turn 
 
 " Into the Dale of Yarrow. 
 
 " Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 
 " The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; 
 "The swan on still St. Mary's Lake 
 "Float double, swan and shadow I 
 " 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 1 
 "The treasured dreams of times long past, 
 "We'll keep them, winsome Marrow! 
 "For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 
 " 'T will be another Yarrow ! 
 
 * See Hamilton's Ballad, as above. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 303 
 
 " 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 !" 
 
 XII. 
 
 IN THE PASS OF KILLICRANKY. 
 
 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 flame ; 
 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. 
 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. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH, 
 AND HER HUSBAND. 
 
 At Jedborough, my companion and I went into private Lodg- 
 mgs 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 
 
 Our mortal complement of 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 ! 
 
 Look at him — look again ! for He 
 
 Hath long been of thy Family. 
 
 With legs that move not, if they can. 
 
 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 1 
 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 nnthought of heretofore ! 
 Delighted am- I for thy sake ; 
 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 as 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, 
 lie tracks her motions, quick or slow. 
 Her buoyant Spirit can prevail 
 Where common cheerfulness would fail ; 
 She strikes upon him with tlie heat 
 Of July Suns; he feels it sweet; 
 An animal delight though dim ! 
 'Tis all that now remains for him! 
 
 The more I looked, I wondered more — 
 
 And, while I scanned them o'er and o'er, 
 
 A moment gave me to espy 
 
 A. trouble in her strong black eye ; 
 
 A remnant of uneasy light, 
 
 A flash of something over-bright ! 
 
 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; 
 
204 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Ill 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 
 By no untimely joyousness; 
 Which makes of thine a blissful state; 
 And cheers thy melancholy Mate ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Fly, some kind Spirit, fly to Grasmere-dale, 
 
 Say that we come, and come by this day's light; 
 
 Glad tidings! — spread them over field and height ; 
 
 But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale ; 
 
 There let a mystery of joy prevail, 
 
 The happy Kitten bound with frolic might, 
 
 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 si.x weeks' solitude beguiled 
 
 With intimations manifold and dear. 
 
 While we have wandered over wood and wild, 
 
 Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer. 
 
 XV. 
 THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. 
 
 A TALE TOLD BY THE FrRESIDE, AFTER RETURNING 
 TO THE VALE OF GRASMERE. 
 
 Now we are tired of boisterous joy, 
 Have romped enough, my little Boy ! 
 Jane hangs her head upon my breast, 
 And you shall bring 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 befel 
 A poor blind Highland Boy. 
 
 A Highland Boy! — why call him so^ 
 Because, my Darlings, ye must know. 
 In land where many a mountain towers, 
 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. 
 
 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 
 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. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 205 
 
 j And of those tales, whate'er 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. 
 
 But what do his desires avail 1 
 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 sufier 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 befel) 
 He in a vessel of his own. 
 On the swift flood is hurrying down 
 Towards the mighty Sea. 
 
 In such a vessel never more 
 May human Creature leave the shore ! 
 If this or that way he should stir, 
 Woe to the poor blind Mariner! 
 
 For death will be his doom. 
 
 But say what bears him 7^ 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 
 I 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. 
 
 j 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 Amphitrite, 
 
 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. 
 
 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 which 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, 
 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. 
 IS 
 
206 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 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 sliore 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) 
 The hapless Creature which did dwell 
 Erewhilo 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 lie can hear. 
 And guesses their intent. 
 
 " Lei-gha — Lei-gha" — then did he cry 
 " Lei-gha — Lei-gha" — most eagerly ; 
 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 sliow, 
 Or melt it into air. 
 
 So all his dreams, that inward light 
 With which his soul had shone so bright, 
 
 All vanished; — 'twas a heartfelt cross 
 To him, a heavy, bitter loss. 
 
 As he had ever known. 
 
 But hark ! a gratulating voice. 
 With which the very hills rejoice : 
 'Tis from the crowd, who tremblingly 
 Had watched the event, and now can see 
 Tliat he is safe at last. 
 
 And tlien, when he was brought to land, 
 Full sure they were a happy band. 
 Which, gathering round, did on the banks 
 Of 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 liands in sign of bliss. 
 
 With sound like lamentation. 
 
 But most of all, his Mother dear. 
 She who had fainted with her fear. 
 Rejoiced wlien 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 flov/ed in torrents from her eyes: 
 She kissed him — how could she chastise 1 
 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.* 
 
 * It is recorded in Darapier's Voyages, that a hoy. ilie Son ofn 
 Captain of a Maii-o(-\Var, seated himself in a Turtle Slicll, or.d 
 floated in it from the shore to his Fatlier's ship, whicli lay at 
 anchor at the distance of half'a mile. In deference to the opinion, 
 of a Friend, I have substituted such a shell for the less elegaiilj 
 Vessel in which my Blind Voyager did aclually entrust himself 
 to the dangerous current of Loch Leven, as was related to me by 
 an eye-v\ ilness. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1814. 
 
 207 
 
 Suggested by a beautiful Ruin upon one of the Islands of Loch 
 Lomond, a place chosen for the retreat of a solitary individual, 
 from whom this habitation acquired the name of 
 
 THE BROWNIE'S CELL. 
 
 To barren heath, and quaking fen, 
 
 Or depth of labyrinthine glen ; 
 
 Or into trackless forest set 
 
 With trees, whose lofty umbrage met; 
 
 World-wearied men withdrew of yore, — 
 
 (Penance their trust, and Prayer their store ;) 
 
 And in the wilderness were bound 
 
 To such apartments as they found ; 
 
 Or with a new ambition raised ; 
 
 Tliat God might suitably be praised. 
 
 High lodged the Warrior, like a bird of prey; 
 
 Or where broad waters round him lay : 
 
 But this wild Ruin is no ghost 
 
 Of his devices — buried, lost! 
 
 Within this little lonely Isle 
 
 There stood a consecrated Pile ; 
 
 Where tapers burned, and mass was sung. 
 
 For them whose timid Spirits clung 
 
 To mortal succour, though the tomb 
 
 Had fixed, for ever fixed, their doom! 
 
 Upon those servants of another world 
 
 When madding Power her bolts had hurled. 
 
 Their habitation shook ; — it fell. 
 
 And perished — save one narrow Cell ; 
 
 Whither, at length, a Wretch retired 
 
 Who neither grovelled nor aspired : 
 
 He, struggling in the net of pride. 
 
 The future scorned, the past defied ; 
 
 Still tempering, from tlie unguilty forge 
 
 Of vain conceit, an iron scourge ! 
 
 Proud Remnant was he of a fearless Race, 
 Who stood and flourished face to face 
 With their perennial hills; — but Crime, 
 Hastening the stern decrees of Time, 
 jBrought low a Power, which from its home 
 •Burst, when repose grew wearisome ; 
 And, taking impulse from the sword. 
 And, mocking its own plighted word, 
 Had found, in ravage widely dealt, 
 tts warfare's bourn, its travel's belt ! 
 
 lA.ll, all were dispossessed, save him whose smile 
 'Shot lightning through this lonely Isle ! 
 
 No right had he but what he made 
 To this small spot, his leafy shade ; 
 But the ground lay within that ring 
 To which he only dared to cling ; 
 Renouncing here, as worse than dead, 
 The craven few who bowed the head 
 Beneath the change, who heard a claim 
 How loud ! yet lived in peace with shame. 
 
 From year to year this shaggy Mortal went 
 (So seemed it) down a strange descent: 
 Till they, who saw his outward frame, 
 Fixed on him an unhallowed name ; 
 Him — free from all malicious taint, 
 And guiding, like the Patmos Saint, 
 A pen unwearied — to indite. 
 In his lone Isle, the dreams of night ; 
 Impassioned dreams, that strove to span 
 The faded glories of his Clan ! 
 
 Suns that through blood their western harbour sought, 
 
 And stars that in their courses fought, — 
 
 Towers rent, winds combating with woods — 
 
 Lands deluged by unbridled floods, 
 
 And beast and bird that from the spell 
 
 Of sleep took import terrible, — 
 
 These types mysterious (if the show 
 
 Of battle and the routed foe 
 
 Had failed) would furnish an array 
 
 Of matter for the dawning day ! 
 
 How disappeared He t — ask the Newt and Toad, 
 
 Inheritors of his abode ; 
 
 The Otter crouching undisturbed. 
 
 In her dank cleft — but be thou curbed, 
 
 O froward Fancy ! 'mid a scene 
 
 Of aspect winning and serene ; 
 
 For those offensive creatures shun 
 
 The inquisition of the sun ! 
 
 And in this region flowers delight, 
 
 And all is lovely to the sight. 
 
 Spring finds not here a melancholy breast. 
 When she applies her annual test 
 To dead and living ; when her breath 
 Quickens, as now, the withered heath ; — 
 Nor flaunting summer — when he throws 
 His soul into the briar-rose ; 
 Or calls the lily from her sleep 
 Prolonged beneath the bordering deep ; 
 Nor Autumn, when the viewless wren 
 Is warbling near the Brownie's Den. 
 
208 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Wild Relique ! beauteous as the chosen spot 
 In Nysa's Isle, the embellished Grot ; 
 Whither, by care of Libyan Jove, 
 (High Servant of paternal Love,) 
 Young Bacchus was conveyed — to lie 
 Safe from his step-dame Rhea's eye ; 
 Where bud, and bloom, and fruitage, glowed 
 Close-crowding round the Infant God ; 
 All colours, and the liveliest streak 
 A foil to his celestial cheek ! 
 
 n. 
 
 COMPOSED AT CORA LINN, 
 
 IN SIGHT OF WALLACE'S TOWER 
 
 " — How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the name 
 
 Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower, 
 
 All over his dear Country; left the deeds 
 
 Of Wallace, like a family of ghosts. 
 
 To people the steep rocks and river banks, 
 
 Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul 
 
 Of independence and stern liberty." — MS. 
 
 Lord of the Vale ! astounding Flood ! 
 The dullest leaf in this thick wood 
 Quakes — conscious of thy power ; 
 The caves reply with hollow moan ; 
 And vibrates, to its central stone. 
 Yon time-cemented Tower ! 
 
 And yet how fair the rural scene ! 
 For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been 
 Beneficent as strong ; 
 Pleased in refreshing dews to steep 
 The little trembling flowers that peep 
 Thy shelving rocks among. 
 
 Hence all who love tlieir country, love 
 To look on thee — delight to rove 
 Where they thy voice can hear ; 
 And, to the Patriot-warrior's Shade, 
 Lord of the vale ! to Heroes laid 
 In dust, that voice is dear ! 
 
 Along thy banks, at dead of night. 
 Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight ; 
 Or stands, in warlike vest. 
 Aloft, beneath the Moon's pale beam, 
 A Champion worthy of the Stream, 
 Yon gray tower's living crest! 
 
 But clouds and envious darkness hide 
 A Form not doubtfully descried: — 
 Their transient mission o'er, 
 O say to what blind region flee 
 These Shapes of awful phantasy 1 
 To what untrodden shore 1 
 
 Less than divine command they spurn; 
 But this we from the mountains learn. 
 And this the valleys show, 
 That never will they deign to hold 
 Communion where the heart is cold 
 To human weal and woe. 
 
 The man of abject soul in vain 
 Shall walk the Marathonian Plain; 
 Or thrid the shadowy gloom. 
 That still invests the guardian Pass, 
 Where stood, sublime, Leonidas 
 Devoted to the tomb. 
 
 Nor deem that it can aught avail 
 For such to glide with oar or sail 
 Beneath the piny wood. 
 Where Tell once drew, by Uri's lake. 
 His vengeful shafts — prepared to slake 
 Their thirst in Tyrants' blood. 
 
 III. 
 
 EFFUSION, 
 
 IN THE PLEASURE-GROUND ON THE BANKS OF l' 
 THE BRAN, NEAR DUNKELD. 
 
 "The waterfall, by a loud roaring, warned us when we mus 
 expect it. We were first, however, conducted into a small apart 
 ment where the (iardener desired us to look at a picture ol 
 Ossian, which, while he was telling the history of the youiif 
 Artist who executed the work, disappeared, parting in the tnid 
 die — flying asunder as by the touch of magic — and lo! we an 
 at the entrance of a splendid apartment, which was almost dizzj 
 and alive with waterfalls, that tumbled in all directions; th( 
 great cascade, opposite the window, wliich fiiced us, being re 
 fleeted in innumerable mirrors upon the ceiling and against lh( 
 walls." — Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-Travdler. 
 
 What He — who, 'mid the kindred throng 
 
 Of Heroes that inspired his song. 
 
 Doth yet frequent the hill of storms. 
 
 The Stars dim-twinkling through their forms! 
 
 What! Ossian here — a painted Thrall, 
 
 Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall ; 
 
 To serve — an unsuspected screen 
 
 For show that must not yet be seen ; 
 
 And, when the moment comes, to part 
 
 And vanish, by mysterious art 
 
 Head, Harp, and Body, split asunder, 
 
 For ingress to a world of wonder; 
 
 A gay Saloon, with waters dancing 
 
 Upon the sight wherever glancing ; 
 
 One loud Cascade in front, and lo ! 
 
 A thousand like it, white as snow — 
 
 Streams on the walls, and torrent-foam 
 
 As active round the hollow dome. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 209 
 
 Illusive cataracts! of their terrors 
 Not stripped, nor voiceless in the Mirrors, 
 That catch the pageant from the Flood, 
 Thundering adown a rocky wood! 
 Strange scene, fantastic and uneasy 
 As ever made a Maniac dizzy, 
 When disenchanted from the mood 
 That loves on sullen thoughts to brood! 
 
 Nature, in thy changeful visions. 
 Through all thy most abrupt transitions, 
 Smooth, graceful, tender, or sublime. 
 Ever averse to Pantomime, 
 
 Thee neither do they know nor us 
 
 Thy Servants, who can trifle thus ; 
 
 Else verily the sober powers 
 
 Of rock that frowns, and stream that roars, 
 
 Exalted by congenial sway 
 
 Of Spirits, and the undying Lay, 
 
 And names that moulder not away, 
 
 Had wakened some redeeming thought 
 
 More worthy of this favoured Spot; 
 
 Recalled some feeling — to set free 
 
 The Bard from such indignity ! 
 
 *The effigies of a valiant Wight 
 
 1 once beheld, a Templar Knight; 
 Not prostrate, not like those that rest 
 On Tombs, with palms together prest, 
 But sculptured out of living stone. 
 And standing upright and alone. 
 Both hands with rival energy 
 Employed in setting his sword free 
 From its dull sheath — stern Sentinel, 
 Intent to guard St. Robert's Cell ; 
 
 As if with memory of the affray 
 
 Far distant, when, as legends say. 
 
 The Monks of Fountain's thronged to force 
 
 From its dear home the Hermit's corse. 
 
 That in their keeping it might lie, 
 
 To crown their Abbey's sanctity. 
 
 So had they rushed into the Grot 
 
 Of sense despised, a world forgot. 
 
 And torn him from his loved Retreat, 
 
 Where Altar-stone and rock-hewn seat 
 
 Still hint that quiet best is found. 
 
 Even by the Living, under ground; 
 
 But a bold Knight, the selfish aim 
 
 Defeating, put the Monks to shame. 
 
 There where you see his image stind 
 
 Bare to the sky, with threatening brand 
 
 Which lingering Nid is proud to show 
 
 Reflected in the pool below. 
 
 Thus, like the Men of earliest days. 
 Our Sires set forth their grateful praise ; 
 
 * On the banks of the River Nid, near Knaresborough. 
 2B 
 
 Uncouth the workmanship, and rude ! 
 
 But, nursed in mountain solitude, 
 
 Might some aspiring Artist dare 
 
 To seize whate'er, through misty air, 
 
 A Ghost, by glimpses, may present 
 
 Of imitable lineament, 
 
 And give the Phantom such array 
 
 As less should scorn the abandoned clay; 
 
 Then let him hew with patient stroke 
 
 An Ossian out of mural rock. 
 
 And leave the figurative Man 
 
 Upon thy margin, roaring Bran ! 
 
 Fixed, like the Templar of the steep. 
 
 An everlasting watch to keep ; 
 
 With local sanctities in trust. 
 
 More precious than a Hermit's dust ; 
 
 And virtues through the mass infused. 
 
 Which old Idolatry abused. 
 
 What though the Granite would deny 
 
 All fervour to the sightless eye; 
 
 And touch from rising Suns in vain 
 
 Solicit a Memnonian strain; 
 
 Yet, in some fit of anger sharp. 
 
 The wind might force the deep-grooved harp 
 
 To utter melancholy moans 
 
 Not unconnected with the tones 
 
 Of soul-sick flesh and weary bones ; 
 
 While grove and river notes would lend, 
 
 Less deeply sad, with these to blend ! 
 
 Vain Pleasures of luxurious life. 
 
 For ever with yourselves at strife ; 
 
 Through town and country both deranged 
 
 By afTectations interchanged, 
 
 And all the perishable gauds 
 
 That heaven-deserted Man applauds; 
 
 When will your hapless patrons learn 
 
 To watch and ponder — to discern 
 
 The freshness, the eternal youth. 
 
 Of admiration sprung from truth ; 
 
 From beauty infinitely growing 
 
 Upon a mind with love o'erflowing — 
 
 To sound the depths of every Art 
 
 That seeks its wisdom through the heart ■! 
 
 Thus, (where the intrusive Pile, ill-graced, 
 With baubles of theatric taste, 
 O'erlooks the Torrent breathing showers 
 On motley bands of alien flowers. 
 In stiff confusion set or sown, 
 Till Nature cannot find her own. 
 Or keep a remnant of the sod 
 Which Caledonian Heroes trod) 
 I mused ; and, thirsting for redress, 
 Recoiled into the wilderness. 
 18* 
 
210 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 IV. 
 YARROW VISITED, 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1814. 
 
 And is this — Yarrow 1 — This the Stream 
 
 Of which my fancy cherished, 
 
 So faithfully, a waking dream ? 
 
 An image that hath perished ! 
 
 O that some Minstrel's harp were near, 
 
 To utter notes of gladness, 
 
 And chase this silence from the air, 
 
 That fills my heart with sadness ! 
 
 Yet why? — a silvery current flows 
 
 With uncontrolled meanderings; 
 
 Nor have these eyes by greener hills 
 
 Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 
 
 And, through her depths. Saint Mary's Lake 
 
 Is visibly delighted; 
 
 For not a feature of those hills 
 
 Is in the mirror slighted. 
 
 A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, 
 
 Save where that pearly whiteness 
 
 Is round the rising sun diffused, 
 
 A tender hazy brightness; 
 
 Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 
 
 All profitless dejection; 
 
 Though not unwilling here to admit 
 
 A pensive recollection. 
 
 Wliere was it that the famous Flower 
 
 Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? 
 
 His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 
 
 On which the herd is feeding: 
 
 And haply from this crystal pool, 
 
 Now peaceful as the morning, 
 
 Tlie Water-wraith ascended thrice — 
 
 And gave his doleful warning. 
 
 Delicious is the Lay that sings 
 
 The haunts of happy Lovers, 
 
 The path that leads them to the grove. 
 
 The leafy grove that covers : 
 
 And Pity sanctifies the verse 
 
 That paints, by strength of sorrow, 
 
 The unconquerable strength of love ; 
 
 Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! 
 
 But thou, that didst appear so fair 
 To fond Imagination, 
 Dost rival in the light of day 
 Her delicate creation : 
 
 Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 
 A softness still and holy; 
 The grace of forest cliarms decayed, 
 And pastoral melancholy. 
 
 That region left, the Vale unfolds 
 
 Rich groves of lofty stature, 
 
 With Yarrow winding through the pomp 
 
 Of cultivated nature ; 
 
 And, rising from those lofty groves. 
 
 Behold a ruin hoary ! 
 
 The shattered front of Newark's Towers, 
 
 Renowned in Border story. 
 
 Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, 
 
 For sportive youth to stray in ; 
 
 For manhood to enjoy his strength ; 
 
 And age to wear away in ! 
 
 Yon Cottage seems a bower of bliss, 
 
 A covert for protection 
 
 Of tender thoughts that nestle there, 
 
 The brood of chaste aSection. 
 
 How sweet, on this autumnal day. 
 
 The wild-wood fruits to gather. 
 
 And on my True-love's forehead plant 
 
 A crest of blooming heather ! 
 
 And what if I enwrcathed my own! 
 
 'T were no offence to reason ; 
 
 The sober Hills thus deck their brows 
 
 To meet the wintry season. 
 
 I see — but not by sight alone. 
 
 Loved Yarrow, have I won thee; 
 
 A ray of Fancy still survives — 
 
 Her sunshine plays upon thee ! 
 
 Thy ever-youthful waters keep 
 
 A course of lively pleasure; 
 
 And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, 
 
 Accordant to the measure. 
 
 The vapours linger round the Heights, 
 They melt — and soon must vanish; 
 One hour is theirs, nor more is mine — 
 Sad thought, which I would banish, 
 But that I know, where'er I go, 
 Thy genuine image. Yarrow ! 
 Will dwell with me — to heighten joy, 
 And cheer my mind in sorrow. 
 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 211 
 
 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS, 
 AUGUST, 1802. 
 
 Fair Star of Evening, Splendour of the West, 
 Star of my country — on the horizon's brink 
 I 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, 
 iBright Star ! with laughter on her banners, drest 
 !ln thy fresh beauty. There ! that dusky spot 
 Beneath thee, it is England ; there it 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, linger here. 
 
 II. 
 
 CALAIS, AUGUST, 1803. 
 
 |(s it a Reed that's shaken by the wind, 
 
 |3r what is it that ye go forth to see ] 
 
 ;[jords, Lawyers, Statesmen, Squires of low degree, 
 
 iVEen 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 
 
 :!n France, before the new-born Majesty. 
 
 Tis ever thus. Ye Men of prostrate mind ! 
 
 |\ seemly reverence may be paid to power ; 
 
 [But that 's a loyal virtue, never sown 
 
 la haste, nor springing with a transient shower: 
 
 When truth, when sense, when liberty were flown, 
 
 ;fVhat hardship had it been to wait an hourl 
 
 Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery prone ! 
 
 in. 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 COMPOSED NEAR CALAIS, ON THE ROAD LEADING TO 
 ARDRES, AUGUST 7, 1802. 
 
 foNEs ! while from Calais southward you and I 
 Urged our accordant steps, this public Way 
 Streamed with the pomp of a too-credulous day*. 
 
 * 14th July, 1790. 
 
 When feith was pledged to new-born Liberty : 
 
 A homeless sound of joy was in the sky ; 
 
 The antiquated Earth, as one might say, 
 
 Beat like the heart of Man : songs, garlands, play, 
 
 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. 
 
 IV. 
 
 180L 
 
 I GRIEVED for Buonaparte, with a vain 
 And an unthinking grief! for, who aspires 
 To genuine greatness but fi-om just desires. 
 And knowledge such as he could never gain 7 
 '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. 
 
 V. 
 
 CALAIS, AUGUST 15, 1802. 
 
 Festivals have I seen that were not names : 
 This is young Buonaparte's natal day. 
 And his is henceforth an established 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. 
 
212 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC. 
 
 Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee ; 
 And was the safeguard of the West : the worth 
 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 what 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. 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE KING OF SWEDEN. 
 
 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 1 
 
 That thought is one which neither can appal 
 
 Nor cheer him; for the illustrious Swede hath done 
 
 The thing which ouglit to be: He stands 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. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. 
 
 ToussAiNT, the most unhappy Man of Men ! 
 Whether the whistling 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 wind 
 That will forget thee; thou hast great allies; 
 Thy friends are exultations, agonies. 
 And love, and Man's unconquerable mind. 
 
 IX. 
 
 SEPTEMBER 1, 1802. 
 
 Araong the capricious acls of Tyranny that disgraced these ^ 
 times, was the chasing of all Negroes from France by decree of i 
 the Government : we had a Fellow-passenger who was one of \ 
 the expelled. 
 
 Driven from the soil of France, a Female came 
 
 From Calais with us, brilliant in array, — 
 
 A Negro Woman, 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 at the same 
 
 Was silent, motionless in eyes and face. 
 
 Meanwhile those eyes retained their tropic fire. 
 
 Which, 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 afiiicted Race ! 
 
 COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY, NEAR DOVER, ON 
 THE DAY OF LANDING. 
 
 Here, on our native soil, we breath 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. 
 
 XI. 
 SEPTEMBER, 1802. 
 
 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 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 213 
 
 "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.* 
 
 XIL 
 
 THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION 
 OF SWITZERLAND. 
 
 Two Voices are there ; one is of the Sea, 
 
 One of the Mountains; each a mighty Voice : 
 
 In both from age to age Thou didst rejoice, 
 
 They were thy chosen Music, Liberty ! 
 
 There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee 
 
 Thou fought'st against Him ; but hast vainly striven : 
 
 Thou from thy Alpine Holds at length art driven, 
 
 Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 
 
 Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft : 
 
 Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left ; 
 
 For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be 
 
 That mountain Floods should thunder as before. 
 
 And Ocean bellow from his rocliy shore, 
 
 And neither awful Voice be heard by thee 1 
 
 XIII. 
 
 WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1802. 
 
 O Feiend ! 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 : 
 No grandeur now in nature or in book 
 Delights us. Rapine, avarice, e.xpense, 
 This is idolatry ; and these we adore: 
 Plain living and high thinking are no Aore : 
 The homely beauty of the good old cause 
 Is gone ; our peace, our fearful innocence, 
 And pure religion breathing household laws.f 
 
 XIV. 
 
 LONDON, 1802. / 
 
 MiiTON ! 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 ; 
 
 '• See Note 4, p. 314. 
 
 t See Note 5, p. 314. 
 
 And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 
 Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : 
 Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea : 
 Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, 
 So didst thou travel on life's common way. 
 In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
 The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 
 
 XV. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 XVL 
 
 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 every thing we are sprung 
 
 Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 When I have borne in memory what has tamed 
 Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart 
 When men change Swords for Ledgers, and desert 
 The Student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed 
 I had, my Country ! — am I to be blamed ] 
 But when I think of Thee, and what Thou art. 
 Verily, in the bottom of my heart. 
 Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 
 But dearly must we prize thee ; we who find 
 
214 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 xvin. 
 
 OCTOBER, 1803. 
 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 'tis 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 ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 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 : 
 'Tis 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 which 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. 
 
 XX. 
 
 OCTOBER, 1803. 
 These times touch moneyed 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 sufficient 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 
 Tliat 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 deatli ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 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 olfences be a heavy weight : 
 
 Oh grief, that Earth's best hopes rest all with tliee ! 
 
 xxn. 
 
 OCTOBER, 1803. 
 
 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 almost a doubt 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. 
 
 xxin. 
 
 TO THE MEN OF KENT.— OCTOBER, 1803. 
 
 Vancuard 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 hardimont! 
 
 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, 'tis Victory or Deatli ! 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 215 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 ANTICIPATION. — OCTOBER, 1803. 
 
 Shout, for a mighty Victory is won ! 
 I On British ground the Invaders are laid low ; 
 The breath of Heaven has drifted tliem 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. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 NOVEMBER, 1806. 
 
 Another year ! — another deadly blow ! 
 Another mighty empire overthrown ! 
 And We are left, or shall be left, alone ; 
 The last that dare to struggle with the Foe. 
 'T is well ! from this day forward we shall know 
 That in ourselves our safety must be sought ; 
 That by our own right hands it must be wrought. 
 That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low. 
 Dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer! 
 We shall exult, if They who rule the land 
 Be Men who hold its many blessings dear, 
 Wise, upright, valiant ; not a servile Band, 
 Who are to judge of danger which they fear. 
 And honour which they do not understand. 
 
 XXVI.— ODE. 
 1. 
 
 Who rises on the banks of Seine, 
 And binds her temples with the civic wreath! 
 What joy to read the promise of her mien ! 
 I How sweet to rest her wide-spread wings beneath! 
 But they are ever playing. 
 And twinkling in the light. 
 And, if a breeze be straying. 
 That breeze she will invite; 
 And stands on tiptoe, conscious she is fair. 
 And calls a look of love into her face. 
 And spreads her arms — as if the general air 
 Alone could satisfy her wide embrace. 
 — Melt, Principalities, before her melt ! 
 ! Her love ye hailed — her wrath have felt ! 
 But She through many a change of form hath gone. 
 And stands amidst you now, an armed Creature, 
 }; Whose panoply is not a thing put on, 
 
 But the live scales of a portentous nature ; 
 That, having wrought its way from birth to birth. 
 Stalks round — abhorred by Heaven, a terror to the 
 Earth ! 
 
 I marked the breathings of her dragon crest ; 
 My Soul, a sorrowful Interpreter, 
 In many a midnight vision bowed 
 Before the ominous aspect of her spear ; 
 Whether the mighty Beam, in scorn upheld. 
 Threatened her foes, — or, pompously at rest. 
 Seemed to bisect her orbed shield. 
 As stretches a blue bar of solid cloud 
 Across the setting Sun, and through the fiery West. 
 
 So did she daunt the Earth, and God defy ! 
 And, wheresoe'er she spread her sovereignty, 
 Pollution tainted all that was most pure. 
 
 — Have we not known — and live we not to tell — 
 That Justice seemed to hear her final knell ? 
 Faith buried deeper in her own deep breast 
 
 Her stores, and sighed to find them insecure ! 
 And Hope was maddened by the drops that fell 
 From shades, her chosen place of short-lived rest: 
 Shame followed shame — and woe supplanted woe — 
 Is this the only change that time can show ? 
 How long shall vengeance sleep 1 Ye patient Heavens, 
 how long] 
 
 — Infirm ejaculation I from the tongue 
 Of Nations wanting virtue to be strong ' 
 Up to the measure of accorded might. 
 
 And daring not to feel the majesty of right ! 
 
 Weak Spirits are there — who would ask 
 Upon the pressure of a painful thing. 
 The Lion's sinews, or the Eagle's wing ; 
 Or let their wishes loose, in forest glade. 
 
 Among the lurking powers 
 
 Of herbs and lowly flowers, 
 Or seek, from Saints above, miraculous aid ; 
 That Man may be accomplished for a task 
 Which his own Nature hath enjoined — and why 1 
 If, when that interference hath relieved him. 
 
 He must sink down to languish 
 In worse than former helplessness — and lie 
 
 Till the caves roar, — and, imbecility 
 
 Again engendering anguish. 
 The same weak wish returns, that had before deceived 
 him. 
 
 5. 
 
 But Thou, Supreme Disposer ! may'st not speed 
 The course of things, and change the creed, 
 Which hath been held aloft before Men's sight 
 Since the first framing of societies, 
 
216 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Whether, as Bards have told in ancient song, 
 Built up by soft seducing harmonies ; 
 Or prest together by the appetite, 
 
 And by the power, of wrong ! 
 
 PART SECOND 
 I. 
 
 ON A CELEBRATED EVENT IN ANCIENT HISTORY. 
 
 A Roman Master stands on Grecian ground. 
 
 And to the Concourse of the Isthmian Games 
 
 He, by his Herald's voice, aloud proclaims 
 
 The Liberty or Greece : — the words rebound 
 
 Until all voices in one voice are drowned ; 
 
 Glad acclamation by which air was rent ! 
 
 And birds, high flying in the element, 
 
 Dropped to the earth, astonished at the sound ! 
 
 — A melancholy Echo of that noise 
 
 Doth sometimes hang on musing Fancy's ear : 
 
 Ah ! that a Conqjieror^s word should be so dear : 
 
 Ah ! that a boon could shed such rapturous joys ! 
 
 A gift of that which is not to be given 
 
 By all the blended powers of Earth and Heaven. 
 
 n. 
 
 UPON THE SAME EVENT. 
 When, far and wide, swift as the beams of morn 
 The tidings passed of servitude repealed, 
 And of that joy which shook the Isthmian Field, 
 The rough ^Etolians smiled with bitter scorn. 
 " 'T is known," cried they, " that he, who would adorn 
 His envied temples with the Isthmian Crown, 
 Must either win, through eifort of his own, 
 The prize, or be content to see it worn 
 By more deserving brows. — Yet so ye prop. 
 Sons of the Brave who fought at Marathon ! 
 Your feeble Spirits. Greece her head hath bowed, 
 As if the wreath of Liberty thereon 
 Would fix itself as smoothly as a cloud, 
 Which, at Jove's will, descends on Pelion's top." 
 
 in. 
 
 TO THOMAS CLARKSON, 
 
 ON THE FFNAI. PASSING OF THE BILL FOR THE ABOLI- 
 
 TION OP THE SLAVE-TRADE, MARCH, 1807. 
 
 Clarkson ! it was an obstinate Hill to climb : 
 How toilsome — nay, how dire it was, by Thee 
 Is known, — by none, perhaps, so feelingly ; 
 But Thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime. 
 Didst first lead forth this pilgrimage sublime. 
 Hast heard the constant Voice its cliarge repeat. 
 Which, out of thy young heart's oracular seat. 
 First roused thee. — O true yoke-fellow of Time 
 
 With unabating effort, see, the palm 
 
 Is won, and by all Nations shall be worn ! 
 
 The bloody Writing is for ever torn. 
 
 And Thou henceforth shalt have a good Man's calm, 
 
 A great Man's happiness ; thy zeal shall find 
 
 Repose at length, firm Friend of human kind ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 A PROPHECY. — FEBRUARY, 1807. 
 HidH deeds, O Germans, are to come from you ! 
 Thus in your Books the record shall be found, 
 "A watchword was pronounced, a potent sound, 
 Arminius ! — all the people quaked like dew 
 Stirred by the breeze — they rose, a Nation, true. 
 True to herself — the mighty Germany, 
 She of the Danube and tlie Northern sea. 
 She rose, and off at once the yoke she threw. 
 All power was given her in the dreadful trance ; 
 Those new-born Kings she withered like a flame." 
 — Woe to them all ! but heaviest woe and shame 
 To that Bavarian who did first advance 
 His banner in accursed league with France, 
 First open Traitor to a sacred name ! 
 
 V. 
 
 Clouds, lingering yet, e.\tend in solid bars 
 
 Through the gray west ; and lo ! these waters, steeled ' 
 
 By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield 
 
 A vivid repetition of the stars: 
 
 Jove — Venus — and the ruddy crest of Mars, 
 
 Amid his fellows beauteously revealed 
 
 At happy distance from earth's groaning field. 
 
 Where ruthless mortals waffe incessant wars. 
 
 Is it a mirror ! — or the nether sphere 
 
 Opening to view the abyss in which it feeds 
 
 Its own calm fires? — But list! a voice is near; 
 
 Great Pan himself low-whispering through the reeds, 
 
 " Be thankful, thou ; for, if unholy deeds 
 
 Ravage the world, tranquillity is here !" 
 
 VI. 
 
 Go back to antique Ages, if thine eyes 
 The genuine mien and character would trace 
 Of the rash Spirit that still holds her place, 
 Prompting the World's audacious vanities! 
 Sec, at her call, the Tower of Babel rise ; 
 The Pyramid extend its monstrous base. 
 For some Aspirant of our short-lived race, 
 Anxious an aery name to immortalize. 
 There, too, ere wiles and politic dispute 
 Gave specious colouring to aim and act, 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 217 
 
 See the first mighty Hunter leave the brute — 
 To chase mankind, with men in armies packed 
 For liis field pastime, high and absolute. 
 While, to dislodge his game, cities are sacked ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 COMPOSED WHILE THE AUTHOR WAS ENGAGED IN WRITING A TRACT, 
 OCCASIONED BY THE CONVENTION OF CINTRA, ISOS. 
 
 Not 'mid the World's vain objects ! that enslave 
 
 The free-born Soul, — that World whose vaunted skill 
 
 In selfish interest perverts the will, 
 
 Whose factions lead astray the wise and brave ; 
 
 Not there ! but in dark wood and rocky cave, 
 
 And hollow wave which foaming torrents fill 
 
 With Omnipresent murmur as they rave 
 
 Down their steep beds, that never shall be still: 
 
 Here, mighty Nature ! in this school sublime 
 
 I weigh the hopes and fears of sufliering Spain : 
 
 For her consult the auguries of time, 
 
 And through the human heart explore my way, 
 
 And look, and listen — gathering, whence I may, 
 
 Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can restrain. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 COMPOSED AT THE SAME TIME, AND ON THE SAME 
 OCCASION. 
 
 I DROPPED my pen ; — and listened to the wind 
 
 iThat sang of trees up-torn and vessels tost ; 
 
 A midnight harmony, and wholly lost 
 
 To the general sense of men by chains confined 
 
 Of business, care, or pleasure, — or resigned 
 
 To timely sleep. Thought I, the impassioned strain. 
 
 Which, without aid of numbers, I sustain, 
 
 Like acceptation from the World will find. 
 
 Yet some with apprehensive ear shall drink 
 
 A dirge devoutly breathed o'er sorrows past. 
 
 And to the attendant promise will give heed — • 
 
 The prophecy, — like that of this wild blast, 
 
 Which, while it makes the heart with sadness shrink. 
 
 Tells also of bright calms that shall succeed. 
 
 IX. 
 
 HOFFER. 
 
 Op mortal Parents is the Hero born 
 jBy whom the undaunted Tyrolese are led? 
 jOr is it Tell's great Spirit, from the dead 
 Returned to animate an age forlorn? 
 He comes like Phoebus through the gates of morn 
 When dreary darkness is discomfited 
 |Yet mark his modest state ! upon his head, 
 IThat simple crest, a heron's plume, is worn. 
 ;0 Liberty ! they stagger at the shock ; 
 iThe Murderers are aghast ; they strive to flee, 
 2C 
 
 And half their Host is buried : — rock on rock 
 Descends : — beneath this godlike Warrior, see ! 
 Hills, Torrents, Woods, embodied to bemock 
 The Tyrant, and confound his cruelty. 
 
 X. 
 
 Advance — come forth from thy Tyrolean ground. 
 Dear Liberty ! stern Nymph of soul untamed. 
 Sweet Nymph, O rightly of the mountains named ! 
 Through the long chain of Alps from mound to mound 
 And o'er the eternal snows, like Eclio, bound, — 
 Like Echo, when the Hunter-train at dawn 
 Have roused her from her sleep : and forest-lawn, 
 Clifl%, woods, and caves, her viewless steps resound 
 And babble of her pastime ! — On, dread Power ! 
 With such invisible motion speed thy flight. 
 Through hanging clouds, from craggy height to height, 
 Through the green vales and through the Herdsman's 
 
 bower. 
 That all the Alps may gladden in thy might. 
 Here, there, and in all places at one hour. 
 
 XL 
 
 FEELINGS OF THE TYROLESE. 
 The Land we from our Fathers had in trust, 
 And to our Children will transmit, or die : 
 This is our maxim, this our piety ; 
 And God and Nature say that it is just. 
 That which we would perform in arms — we must! 
 We read the dictate in the Infant's eye ; 
 In the Wife's smile ; and in the placid sky; 
 And, at our feet, amid the silent dust 
 Of them that were before us, sing aloud 
 Old songs, the precious music of the heart ! 
 Give, Herds and flocks, your voices to the wind ! 
 While we go forth, a self-devoted crowd, 
 With weapons in the fearless hand, to assert 
 Our virtue, and to vindicate mankind. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Alas ! what boots the long laborious quest 
 Of moral prudence, sought through good and ill ; 
 Or pains abstruse — to elevate the will. 
 And lead us on to that transcendent rest 
 Where every passion shall the sway attest 
 Of Reason, seated on her sovereign hill ; 
 What is it but a vain and curious skill, 
 If sapient Germany must lie deprest. 
 Beneath the brutal sword 1 Her haughty Schools 
 Shall blush ; and may not we with sorrow say, 
 A few strong instincts and a few plain rules, 
 Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have wrought 
 More for mankind at this unhappy day 
 Than all the pride of intellect and thought? 
 19 
 
218 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And is it among rude untutored Dales, 
 There, and there only, that the heart is true 1 
 And, rising to repel or to subdue. 
 Is it by rocks and woods that man prevails 1 
 Ah, no ! though Nature's dread protection fails. 
 There is a bulwark in the soul. This knew 
 Iberian Burghers when the sword they drew 
 In Zaragoza, naked to the gales 
 Of fiercely-breathing war. The truth was felt 
 By Palafo.x, and many a brave Compeer, 
 Like him of noble birth and noble mind ; 
 By Ladies, meek-eyed Women without fear; 
 And Wanderers of the street, to whom is dealt 
 The bread which without industry they find. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain, 
 
 Dwells in the affections and the soul of man 
 
 A Godhead, like the universal Pan, 
 
 But more exalted, with a brighter train : 
 
 And shall his bounty be dispensed in vain, 
 
 Showered equally on city and on field. 
 
 And neither hope nor steadfast promise yield 
 
 In these usurping times of fear and pain ! 
 
 Such doom awaits us. Nay, forbid it Heaven ! 
 
 We know the arduous strife, the eternal laws 
 
 To which the triumph of all good is given. 
 
 High sacrifice, and labour without pause, 
 
 Even to the death : — else wherefore should the eye 
 
 Of man converse with immortality ! 
 
 XV. 
 
 ON THE FINAL SUBMISSION OF THE TYROLESE. 
 
 It was a moral end for wliich they fouglit ; 
 
 Else how, when mighty Thrones were put to shame, 
 
 Could they, poor Shepherds, have preserved an aim, 
 
 A resolution, or enlivening thought] 
 
 Nor hath that moral good been vainly sought ; 
 
 For in their magnanimity and fame 
 
 Powers have they left, an impulse, and a claim 
 
 Which neither can be overturned nor bought. 
 
 Sleep, Warriors, sleep ! among your hills repose ! 
 
 We know that ye, beneath the stern control 
 
 Of awful prudence, keep the unvanquished soul. 
 
 And, when impatient of her guilt and woes 
 
 Europe breaks forth, then, Shepherds ! shall ye rise 
 
 For perfect triumph o'er your Enemies. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Hail, Zaragoza ! If with unwet eye 
 We can approach, tliy sorrow to behold. 
 Yet is the heart not pitiless nor cold ; 
 Such spectacle demands not tear or sigh. 
 These desolate Remains are trophies high 
 Of more than martial courage in the breast 
 Of peaceful civic virtue ;* they attest 
 Thy matchless worth to all posterity. 
 Blood flowed before thy siglit without remorse; 
 Disease consumed thy vitals ; War upheaved 
 The ground beneath thee with volcanic force ; 
 Dread trials ! yet encountered and sustained 
 Till not a wreck of help or hope remained. 
 And Law was from necessity received. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Say what is Honour 1 — 'T is the finest sense 
 
 Oi justice which the human mind can frame. 
 
 Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim. 
 
 And guard the way of life from all ofi^ence 
 
 Suflfered or done. When lawless violence 
 
 A Kingdom doth assault, and in the scale 
 
 Of perilous war her weightiest Armies fail. 
 
 Honour is hopeful elevation — whence ./v. \ 
 
 Glory, and Triumph. Yet with politic skill 
 
 Endangered States may yield to terms unjust. 
 
 Stoop their proud heads, but not unto the dust, — 
 
 A Foe's most favourite purpose to fulfil : 
 
 Happy occasions oft by self-mistrust 
 
 Are forfeited ; but infamy doth kill. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The martial courage of a day is vain. 
 
 An empty noise of death the battle's roar, 
 
 If vital hope be wanting to restore. 
 
 Or fortitude be wanting to sustain. 
 
 Armies or Kingdoms. We have heard a strain 
 
 Of triumph, how the labouring Danube bore 
 
 A weight of hostile corses : drenched with gore 
 
 Were the wide fields, the hamlets heaped with slain. 
 
 Yet see, the mighty tumult overpast, 
 
 Austria a Daughter of her Throne hath sold ! 
 
 And her Tyrolean Champion we behold 
 
 Murdered like one ashore by shipwreck cast. 
 
 Murdered without relief Oh ! blind as bold, 
 
 To think that such assurance can stand fast ! 
 
 * See Note 6, p. 315. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 219 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Bkave Schill ! by death delivered, take thy flight 
 
 From Prussia's timid region. Go, and rest 
 I With heroes, 'mid the Islands of the Blest, 
 [Or in the Fields of empyrean light. 
 jA meteor wert thou in a darksome night; 
 lYet shall thy name, conspicuous and sublime, 
 
 Stand in the spacious firmament of time, 
 I Fixed as a star : such glory is thy right. 
 
 Alas ! it may not be : for earthly fame 
 
 lis Fortune's frail Dependant ; yet there lives 
 
 ;A Judge, vrho, as man claims by merit, gives ; 
 
 jTo whose all-pondering mind a noble aim, 
 
 'Faithfully kept, is as a noble deed ; 
 
 sin whose pure sight all virtue doth succeed. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Caii not the royal Swede unfortunate, 
 
 Who never did to Fortune bend the knee ; 
 
 Who slighted fear, rejected steadfastly 
 
 Temptation ; and whose kingly name and state 
 
 Have " perished by his choice, and not his fate !" 
 
 jHence lives He, to his inner self endeared ; 
 
 lAnd hence, wherever virtue is revered, 
 
 [He sits a more exalted Potentate, 
 
 iThroned in the hearts of men. Should Heaven ordain 
 
 That this great Servant of a righteous cause 
 
 Must still have sad or vexing thoughts to endure, 
 
 Yet may a sympathising spirit pause. 
 
 Admonished by these truths, and quench all pain 
 
 Tn thankful joy and gratulation pure.* 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid 
 His vows to Fortune ; who, in cruel slight 
 Of virtuous hope, of liberty, and right. 
 Hath followed wheresoe'er a way was made 
 By the blind Goddess; — ruthless, undismayed; 
 And so hath gained at length a prosperous Height, 
 Round which the Elements of worldly might 
 Beneath his haughty feet, like clouds, are laid. 
 joyless power that stands by lawless force ! 
 
 In this and a former Sonnet, in honour of the same Sovereign, 
 jletme be understood as a Poet availing himself of the situation 
 iwhich the King of Sweden occupied, and of the principles 
 iavowed in his manifestoes ; as laying hold of these advantages 
 for the purpose of embodying moral truths. This remark 
 might, perhaps, as well have been suppressed ; for to those who 
 may be in sympathy with the course of these Poems, it will be 
 superfluous ; and will, I fear, be thrown away upon that other 
 dass, whose besotted admiration of the intoxicated despot here 
 iplaced in contrast with him, is the most melancholy evidence 
 'jf degradation in British feeling and intellect which the times 
 lave furnished. 
 
 Curses are his dire portion, scorn, and hate. 
 Internal darkness and unquiet breath ; 
 And, if old judgments keep their sacred course, 
 Him from that Height shall Heaven precipitate 
 By violent and ignominious death. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Is there a Power that can sustain and cheer 
 The captive Chieftain, by a Tyrant's doom, 
 Forced to descend alive into his tomb, 
 A dungeon dark ! where he must waste the year, 
 And lie cut off from all his heart holds dear ; 
 What time his injured Country is a stage 
 Whereon deliberate Valour and tlie Rage 
 Of righteous vengeance side by side appear. 
 Filling from morn to night the heroic scene 
 With deeds of hope and everlasting praise : 
 Say, can he think of this with mind serene 
 And silent fetters 1 Yes, if visions bright 
 Shine on his soul, reflected from the days 
 When he himself vi'as tried in open light. 
 
 XXIII. — 1810. 
 Ah ! where is Palafox "i Nor tongue nor pen 
 Reports of him, his dwelling or his grave ! 
 Does yet the unheard-of Vessel ride the wave) 
 Or is she swallowed up, remote from ken 
 Of pitying human-nature 1 Once again 
 Methinks that we shall hail thee. Champion brave, 
 Redeemed to bafile that imperial Slave, 
 And through all Europe cheer desponding men 
 With new-born hope. Unbounded is the might 
 Of martyrdom, and fortitude, and right. 
 Hark, how thy Country triumphs! — Smilingly 
 The Eternal looks upon her sword that gleams. 
 Like his own lightning, over mountains high, 
 On rampart, and the banks of all her streams. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 In due observance of an ancient rite, 
 
 The rude Biscayans, when their Children lie 
 
 Dead in the sinless time of infancy. 
 
 Attire the peaceful Corse in vestments white ; 
 
 And, in like sign of cloudless triumph bright, 
 
 They bind the unoffending Creature's brows 
 
 With happy garlands of the pure white rose : 
 
 This done, a festal Company unite 
 
 In choral song; and, while the uplifted Cross 
 
 Of Jesus goes before, the Child is borne 
 
 Uncovered to his grave. Her piteous loss 
 
 Tire lonesome Mother cannot choose but mourn ; 
 
 Yet soon by Christian faith is grief subdued. 
 
 And joy attends upon her fortitude. 
 
220 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 XXV. • 
 
 FEELINGS OF A NOBLE BISCAYAN AT ONE OF 
 THESE FUNERALS. — 1810. 
 
 Yet, yet, Biscayans ! we must meet our Foes 
 
 With firmer soul, yet labour to regain 
 
 Our ancient freedom ; else 't were worse than vain 
 
 To gather round the Bier these festal shows. 
 
 A garland fashioned of the pure white rose 
 
 Becomes not one whose Father is a slave : 
 
 Oh, bear the Infant covered to his Grave ! 
 
 These venerable mountains now enclose 
 
 A People sunk in apathy and fear. 
 
 If this endure, farewell, for us, all good ! 
 
 The awful light of heavenly Innocence 
 
 Will fail to illuminate the Infant's bier; 
 
 And guilt and shame, from which is no defence, 
 
 Descend on all tliat issues from our blood. 
 
 Spain may be overpowered, and he possess, 
 For his delight, a solemn wilderness, 
 Where all the brave lie dead. But, when of bands 
 Which he will break for us he dares to speak. 
 Of benefits, and of a future day 
 When our enlightened minds shall bless his sway, 
 The7i, the strained heart of fortitude proves weak ; 
 Our groans, our blushes, our pale cheeks declare 
 That he has power to inflict what we lack strength to 
 bear.* 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 THE OAK OF GUERNICA. 
 
 The ancient oak of Guernica, says Laborde in his account of 
 Biscay, is a most venerable natural monument. Ferdmand and 
 Isabella, in the year 1476, after hearing mass in the Church of 
 Santa Maria de la Aiiligua, repaired lo this tree, under which 
 they swore lo the Biscayans to maintain their/i/ero,'! (privileges.) 
 What other interest belongs to it in the minds of this People will 
 appear from the following 
 
 SUPPOSED ADDRESS OF THE SAME.— 1810, 
 
 Oak of Guernica ! Tree of holier power 
 Than that which in Dodona did enshrine 
 (So faith too fondly deemed) a voice divine, 
 Heard from the depths of its aerial bower. 
 How canst thou flourish at this blighting hourl 
 What hope, what joy can sunshine bring to thee, 
 Or the soft breezes from the Atlantic sea. 
 The dews of morn, or April's tender shower 1 
 Stroke merciful and welcome would that be 
 Which should extend thy branches on the ground. 
 If never more within their shady round 
 Those lofty-minded Lawgivers shall meet. 
 Peasant and Lord, in their appointed seat, 
 Guardians of Biscay's ancient liberty. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 INDIGNATION OF A HIGH-MINDED SPANIARD.— ISIO. 
 
 We can endure that He should waste our lands. 
 Despoil our temples, and by sword and flame 
 Return us to tlie dust from which we came ; 
 Such food a Tyrant's appetite demands: 
 And we can brook the thought that by his hands 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 AvAUNT all specious pliancy of mind 
 
 In men of low degree, all smooth pretence ! " 
 
 I better like a blunt indifference 
 
 And self-respecting slowness, disinclined 
 
 To win me at first sight : and be there joined 
 
 Patience and temperance with this high reserve, 
 
 Honour that knows the path and will not swerve ; 
 
 Affections, which, if put to proof, are kind ; 
 
 And piety towards God. Such Men of old 
 
 Were England's native growth ; and, throughout Spaili,i 
 
 Forests of such do at this day remain : 
 
 Then for that Country let our hopes be bold ; 
 
 For inatched with these shall policy prove vain. 
 
 Her arts, her strength, her iron, and her gold. 
 
 XXIX. — 1810. 
 
 »■ i 
 
 O'erweeotno Statesmen have full long relied 
 
 On fleets and armies, and external wealth : 
 
 But from within proceeds a Nation's health ; 
 
 Which shall not fail, though poor men cleave with pridei 
 
 To the paternal floor ; or turn aside, 
 
 In the thronged City, from the walks of gain. 
 
 As being all unworthy to detain 
 
 A Soul b}' contemplation sanctified. 
 
 There are who cannot languish in this strife, 
 
 Spaniards of every rank, by whom the good 
 
 Of such high course was felt and understood ; 
 
 Who to their Country's cause have bound a life, 
 
 Erewhile by solemn consecration given 
 
 To labour, and to prayer, to nature, and to Heaven.t 
 
 * [The student of English Poetry will call to mind Cowley*!! 
 impassioned expression of the indignation of a Briton imder thi 
 depression of disasters somewhat similar : 
 
 "Let rather Roman come again, 
 Or Siixon, Norman, or the Dane: 
 In all tilt bonds we ever bore. 
 We grieveci, wo siglieil, we wept ; tee ntvcr blushed before" 
 'Discourse on the Government of Oliver CromwelV — H.R. 
 
 t See Laborde's Character of the Spanish People : from hin 
 the sentiment of these last two lines is taken. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 221 
 
 XXX. 
 
 THE FRENCH AND THE SPANISH GUERILLAS. 
 
 Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast 
 From bleak hill-top, and length of march by night 
 ThroLiSfh heavy swamp, or over snow-clad height, 
 i These hardships ill sustained, these dangers past, 
 I The roving Spanish Bands are reached at last. 
 Charged, and dispersed like foam : but as a flight 
 Of scattered quails by signs do reunite. 
 So these, — and, heard of once again, are chased 
 With combinations of long-practised art 
 And newly-kindled hope ; but they are fled, 
 Gone are they, viewless as the buried dead ; 
 Where now ? — Their sword is at the Foeman's heart ! 
 And thus from year to year his walk they thwart, 
 And hang like dreams around his guilty bed. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 SPANISH GUERILLAS, ISIl. 
 
 TiiEY seek, are sought ; to daily battle led, 
 Shrink not, though far outnumbered by their Foes, 
 For they have learnt to open and to close 
 The ridges of grim War ; and at their head 
 Are Captains such as erst their Country bred 
 Or fostered, self-supported Chiefs, — like those 
 Whom hardy Rome was fearful to oppose, 
 Whose desperate shock the Carthaginian fled. 
 In one who lived unknown a Shepherd's life. 
 Redoubted Viriatus breathes again ; 
 And Blina, nourished in the studious shade, 
 With that great Leader* vies, who, sick of strife 
 And bloodshed, longed in quiet to be laid 
 In some green Island of the western main. 
 
 XXXII. — 1811. 
 
 The power of Armies is a visible thing, 
 Formal, and circumscribed in time and space ; 
 But who the limits of that power shall trace 
 Which a brave People into light can bring 
 Or hide, at will, — for Freedom combating 
 By just revenge inflamed 1 No foot may chase, 
 No eye can follow, to a. fatal place 
 That power, that spirit, whether on the wing 
 Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind 
 Within its awful caves. — From year to year 
 Springs this indigenous produce far and near 
 No craft this subtle element can bind, 
 Rising like water from the soil, to find 
 In every nook a lip that it may cheer. 
 
 xxxm. — 1811. 
 
 Here pause : the poet claims at least this praise, 
 
 That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope 
 
 Of his pure song, which did not shrink from hope 
 
 In the worst moment of these evil days ; 
 
 From hope, the paramount diity that Heaven lays, 
 
 For its own honour, on man's suffering heartf 
 
 Never may from our souls one truth depart, 
 
 That an accursed thing it is to gaze 
 
 On prosperous Tyrants with a dazzled eye ; 
 
 Nor, touched with due abhorrence of their guilt 
 
 For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt, 
 
 And justice labours in extremity. 
 
 Forget thy weakness, upon which is built, 
 
 O wretched Man, the Throne of Tyranny ! 
 
 * Sertorius. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 THE FRENCH ARMY IN RUSSIA. — 1812-13. 
 
 Humanity, delighting to behold 
 
 A fond reflection of her own decay, 
 
 Hath painted Winter like a Traveller — old. 
 
 Propped on a staff — and, through the sullen day, 
 
 In hooded mantle, limping o'er the Plain, 
 
 As though his weakness were disturbed by pain: 
 
 Or, if a juster fancy should allow 
 
 An undisputed symbol of command, 
 
 The chosen sceptre is a withered bough, 
 
 Infirmly grasped within a palsied hand. 
 
 These emblems suit the helpless and forlorn, 
 
 But mighty Winter the device shall scorn. 
 
 For he it was — dread Winter ! who beset, 
 Flinging round van and rear his ghastly net. 
 That host, — when from the regions of the Pole 
 They shrunk, insane ambition's barren goal. 
 That Host, as huge and strong as e'er defied 
 Their God, and placed their trust in human pride ! 
 As fathers persecute rebellious sons. 
 He smote the blossoms of their warrior youth ; 
 He called on Frost's inexorable tooth 
 Life to consume in manhood's firmest hold ; 
 Nor spared the reverend blood that feebly runs ; 
 For why, unless for liberty enrolled 
 And sacred home, ah ! why should hoary Age be bold 1 
 
 Fleet the Tartar's reinless steed. 
 But fleeter far the pinions of the Wind, 
 Which from Siberian caves the Monarch freed. 
 And sent him forth, with squadrons of his kind, 
 
 + [" What an awful duty, what a nurse of all other, the fairest 
 virtues, does not HorE become! We are bad ourselves, because 
 we despair of the goodness of othere." 
 
 Coleridge: 'The Friend,' Vol. I. p. 172. — H. R.] 
 19* 
 
222 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And bade the Snow their ample backs bestride, 
 
 And to the battle ride. 
 No pitying voice commands a halt, 
 No courage can repel tlie dire assault ; 
 Distracted, spiritless, benumbed, and blind, 
 Whole legions sink — and, in one instant, find 
 Burial and death : look for them — and descry, 
 When morn returns, beneath the clear blae sky, 
 A soundless waste, a trackless vacancy ! 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 ON THE SAME OCCASION. 
 Ye Storms, resound the praises of your King '. 
 And ye mild Seasons — in a sunny clime, 
 Midway on some high hill, while Father Time 
 Looks on delighted — meet in festal ring. 
 And loud and long of Winter's triumph sing ! 
 Sing ye, with blossoms crowned, and fruits, and flowers. 
 Of Winter's breath surcharged with sleety showers. 
 And the dire flapping of his hoary wing ! 
 Knit the blithe dance upon the soft green grass ; 
 With feet, hands, eyes, looks, lips, report your gain; 
 Whisper it to the billows of tlie main. 
 And to the aerial zephyrs as they pass. 
 That old decrepit Winter — He hath slain 
 That Host, which rendered all your bounties vain ! 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze 
 
 Of dreadful sacrifice ; by Russian blood 
 
 Lavished in fight with desperate hardihood ; 
 
 The unfeeling Elements no claims shall raise 
 
 To rob our Human-nature of just praise 
 
 For what she did and sufi'ered. Pledges sure 
 
 Of a deliverance absolute and pure 
 
 She gave, if Faith might tread the beaten ways 
 
 Of Providence. But now did the Most High 
 
 Exalt his still small Voice ; — to quell that Host 
 
 Gathered his Power, a manifest Ally ; 
 
 He whose heaped waves confounded the proud boast 
 
 Of Pharaoh, said to Famine, Snow, and Frost, 
 
 Finish the strife by deadliest Victory ! 
 
 That through the texture of yon azure dome 
 
 Cleaves its glad way, a cry of harvest home 
 
 Uttered to Heaven in ecstasy devout ! 
 
 The barrier Rhine hath flashed, through battle-smoke, 
 
 On men who gaze heart-smitten by the view 
 
 As if all Germany had felt the shock ! 
 
 Fly, wretched Gauls! ere they the charge renew 
 
 Wlio have seen (themselves delivered from the yoke) 
 
 The unconquerable Stream his course pursue.* 
 
 XXXVUL 
 
 NOVEMBER, 1813. 
 
 Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright, 
 
 Our aged Sovereign sits ; to the ebb and flow 
 
 Of states and kingdoms, to their joy or woe, 
 
 Insensible ; he sits deprived of sight, 
 
 And lamentably wrapt in twofold night, 
 
 Whom no weak hopes deceived ; whose mind ensued. 
 
 Through perilous war, with regal fortitude. 
 
 Peace that should claim respect from lawless Might. 
 
 Dread King of kings, vouchsafe a ray divine 
 
 To his forlorn condition ! let thy grace 
 
 Upon his inner soul in mercy shine ; 
 
 Permit his heart to kindle, and embrace 
 
 (Though it were only for a moment's space) 
 
 The triumphs of this hour ; for they are Thine ! 
 
 xxxvn. 
 
 THE GERMANS ON THE HEIGHTS OF HOCKHEIM. 
 Abruptly paused the Strife; —the field throughout 
 Resting upon his arms each Warrior stood. 
 Checked in the very act and deed of blood. 
 With breath suspended, like a listening Scout. 
 O Silence ! thou wert Mother of a shout 
 
 xxxix. 
 
 ON THE DISINTERMENT OF THE REMAINS OF THE 
 DUKE D'ENGHIEN. 
 
 Dear Reliques ! from a pit of vilest mould 
 
 Uprisen — to lodge among ancestral kings ; 
 
 And to inflict shame's salutary stings 
 
 On tlie remorseless hearts of men grown old 
 
 In a blind worship; men perversely bold 
 
 Even to this hour; yet at this hour they quake; 
 
 And some their monstrous Idol shall forsake. 
 
 If, to the living, truth was ever told 
 
 By aught surrendered from the hollow grave : 
 
 O murdered Prince ! meek, loyal, pious, brave ! 
 
 The power of retribution once v/as given : 
 
 But 'tis a rueful thought that willow-bands 
 
 So often tie the thunder-wielding hands 
 
 Of Justice sent to earth from highest Heaven ! 
 
 * The event is thus recorded in the journals of the day :— " When 
 the Austrians took Hockhcim, in one part of the engiijcmcnt 
 they got to the brow of the hill, whence lliey had llicir firet 
 view of the Rhine. They instantly hailed — not a gun was 
 fired — not a voice heard: they stood gazing on the river with 
 those feelings which the events of the last fifteen yeare at once 
 called up. Prince Sclivvartzcnberg rode up to know the cause 
 of this sudden stop ; they then gave three cheers, rushed alier 
 the enemy, and drove Ihetn into the water." 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 
 
 223 
 
 XL. 
 
 OCCASIONED BY THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 
 
 {The last six lines intended for an Inscription.) 
 FEBRUARY, 1816. 
 
 I Intrepid sons of Albion ! not by you 
 Is life despised ; ah no, the spacious earth 
 Ne'er saw a race who held, by right of birth, 
 So many objects to which love is due : 
 Ye slight not life — to God and Nature true ; 
 But death, becoming death, is dearer far. 
 When duty bids you bleed in open war : 
 Hence hath your prowess quelled that impious crew. 
 Heroes ! for instant sacrifice prepared, 
 Yet filled with ardour, and on triumph bent 
 'Mid direst shocks of mortal accident, 
 To you who fell, and you whom slaughter spared, 
 To guard the fallen, and consummate the event, 
 Your Country rears this sacred Monument ! 
 
 XLI. 
 
 FEBRUARY, 1816. 
 
 O, for a kindling touch of that pure flame 
 
 Which taught the offering of song to rise 
 
 From thy lone bower, beneath Italian skies, 
 
 Great Filioaia ! With celestial aim 
 
 It rose — thy saintly rapture to proclaim, 
 
 Then, when the imperial City stood released 
 
 From bondage threatened by the embattled East, 
 
 And Christendom respired ; from guilt and shame 
 
 Redeemed, from miserable fear set free 
 
 By one day's feat, one mighty victory. 
 
 — Chant the Deliverer's praise in every tongue! 
 
 The cross shall spread, the crescent hath waxed dim, 
 
 He conquering, as in Earth and Heaven was sung. 
 
 He conquering through God, and God by him.* 
 
 xm. 
 
 OCCASIONED BY THE SAME BATTLE. 
 FEBRUARY, 1816. 
 
 The Bard, whose soul is meek as dawning day. 
 Yet trained to judgments righteously severe ; 
 Fervid, yet conversant with holy fear. 
 As recognising one Almighty sway: 
 
 * Ond e ch' lo grido e gridero : giwgnesti, 
 Guerregiasti, e vincesti; 
 Si, si, vincesti, o Campion forte e pio, 
 Per Dio vincesti, e per te vinse Iddio. 
 
 (See Filieaia's Canzone, addressed to John Sobieski, king of Po- 
 land, upon his raising the siege of Vienna. This, and his other 
 poems on the same occasion, are superior perhaps to any lyrical 
 pieces that contemporary events have ever given birth to, those 
 of tlie Hebrew Scriptures alone excepted. 
 
 He whose experienced eye can pierce the array 
 Of past events, — to whom, in vision clear. 
 The aspiring heads of future things appear, 
 Like mountain-tops whose mists have rolled away : 
 Assoiled from all encumbrance of our timef. 
 He only, if such breathe, in strains devout 
 Shall comprehend this victory sublime ; 
 And worthily rehearse the hideous rout, 
 Which tlie blest Angels, from their peaceful clime 
 Beholding, welcomed with a choral shout. 
 
 XLin. 
 
 Emperors and Kings, how oft have Temples rung 
 
 With impious thanksgiving, the Almighty's scorn ! 
 
 How oft above their Altars have been hung 
 
 Trophies that led the Good and Wise to mourn 
 
 Triumphant wrong, battle of battle born, 
 
 And sorrow that to fruitless sorrow clung ! 
 
 Now, fi-om Heaven-sanctioned Victory, Peace i; 
 
 sprung ! 
 In this firm hour Salvation lifts her horn. 
 Glory to arms ! but, conscious that the nerve 
 Of popular Reason, long mistrusted, freed 
 Your thrones, ye Powers ! from duty fear to swerve ; 
 Be just, be grateful; nor, the Oppressor's creed 
 Reviving, heavier chastisement deserve 
 Than ever forced unpitied hearts to bleed. 
 
 XLIV. 
 ODE 
 
 COMPOSED IN JANUARY, 1816. 
 
 - Carmina possumus 
 
 Donare, at pretium dicere muneri. 
 Non incisa notis mamiora publicis, 
 Per quae spiritus el vita redit bonis 
 Post mortem ducibus 
 
 . clarius indicant 
 
 Laudes, quam Pierides ; neque, 
 
 Si chartEB sileanl quod bene leceris, 
 Mercedem tuleris. Hor. Car. 8. Lib. 4. 
 
 L 
 
 When the soft hand of sleep had closed the latch 
 On the tired household of corporeal sense, 
 And Fancy, keeping unreluctant watch, 
 Was free her choicest favours to dispense ; 
 I saw, in wondrous perspective displayed, 
 A landscape more august than happiest skill 
 Of pencil ever clothed with light and shade ; 
 An intermingled pomp of vale and hill, 
 
 t"From ail this world's encumbrance did himself assoil." 
 
 Spenser. 
 
224 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 City, and naval stream, suburban grove, 
 And stately forest where the wild deer rove; 
 Nor wanted lurking hamlet, dusky towns. 
 And scattered rural farms of aspect bright; 
 And, here and there, between the pastoral downs, 
 The azure sea upswelled upon the sight. 
 Fair prospect, such as Britain only shows ! 
 But not a living creature could be seen 
 Through its wide circuit, that, in deep repose, 
 And, even to sadness, lonely and serene. 
 Lay hushed — till through a portal in the sky 
 Brighter than brightest loop-hole in a storm. 
 Opening before the sun's triumphant eye. 
 Issued, to sudden view, a glorious Form ! 
 Earthward it glided with a swift descent : 
 Saint George himself this Visitant may be ; 
 And, ere a thought could ask on what intent 
 He sought the regions of humanity, 
 A thrilling voice was heard, that vivified 
 City and field and flood ; — aloud it cried — 
 
 " Though from my celestial home, 
 " Like a Champion, armed I come ; 
 " On my helm the dragon crest, 
 "And the red cross on my breast; 
 " I, the Guardian of this Land, 
 "Speak not now of toilsome duty — 
 " Well obeyed was tliat command, 
 " Hence bright days of festive beauty ; 
 'Haste, Virgins, haste! — the flowers which summer 
 gave 
 " Have perished in the field ; 
 ''But the green thickets plenteously shall yield 
 
 " Fit garlands for the Brave, 
 " That will be welcome, if by you entwined ; 
 " Haste, Virgins, haste; — and you, ye Matrons grave, 
 " Go forth with rival youthfulness of mind, 
 
 " And gather what ye find 
 " Of hardy laurel and wild holly boughs, 
 " To deck your stern defenders' modest brows ! 
 
 " Such simple gifts prepare, 
 " Though they have gained a worthier meed ; 
 
 "And indue time shall share 
 " Those palms and amaranthine wreaths 
 " Unto their martyred Countrymen decreed, 
 " In realms where everlasting freshness breathes !" 
 
 And lo ! with crimson banners proudly streaming, 
 And upright weapons innocently gleaming, 
 Along the surface of a spacious plain 
 Advance in order the redoubted bands. 
 And there receive green chaplets from the hands 
 
 Of a fair female train. 
 
 Maids and Matrons — dight 
 
 In robes of dazzling white, — 
 
 While from the crowd bursts forth a rapturous noise 
 By the cloud-capt hills retorted — 
 And a throng of rosy boys 
 In loose fashion tell their joys, — 
 And gray-haired Sires, on staff's supported. 
 Look round — and by their smiling seem to say, 
 Thus strives a grateful Country to display 
 The mighty debt which nothing can repay ! 
 
 Anon before my sight a palace rose 
 Built of all precious substances, — so pure 
 And exquisite, that sleep alone bestows 
 Ability like splendour to endure : 
 Entered, with streaming thousands, through the gate, : 
 I saw the banquet spread beneatli a Dome of state, 
 A lofty Dome, that dared to emulate 
 The Heaven of sable night 
 With starry lustre ; and had power to throw 
 Solemn efflilgcnce, clear as solar light. 
 Upon a princely Company below, 
 While the Vault rang with choral harmony. 
 Like some Nymph-haunted Grot beneath the roaring sea. 
 — No sooner ceased that peal, than on the verge 
 
 Of exultation hung a dirge. 
 
 Breathed from a soft and lonely instrument, 
 That kindled recollections 
 Of agonised aff'ections ; 
 
 And, though some tears the strain attended. 
 The mournful passion ended 
 
 In peace of spirit, and sublime content ! 
 
 4. 
 — But garlands wither, — festal shows depart, 
 Like dreams themselves; and sweetest sound. 
 
 Albeit of eff'ect profound. 
 
 It was — and it is gone! 
 Victorious England ! bid the silent Art 
 Reflect, in glowing hues that shall not fade, 
 Tliese high achievements, even as she arrayed 
 With second life the deed of Marathon, 
 
 Upon Athenian walls: 
 So may she labour for thy civic halls ; 
 
 And be the guardian spaces 
 
 Of consecrated places. 
 As nobly graced by Sculpture's patient toil; 
 And let imperishable structures grow 
 Fixed in the depths of this courageous soil ; 
 Expressive signals of a glorious strife. 
 And competent to shed a spark divine 
 Into the torpid breast of daily life ; 
 Records on which the morning sun may shine. 
 
 As changeful ages flow. 
 With gratulation tlioroughly benign! 
 
 5. 
 
 And ye, Pierian Sisters, sprung from Jove ; 
 
 And sage Mnemosyne, — full long debarred 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 225 
 
 From your first mansions, — exiled all too long 
 From many a hallowed stream and grove, 
 Dear native regions where ye wont to rove, 
 Chanting for patriot heroes the reward 
 
 Of never-dying song ! 
 Now (for, though Truth descending from above 
 The Olympian summit hath destroyed for aye 
 Your kindred Deities, ye live and move, 
 And exercise unblamed a generous sway) 
 Now, on the margin of some spotless fountain. 
 Or top serene of unmolested mountain, 
 Strike audibly the noblest of your lyres, 
 And for a moment meet my soul's desires ! 
 That I, or some more favoured Bard, may hear 
 What ye, celestial Maids ! have often sung 
 Of Britain's acts, — may catch it with rapt ear, 
 And give the treasure to our British tongue ! 
 So shall the characters of that proud page 
 Support their mighty theme from age to age; 
 And, in the desert places of the earth. 
 When tiiey to future empires have given birth. 
 So shall the people gather and believe 
 Tha bold report transferred to every clime ; 
 And the whole world, not envious but admiring, 
 
 And to the like aspiring. 
 Own that the progeny of this fair Isle 
 Had power as lofty actions to achieve 
 As were performed in Man's heroic prime ; 
 Nor wanted, when their fortitude had held 
 Its even tenour, and the foe was quelled, 
 A corresponding virtue to beguile 
 The hostile purpose of wide-wasting Time ; 
 That not in vain they laboured to secure. 
 For their great deeds, perpetual memory, 
 And fame as largely spread as land and sea, 
 By works of spirit high and passion pure ! 
 
 XLV. 
 THANKSGIVING ODE. 
 
 JANUARY 18, 1816. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 Wholly unworthy of touching upon the momentous 
 subject here treated would that Poet be, before whose 
 eyes the present distresses under which this kingdom 
 labours could interpose a veil sufficiently thick to hide, 
 or even to obscure, the splendour of this great moral 
 triumph. If the author has given way to exultation, 
 lUnchecked by these distresses, it might be sufficient to 
 protect him from a charge of insensibility, should he 
 state his own belief that the sufferings will be transi- 
 tory. On the wisdom of a very large majority of the 
 British nation rested that generosity which poured out 
 the treasures of this country for the deliverance of 
 2D 
 
 Europe : and in the same national wisdom, presiding 
 in time of peace over an energy not inferior to that 
 which has been displayed in war, they confide, who en- 
 courage a firm hope, that the cup of our wealth will be 
 gradually replenished. There will, doubtless, be no 
 few ready to indulge in regrets and repinings ; and to 
 feed a morbid satisfaction, by aggravating these bur- 
 thens in imagination, in order that calamity so con- 
 fidently prophesied, as it has not taken the shape which 
 their sagacity allotted to it, may appear as grievous as 
 possible under another. But the body of the nation 
 will not quarrel with the gain, because it might have 
 been purchased at a less price : and, acknowledging in 
 these sufferings, which they feel to have been in a great 
 degree unavoidable, a consecration of their noble efforts, 
 they will vigorously apply themselves to remedy the 
 evil. 
 
 Nor is it at the expense of rational patriotism, or in 
 disregard of sound philosophy, that the author hath 
 given vent to feelings tending to encouragfe a martial 
 spirit in the bosoms of his countrymen, at a time when 
 there is a general outcry against the prevalence of these 
 dispositions. The British army, both by its skill and 
 valour in the field, and by the discipline which has 
 rendered it much less formidable than the armies of 
 other powers to the inhabitants of the several countries 
 where its operations were carried on, has performed 
 services that will not allow the language of gratitude 
 and admiration to be suppressed or restrained (whatever 
 be the temper of the public mind) through a scrupulous 
 dread lest the tribute due to the past should prove an 
 injurious incentive for the future. Every man deserv- 
 ing the name of Briton adds his voice to the chorus 
 which extols the exploits of his countrymen, with a 
 consciousness, at times overpowering the effort, that 
 they transcend all praise. — But this particular senti- 
 ment, thus irresistibly excited, is not sufficient. The 
 nation would err grievously, if she suffered the abuse 
 which other states have made of military power, to 
 prevent her from perceiving that no people ever was, 
 or can be, independent, free, or secure, much less 
 great, in any sane application of the word, without 
 martial propensities and an assiduous cultivation of 
 military virtues. Nor let it be overlooked, that the 
 benefits derivable from these sources are placed within 
 the reach of Great Britain, under conditions peculiarly 
 favourable. The same insular position which, by ren- 
 dering territorial incorporation impossible, utterly pre- 
 cludes the desire of conquest under the most seductive 
 shape it can assume, enables her to rely, for her defence 
 against foreign foes, chiefly upon a species of armed 
 force from v^ihich her own liberties have nothing to 
 fear. Such are the privileges of her situation ; and, 
 by permitting, they invite her to give way to the 
 courageous instincts of human nature, and to strengthen 
 and to refine them by culture. But some have more 
 than insinuated that a design exists to subvert the civil 
 character of the English people by unconstitutional ap- 
 
226 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 plications and unnecessary increase of military power. 
 The advisers and abettors of such a design, were it 
 possible that it should exist, would be guilty of the 
 most heinous crime, which, upon this planet, can be 
 committed. The author, trusting that this apprehen- 
 sion arises from the delusive influences of an honour- 
 able jealousy, hopes that the martial qualities he 
 venerates will be fostered by adhering to those good 
 old usages which experience has sanctioned ; and by 
 availing ourselves of new means of indisputable promise : 
 particularly by applying, in its utmost possible extent, 
 that system of tuition whose master-spring is a habit of 
 gradually enlightened subordination; — by imparting 
 knowledge, civil, moral, and religious, in such measure 
 that the mind, among all classes of the community, 
 may love, admire, and be prepared and accomplished 
 to defend that country under whose protection its 
 faculties have been unfolded, and its riches acquired; 
 — by just dealing towards all orders of the state, so 
 that, no members of it being trampled upon, courage may 
 everywhere continue to rest immoveably upon its 
 ancient English foundation, personal self-respect; — 
 by adequate rewards, and permanent honours, conferred 
 upon the deserving; — by encouraging athletic ex- 
 ercises and manly sports among the peasantry of the 
 country ; — and by especial care to provide and support 
 Institutions, in which, during a time of peace, a reason- 
 able proportion of the youth of the country may be 
 instructed in military science. 
 
 The author has only to add, that he should feel 
 little satisfaction in giving to the world these limited 
 attempts* to celebrate the virtues of his country, if he 
 did not encourage a hope that a subject, which it has 
 fallen within his province to treat only in the mass, will 
 by other poets be illustrated in that detail which its 
 importance calls for, and which will allow opportunities 
 to give the merited applause to persons as well as to 
 
 THINGS. 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 RvDAL Mount, March 18, 1816. 
 
 ODE. 
 
 THE MORNING OF TFIE DAY APPOINTED FOR A GENE- 
 RAL THANKSGIVING, JANUARY IS, 181S. 
 
 Hail, universal Source of pure delight ! 
 Thou that canst shed the bliss of gratitude 
 On hearts howe'er insensible or rude ; 
 Whether thy orient visitations smite 
 The haughty towers where monarchs dwell ; 
 Or thou, impartial Sun, with presence bright 
 Cheer'st the low threshold of the peasant's cell ! 
 — Not unrejoiced I see thee climb the sky 
 
 *Tlie Ode was published along with otlier pieces. 
 
 In naked splendour, clear from mist or haze, 
 Or cloud approaching to divert the rays. 
 Which even in deepest winter testify 
 
 Thy power and majesty. 
 Dazzling the vision that presumes to gaze. 
 
 — Well does thine aspect usher in this Day; 
 As aptly suits therewith that timid pace 
 
 Submitted to the chains 
 That bind thee to the path which God ordains 
 
 That thou shalt trace, 
 Till, with the heavens and earth, thou pass away ! 
 Nor less, the stillness of these frosty plains, 
 Their utter stillness, and the silent grace 
 Of yon ethereal summits white with snow, 
 (Whose tranquil pomp and spotless purity 
 
 Report of storms gone by 
 
 To us who tread below) 
 Do with the service of this Day accord. 
 
 — Divinest Object which the uplifted eye 
 Of mortal man is suffered to behold ; 
 
 Thou, who upon yon snow-clad Heights hast poured 
 Meek splendour, nor forget'st the humble Vale ; 
 Thou who dost warm Earth's universal mould, 
 And for thy bounty wert not unadored 
 
 By pious men of old ; 
 Once more, heart-cheering Sun, I bid thee hail ! 
 Bright be thy course to-day, let not this promise fail ! 
 
 'Mid the deep quiet of this morning hour. 
 All nature seems to hear me while I speak. 
 By feelings urged that do not vainly seek 
 Apt language, ready as the tuneful notes 
 That stream in blithe succession from the throats 
 
 Of birds in leafy bower. 
 Warbling a farewell to a vernal shower. 
 — There is a radiant but a short-lived flame, 
 That burns for Poets in the dawning East; 
 And oft my soul hath kindled at the same. 
 When the captivity of sleep had ceased ; 
 But he who fixed immoveably the frame 
 Of the round world, and built, by laws as strong, 
 
 A solid refuge for distress. 
 
 The towers of righteousness ; 
 He knows that from a holier altar came 
 The quickening spark of this day's sacrifice; 
 Knows that the source is nobler whence doth rise 
 
 The current of this matin song ; 
 That deeper far it lies 
 Than aught dependent on the fickle skies. 
 
 Have we not conquered ? — By the vengefiil sword? ' 
 Ah no, by dint of Magnanimity : 
 That curbed the baser passions, and left free 
 A loyal band to follow their liege Lord, 
 Clear-sighted Honour — and his staid Compeers, 
 Along a track of most unnatural years. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 227 
 
 tin execution of heroic deeds; 
 
 ; Whose memory, spotless as the crystal beads 
 Of morning dew upon the untrodden meads, 
 Shall live enrolled above the starry spheres. 
 Who to the murmurs of an earthly string 
 
 I Of Briton's acts would sing. 
 
 He with enraptured voice will tell 
 Of One whose spirit no reverse could quell ; 
 Of One that 'mid the failing never failed : 
 Who paints how Britain struggled and prevailed 
 Shall represent her labouring with an eye 
 Of circumspect humanity ; 
 Shall show her clothed with strength and skill, 
 
 i All martial duties to fulfil ; 
 
 i Finn as a rock in stationaiy fight ; 
 In motion rapid as the lightning's gleam ; 
 Fierce as a flood-gate bursting in the night 
 To rouse the wicked from their giddy dream — 
 Woe, woe to all that face her in the field ! 
 Appalled she may not be, and cannot yield. 
 
 4. 
 
 And thus is missed the sole true glory 
 
 That can belong to human story ! 
 
 At which they only shall arrive 
 
 Who through the abyss of weakness dive. 
 ■The very humblest are too proud of heart ; 
 And one brief day is rightly set apart 
 To Him who lifteth up and layeth low ; 
 For that Almighty God to whom we owe, 
 Say not that we have vanquished — hot that we survive. 
 
 How dreadful the dominion of the impure ! 
 Why should the song be tardy to proclaim 
 That less than power unbounded could not tame 
 That soul of Evil — which, from Hell let loose, 
 Had filled the astonished world with such abuse 
 As boundless patience only could endure "! 
 — Wide- wasted regions — cities wrapped in flame - 
 Who sees, and feels, may lift a streaming eye 
 To Heaven, — who never saw, may heave a sigh ; 
 But the foundation of our nature shakes. 
 And with an infinite pain the spirit aches, 
 When desolated countries, towns on fire. 
 
 Are but the avowed attire 
 Of warfare waged with desperate mind 
 Against the life of virtue in mankind ; 
 
 Assaulting without ruth 
 
 The citadels of truth ; 
 While the whole forest of civility 
 Is doomed to perish, to the last fair tree ! 
 
 A crouching purpose — a distracted will — 
 Opposed to hopes that battened upon scorn, 
 And to desires whose ever-waxing horn 
 Not all the light of earthly power could fill ; 
 
 Opposed to dark, deep plots of patient skill. 
 And to celerities of lawless force ; 
 Which, spurning God, had flung away remorse — 
 What could they gain but shadows of redress ] 
 
 — So bad proceeded propagating worse ; 
 And discipline was passion's dire excess*. 
 Widens the fatal web, its lines extend, 
 And deadlier poisons in the chalice blend — 
 When will your trials teach you to be wise '\ 
 
 — O prostrate Lands, consult your agonies ! 
 
 No more — the guilt is banished, 
 And, with the Guilt, the Shame is fled ; 
 And, with the Guilt and Shame, the Woe hath vanished. 
 Shaking the dust and ashes from her head ! 
 — No more — these lingerings of distress 
 Sully the limpid stream of thankfulness. 
 What robe can Gratitude employ 
 So seemly as the radiant vest of Joy ] 
 What steps so suitable as those that move 
 In prompt obedience to spontaneous measures 
 Of glory — and felicity — and love, 
 Surrendering the whole heart to sacred pleasures ") 
 
 a 
 
 Land of our fathers ! precious unto me 
 Since the first joys of thinking infancy ; 
 When of thy gallant chivalry I read. 
 And hugged the volume on my sleepless bed ! 
 O England ! — dearer far than life is dear. 
 If I forget thy prowess, never more 
 Be thy ungrateful Son allowed to hear 
 Thy green leaves rustle, or thy torrents roar ! 
 But how can He be faithless to the past. 
 Whose soul, intolerant of base decline. 
 Saw in thy virtue a celestial sign. 
 That bade him hope, and to his hope cleave fast ! 
 The Nations strove with puissance ; — at length 
 Wide Europe heaved, impatient to be cast, 
 
 With all her living strength. 
 
 With all her armed Powers, 
 
 Upon the ofiensive shores. 
 The trumpet blew a universal blast ! 
 But Thou art foremost in the field : — there stand : 
 Receive the triumph destined to thy Hand ! 
 All States have glorified themselves ; — their claims 
 Are weighed by Providence, in balance even ; 
 And now, in preference to the mightiest names. 
 To Thee the exterminating sword is given. 
 Dread mark of approbation, justly gained ! 
 Exalted office, worthil}' sustained ! 
 
 9- 
 
 Imagination, ne'er before content, 
 
 But aye ascending, restless in her pride, 
 
 ' A discipline the rule whereof is passion."-^LoRn BbooK: 
 
228 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 From all that man's performance could present, 
 Stoops to that closing deed magnificent, 
 And with the embrace is satisfied. 
 — Fly, ministers of Fame, 
 Whate'er your means, whatever help ye claim. 
 Bear through the world those tidings of delight ! 
 
 — Hours, Days, and Months, have borne them, in the 
 
 sight 
 Of mortals, travelling faster than the shower. 
 
 That land-ward stretches from the sea, 
 
 The morning's splendours to devour ; 
 But this appearance scattered ecstasy, 
 And heart-sick Europe blessed the healing power. 
 
 — Tlie shock is given — the Adversaries bleed — 
 
 Lo, Justice triumphs ! — Earth is freed ! 
 Such glad assurance suddenly went forth — 
 It pierced the caverns of the sluggish North — 
 
 It found no barrier on the ridge 
 Of Andes — frozen gulfs became its bridge — 
 The vast Pacific gladdens with the freight — 
 Upon the Lakes of Asia 't is bestowed — 
 The Arabian desert shapes a willing road. 
 
 Across her burning breast. 
 For this refreshing incense from the West! 
 
 — Where snakes and lions breed, 
 Where towns and cities thick as stars appear 
 Wherever fruits are gathered, and where'er 
 The upturned soil receives the hopeful seed — 
 While the Sun rules, and cross the shades of night — 
 The unwearied arrow hath pursued its flight ! 
 The eyes of good men thankfully give heed. 
 
 And in its sparkling progress read 
 How virtue triumphs, from her bondage freed ! 
 Tyrants exult to hear of kingdoms won. 
 And slaves are pleased to learn that mighty feats are 
 
 done ; 
 Even the proud Realm, from whose distracted borders 
 Tliis messenger of good was launched in air, 
 France, conquered France, amid her wild disorders, 
 Feels, and hereafter shall the truth declare 
 That she too lacks not reason to rejoice. 
 And utter England's name with sadly-plausive voice. 
 
 10 
 
 Preserve, O Lord ! within our hearts 
 
 That memory of thy favour. 
 
 That else insensibly departs. 
 
 And losses its sweet savour ! 
 Lodge it within us ! — as the power of light 
 Lives inexhaustibly in precious gems. 
 Fixed on the front of Eastern diadems. 
 So shine our thankfulness for ever bright! 
 What offering, what transcendent monument 
 Shall our sincerity to Thee present 1 
 
 — Not work of hands; but trophies that may reach 
 To highest Heaven — the labour of the soul ; 
 That builds, as thy unerring precepts teach. 
 
 Upon the inward victories of each, 
 
 Her hope of lasting glory for the whole. 
 
 — Yet might it well become that city now, 
 
 Into whose breast the tides of grandeur flow, 
 
 To whom all persecuted men retreat; 
 
 If a new Temple lift her votive brow 
 
 Upon the shore of silver Tliames — to greet 
 
 The peaceful guest advancing from afar. 
 
 Bright be the distant Fabric, as a star 
 
 Fresh risen — and beautiful within! — there meet 
 
 Dependence infinite, proportion just ; 
 
 — A Pile that Grace approves, that Time can trust 
 
 With his most sacred wealth, heroic dust ! 
 
 IL 
 
 But if the valiant of this land 
 In reverential modesty demand 
 That all observance, due to them, be paid 
 Where their serene progenitors are laid ; 
 Kings, warriors, high-souled poets, saint-like sages, 
 England's illustrious sons of long, long ages; 
 Be it not unordained that solemn rites. 
 Within the circuit of those Gothic walls. 
 Shall be performed at pregnant intervals ; 
 Commemoration holy, that unites 
 The living generations with the dead ; 
 
 By the deep soul-moving sense 
 Of religious eloquence, — 
 By visual pomp, and by the tie 
 Of sweet and threatening harmony ; 
 Soft notes, awful as the omen 
 Of destructive tempests coming. 
 And escaping from that sadness 
 Into elevated gladness ; 
 While the white-robed choir attendant. 
 Under mouldering banners pendant. 
 Provoke all potent symphonies to raise 
 Songs of victory and praise. 
 For them who bravely stood unhurt, or bled 
 With medicable wounds, or found their graves 
 Upon the battle-field, or under ocean's waves ; 
 Or were conducted home in single state. 
 And long procession — there to lie. 
 Where their sons' sons, and all posterity. 
 Unheard by them, their deeds shall celebrate ! 
 
 12. 
 
 Nor will the God of peace and love 
 Such martial service disapprove. 
 He guides the Pestilence — the cloud 
 Of locusts travels on his breath ; 
 The region that in hope was ploughed 
 His drought consumes, his mildew taints with death ; 
 
 He springs the hushed Volcano's mine ; 
 He puts the Earthquake on her still design. 
 Darkens the sun, hath bade the forest sink, 
 
POEMS OP THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 229 
 
 ! And, drinking towns and cities, still can drink 
 ICities and towns — 't is Thou — the work is Thine ! 
 
 j The fierce Tornado sleeps within thy courts — 
 
 He hears the word — he flies — 
 And navies perish in their ports ; 
 
 'For Thou art angry with thine enemies ! 
 For these, and for our errors 
 And sins, that point their terrors. 
 
 We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud 
 
 And magnify thy name, Almighty God ! 
 
 But thy most dreaded instrument 
 In working out a pure intent. 
 Is Man arrayed for mutual slaughter, 
 Yea, Carnage is thy daughter ! 
 
 Thou cloth'st the wicked in their dazzling mail. 
 
 And by thy just permission they prevail ; 
 
 Thine arm from peril guards the coasts 
 Of them who in thy laws delight; 
 
 Thy presence turns the scale of doubtful fight, 
 
 Tremendous God of battles. Lord of Hosts ! 
 
 13. 
 To Thee — to Thee — 
 On this appointed day shall thanks ascend, 
 That Thou hast brought our warfare to an end. 
 And that we need no second victory ! 
 Ha ! what a ghastly sight for man to see ! 
 And to the heavenly saints in peace who dwell, 
 
 For a brief moment, terrible ; 
 But, to thy sovereign penetration, fair, 
 Before whom all things are, that were. 
 All judgments that have been, or e'er shall be ; 
 Links in the chain of thy tranquillity ! 
 Along the bosom of this favoured Nation, 
 Breathe Thou, this day, a vital undulation ! 
 Let all who do this land inherit 
 Be conscious of Thy moving spirit ! 
 Oh, 't is a goodly Ordinance, — the sight. 
 Though sprung from bleeding war, is one of pure de- 
 light; 
 Bless Thou the hour, or ere the hour arrive. 
 When a whole people shall kneel down in prayer, 
 And, at one moment, in one rapture, strive 
 With lip and heart to tell their gratitude 
 
 For Thy protecting care. 
 Their solemn joy — praising the Eternal Lord 
 For tyranny subdued. 
 
 And for the sway of equity renewed, 
 For liberty confirmed, and peace restored ! 
 
 14. 
 
 But hark — the summons — down the placid Lake 
 Floats the soft cadence of the Church-tower bells ; 
 Bright shines the Sun, as if his beams might wake 
 The tender insects sleeping in their cells ; 
 Bright shines the Sun — and not a breeze to shake 
 The drops that tip the melting icicles. 
 
 O, enter now his temple gate ! 
 Inviting words — perchance already flung, 
 (As the crowd press devoutly down the aisle 
 Of some old Minster's venerable pile) 
 From voices into zealous passion stung. 
 While the tubed engine feels the inspiring blast, 
 And has begun — its clouds of sound to cast 
 
 Towards the empyreal Heaven, 
 
 As if the fretted roof were riven. 
 Us, humbler ceremonies now await ; 
 But in the bosom, with devout respect. 
 The banner of our joy we will erect, 
 And strength of love our souls shall elevate : 
 For to a few collected in his name. 
 Their heavenly Father will incline an ear 
 Gracious to service hallowed by its aim ; — 
 Awake ! the majesty of God revere ! 
 
 Go ^- and with foreheads meekly bowed 
 Present your prayers — go — and rejoice aloud — 
 
 The Holy One will hear ! 
 And what, 'mid silence deep, with faith sincere, 
 Ye, in your low and undisturbed estate. 
 Shall simply feel and purely meditate 
 Of warnings — from the unprecedented might. 
 Which, in our time, the impious have disclosed ; 
 And of more arduous duties thence imposed 
 Upon the future advocates of right ; 
 
 Of mysteries revealed, 
 
 And judgments unrepealed, — 
 
 Of earthly revolution, 
 
 And final retribution, — 
 To his omniscience will appear 
 An ofiering not unworthy to find place, 
 On this high Day of Thanks, before the Throne of 
 Grace ! 
 
 20 
 
230 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 Dear Fellow-travellers ! think not that the Muse 
 
 Presents to notice these memorial Lays, 
 
 Hoping the general eye thereon will gaze, 
 
 As on a mirror that gives back the hues 
 
 Of living Nature ; no — though free to choose 
 
 The greenest bowers, the most inviting ways. 
 
 The fairest landscapes and the brightest days. 
 
 Her skill she tried with less ambitious views. 
 
 For You she wrought ; ye only can supply 
 
 The life, the truth, the beauty : she confides 
 
 In that enjoyment which with you abides. 
 
 Trusts to your love and vivid memory ; 
 
 Thus far contented, that for You her verse 
 
 Shall lack not power the " meeting soul to pierce !" 
 
 W. Words woETH. 
 Rydal Mount, January, 1822. 
 
 FISH- WOMEN. — ON LANDING AT CALAIS. 
 
 'T IS said, fantastic Ocean doth enfold 
 The likeness of whate'er on Land is seen ; 
 But, if the Nereid Sisters and their Queen, 
 Above whose heads the Tide so long hath rolled, 
 The Dames resemble whom we here behold. 
 How terrible beneath the opening waves 
 To sink, and meet them in their fretted caves, 
 Withered, grotesque — immeasurably old, 
 And shrill and fierce in accent! — Fear it not; 
 For they Earth's fairest Daughters do excel ; 
 Pure undecaying beauty is their lot ; 
 Their voices into liquid music swell. 
 Thrilling each pearly cleft and sparry grot — 
 The undisturbed Abodes where Sea-nymplis dwell ! 
 
 II. 
 
 BRUGES. 
 
 Bruges I saw attired with golden light 
 (Streamed from the west) as with a robe of power : 
 'T is past : and now the grave and sunless hour. 
 That, slowly making way for peaceful night. 
 Best suits with fallen grandeur, to my sight 
 
 Offers the beauty, the magnificence. 
 
 And all the graces, left her for defence 
 
 Against the injuries of Time, the spite 
 
 Of Fortune, and the desolating storms 
 
 Of future War. Advance not — spare to hide, 
 
 O gentle Power of Darkness ! these mild hues ; 
 
 Obscure not yet these silent avenues 
 
 Of stateliest Architecture, where the forms 
 
 Of Nun-like Females, with soft motion, glide ! 
 
 III. 
 BRUGES.* 
 
 The Spirit of Antiquity — enshrined 
 
 In sumptuous Buildings, vocal in sweet Song, 
 
 In Picture, speaking with heroic tongue. 
 
 And with devout solemnities entwined — 
 
 Strikes to the seat of grace within the mind : 
 
 Hence Forms that glide with swan-like ease along; 
 
 Hence motions, even amid the vulgar throng. 
 
 To an harmonious decency confined ; 
 
 As if the Streets were consecrated ground. 
 
 The City one vast Temple — dedicate 
 
 To mutual respect in thought and deed ; 
 
 To leisure, to forbearances sedate ; 
 
 To social cares from jarring passions freed ; 
 
 A nobler peace than that in deserts found ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 AFTER VISITING THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 
 A wiNGfeD Goddess, clothed in vesture wrought 
 Of rainbow colours ; one whose port was bold, 
 Wliose overburthened hand could scarcely hold 
 The glittering crowns and garlands which iC brought,! 
 Hovered in air above the far-famed Spot. t 
 
 She vanished — leaving prospect blank and cold 
 Of wind-swept corn that wide around us rolled 
 In dreary billows, wood, and meagre cot. 
 And monuments that soon must disappear* 
 Yet a dread local recompense we found ; 
 While glory seemed betrayed, while patriot zeal 
 Sank in our hearts, we felt as Men should feel 
 With such vast hoards of hidden carnage near. 
 And horror breathing from the silent ground ! 
 
 * See Note 7, p. 316. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 231 
 
 V. 
 
 SCENERY BETWEEN NAMUR AND LIEGE. 
 
 IWhat lovelier home could gentle Fancy choose ? 
 [[s this the Stream, whose cities, heights, and plains, 
 ivVar's favourite playground, are with crimson stains 
 'Familiar, as the Morn with pearly dews ^ 
 The Morn, that now, along the silver Mevse, 
 Spreading her peaceful ensigns, calls the Swains 
 To tend their silent boats and ringing wains, 
 Or strip the bough wliose mellow fruit bestrews 
 The ripening corn beneath it. As mine eyes 
 Turn from the fortified and threatening hill. 
 How sweet the prospect of yon watery glade. 
 With its gray rocks clustering in pensive shade. 
 That, shaped like old monastic turrets, rise 
 From the smooth meadow-ground, serene and still ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 AIX-LA-CHAPELLE. 
 
 Was it to disenchant, and to undo. 
 
 That we approached the Seat of Charlemaine 1 
 
 To sweep from many an old romantic strain 
 
 That faith which no devotion may renew ! 
 
 Why does this puny Church present to view 
 
 Its feeble columns'! and that scanty Chair] 
 
 This Sword that One of our weak times might wear ! 
 
 Objects of false pretence, or meanly true ! 
 
 [f from a Traveller's fortune I might claim 
 
 ;A palpable memorial of that day, 
 
 JThen would I seek the Pyrenean Breach 
 
 Which Roland clove with huge two-handed sway, 
 
 And to the enormous labour left his name. 
 
 Where unremitting frosts the rocky Crescent bleach.* 
 
 vn. 
 
 IN THE CATHEDRAL AT COLOGNE. 
 O FOR the help of Angels to complete 
 This Temple — Angels governed by a plan 
 How gloriously pursued by daring Man, 
 Studious that He might not disdain the seat 
 Who dwells in Heaven ! But that inspiring heat 
 Hath failed ; and now, ye Powers ! whose gorgeous 
 
 wings 
 And splendid aspect yon emblazonings 
 But faintly picture, 'twere an office meet 
 
 I *"Let a wall of rocks be imagined from three to six hundred 
 feet in height, and rising between France and Spain, so as phy- 
 sically to separate the two kingdoms — let us fancy this wall 
 curved like a crescent, with its convexity towards France. 
 Lastly, let us suppose, that in the very middle of the wall, a 
 breach of 300 feet wide has been beaten down by the famous 
 Rolajid, and we may have a good idea of what the mountaineers 
 call Uie 'Breche de Roland.' " 
 
 For you, on these unfinished Shafts to try 
 The midnight virtues of your harmony : — 
 This vast Design might tempt you to repeat 
 Strains that call forth upon empyreal ground 
 Immortal Fabrics — rising to the sound 
 Of penetrating harps and voices sweet ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 IN A CARRIAGE UPON THE BANKS OF THE RHINE. 
 
 Amid this dance of objects, sadness steals 
 
 O'er the defrauded heart — while sweeping by, 
 
 As in a fit of Thespian jollity, 
 
 Beneath her vine-leaf crown the green Earth reels : 
 
 Backward, in rapid evanescence, wheels 
 
 The venerable pageantry of Time, 
 
 Each beetling rampart, and each tower sublime. 
 
 And what the Dell unwillingly reveals 
 
 Of lurking cloistral arch, through trees espied 
 
 Near the bright River's edge. Yet why repine ^ 
 
 Pedestrian liberty shall yet be mine 
 
 To muse, to creep, to halt at will, to gaze : 
 
 Freedom which youth with copious hand supplied, 
 
 May in fit measure bless my later days. 
 
 IX. 
 
 HYMN, 
 
 FOR THE BOATMEN, AS THEY APPROACH THE RAPIDS, 
 UNDER THE CASTLE OF HEIDELBURG. 
 
 Jesu! bless our slender Boat, 
 
 By the current swept along; 
 Loud its threatenings — let them not 
 
 Drown tlie music of a Song 
 Breathed thy mercy to implore, 
 Where these troubled waters roar! 
 
 Saviour, in thy image, seen 
 
 Bleeding on that precious Rood ; 
 
 If, while through the meadows green 
 Gently wound the peaceful flood, 
 
 We forgot Thee, do not Thou 
 
 Disregard thy Suppliants now ! 
 
 Hither, like yon ancient Tower 
 
 Watching o'er the River's bed. 
 Fling the shadow of thy power, 
 
 Else we sleep among the Dead ; 
 Thou who trodd'st the billowy Sea, 
 Shield us in our jeopardy ! 
 
 Guide our Bark among the waves; 
 
 Through the rocks our passage smooth; 
 Where the whirlpool frets and raves 
 
 Let thy love its anger soothe : 
 All our hope is placed in Thee ; 
 Miserere Domine !* 
 
 *See the beautiful Song in Mr. Coleridge's Tragedy, "The 
 Remorse." Why is the Harp of Quantock silent ? 
 
232 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 X. 
 
 THE SOURCE OF THE DANUBE. 
 
 Not, like his great compeers, indig-nantly 
 
 Doth Danube spring to life !* The wandering Stream 
 
 (Who loves the Cross, yet to tlie Crescent's gleam 
 
 Unfolds a willing breast) with infant glee 
 
 Slips from his prison walls : and Fancy, free 
 
 To follow in his track of silver light. 
 
 Reaches, with one brief moment's rapid flight, 
 
 The vast Encinctiire of that gloomy sea 
 
 Whose waves the Orphean lyre forbad to meet 
 
 In conflict ; whose rough winds forgot their jars — 
 
 To waft the heroic progeny of Greece, 
 
 When the first Ship sailed for the golden Fleece, 
 
 Argo, exalted for that daring feat 
 
 To bear in heaven her shape distinct with stars. 
 
 XI. 
 
 MEMORIAL, 
 
 NEAR THE OUTLET OF THE LAKE OF THUN. 
 
 " DEM 
 
 ANDE^KE^r 
 
 MEINES FREUNDES 
 
 ALOYS REDING 
 
 MDCCCXVIII." 
 
 And oft he tempts the patriot Swiss 
 Amid the grove to linger ; 
 Till all is dim, save this bright Stone 
 Touched by his golden finger. 
 
 Aloys Reding, it will be remembered, was Captain Ceneral 
 of the Swiss forces, which, with a courage and perseverance 
 worthy of the cause, opposed the flagitious and loo successful 
 attempt of Buonaparte to subjugate their country. 
 
 Around a wild and woody hill 
 
 A gravelled pathway treading. 
 
 We reached a votive Stone that bears 
 
 The name of Aloys Reding. 
 
 Well judged the Friend who placed it there 
 For silence and protection. 
 And liaply with a finer care 
 Of dutiful afiection. 
 
 The Sun regards it from the West, 
 Sinking in summer glory; 
 And, while he sinks, affords a type 
 Of that pathetic story. 
 
 •Before this quarter of the Black Forest was inhabited, the 
 source of the Danube might have suggested some of those 
 sublime images which Armstrong has so finely described; at 
 present, the contrast is most striking. The Spring appears in 
 a capacious stone Basin upon the front of a Ducal palace, with 
 a pleasure-ground opposite ; then, passing under the pavement, 
 takes the form of a httle, clear, bright, black, vigorous rill 
 barely wide enough to tempt the agility of a child five years old 
 to leap over it, — and entering the G.arden, it joins, after a 
 course of a few hundred yards, a Stream much more consider- 
 able than itself. The copioi^mess of the Spring at Doneschingen 
 must have procured for it the honour of being named the 
 Source of the Danube. 
 
 XII. 
 
 COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE CATHOLIC CANTONS' 
 OF SWITZERLAND. 
 
 LIFE 1 without thy chequered scene 
 Of right and wrong, of weal and woe. 
 Success and failure, could a ground 
 For magnanimity be found] 
 For faith, 'inid ruined hopes, serene] 
 Or whence could virtue flow? 
 
 Yet are we doomed our native dust 
 To wet with many a fruitless shower, 
 And ill it suits us to disdain 
 The Altar, to deride the Fane, 
 Where simple Sufferers bend, in trust 
 To win a happier hour. 
 
 1 love, where spreads the village lawn. 
 Upon some knee-worn Cell to gaze ; 
 Hail to the firm unmoving Cross, 
 Aloft, where pines their branches toss! 
 And to tlie Chapel far withdrawn. 
 That lurks by lonely ways ! 
 
 Where'er we roam — along the brink 
 Of Rhine — or by the sweeping Po, 
 Tlirough Alpine vale, or champaign wide, 
 Whate'er we look on, at our side 
 Be Charity! — to bid us think. 
 And feel, if we would know. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 ON APPROACHING THE STAUB-BACH, LABTERi 
 BRUNNEN. r 
 
 Tracts let me follow far from human-kind 
 Which these illusive greetings may not reach, 
 Where only Nature tunes her voice to teach 
 Careless pursuits, and raptures unconfined. 
 No Mermaid warbles (to allay the wind 
 That drives some vessel tow'rd a dangerous beach) 
 More thrilling mc-lodies ! no caverned Witch, 
 Chanting a love-spell, ever intertwined 
 Notes shrill and wild with art more musical ! 
 Alas ! that from the lips of abject Want 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 233 
 
 lAnd Idleness in tatters mendicant 
 
 [The strain should flow — free fancy to enthral, 
 
 fAnd with regret and useless pity haunt 
 
 iThis bold, this pure, this sky-horn Waterfall !* 
 
 XIV. 
 THE FALL OF THE AAR— HANDEC. 
 
 From the fierce aspect of this River throwing 
 His giant body o'er the steep rock's brink, 
 
 ; Back in astonisliment and fear we shrink : 
 But, gradually a calmer look bestowing, 
 Flowers we espy beside the torrent growing ; 
 Flowers that peep forth from many a cleft and chink. 
 And, from the whirlwind of his anger, drink 
 Hues ever fresh, in rocky fortress blowing : 
 
 j They suck, from breath that threatening to destroy, 
 
 ; Is more benignant than the dewy eve, 
 
 ; Beauty, and life, and motions as of joy : 
 Nor doubt but He to whom yon Pine-trees nod 
 Their heads in sign of worship, Nature's God, 
 These humbler adorations will receive. 
 
 XV. 
 
 SCENE ON THE LAKE OF BRIENTZ. 
 
 " What know we of the blest above 
 But that they sing and that they love V 
 Yet, if they ever did inspire 
 A mortal hymn, or shaped the choir. 
 Now, where those harvest Damsels float 
 Homeward in their rugged Boat, 
 (While all the ruffling winds are fled. 
 Each slumbering on some mountain's head,) 
 Now, surely, hath that gracious aid 
 Been felt, that influence is displayed. 
 Pupils of Heaven, in order stand 
 The rustic Maidens, every hand 
 
 * " The Staub-bach" is a narrow Stream, which, after a long 
 course on the heights, comes to the sharp edge of a somewhat 
 overhanging precipice, overleaps it with a bound, and, after a 
 fall of 930 feet, forms again a rivulet. The vocal powers of 
 these musical Beggars may seem to be exaggerated ; but this 
 wild and savage air was utterly unlike any sounds I had ever 
 heard ; the notes reached me from a distance, and on what 
 occasion they were sung I could not guess, only they seemed 
 to belong, in some way or other, to the Waterfall — and re- 
 minded me of religious services chanted to Streams and Foun- 
 tains in Pagan times. Mr. Southey has thus accurately cha- 
 racterised the peculiarity of this music : " While we were at the 
 Waterfall, some half-score peasants, chiefly women and girls, 
 assembled just out of reach of the Spring, and set up, — surely, 
 the wildest chorus that ever was heard by human ears, — a 
 song not of articulate sounds, but in which the voice was used 
 as a mere instrument of music, more flexible than any which 
 art could produce, — sweet, powerful, and thrilling beyond de- 
 scription." See Notes to " A Tale of Paraguay." 
 2E 
 
 Upon a Sister's shoulder laid, — 
 To chant, as glides the boat along, 
 A simple, hut a touching. Song; 
 To chant, as Angels do above. 
 The melodies of Peace in love ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 ENGELBERG, THE HILL OF ANGELS.t 
 
 For gentlest uses, oft-times Nature takes 
 
 The work of Fancy from her willing hands ; 
 
 And such a beautiful creation makes 
 
 As renders needless spells and magic wands, 
 
 And for the boldest tale belief commands. 
 
 When first mine eyes beheld that famous Hill 
 
 The sacred Engelberg, celestial Bands, 
 
 With intermingling motions soft and still. 
 
 Hung round its top, on wings that changed their hues 
 
 at will. 
 Clouds do not name those Visitants ; they were 
 The very Angels whose authentic lays. 
 Sung from that heavenly ground in middle air. 
 Made known the spot where piety should raise 
 A holy Structure to the Almighty's praise. 
 Resplendent Apparition ! if in vain 
 My ears did listen, 'twas enough to gaze ; 
 And watch the slow departure of the train. 
 Whose skirts the glowing Mountain thirsted to detain. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 OUR LADY OF THE SNOW. 
 
 Meek Virgin Mother, more benign 
 Than fairest Star, upon the height 
 Of thy own mountain^, set to keep 
 Lone vigils through the hours of sleep, 
 What eye can look upon thy shrine 
 Untroubled at the sight 1 
 
 These crowded Offerings as they hang 
 
 In sign of misery relieved, 
 
 Even these, without intent of theirs. 
 
 Report of comfortless despairs, 
 
 Of many a deep and cureless pang 
 
 And confidence deceived. 
 
 To Thee, in this aerial cleft, 
 As to a common centre, tend 
 All sufferings that no longer rest 
 
 t The Convent whose site was pointed out, according to tra. 
 dition, in this manner, is seated at its base. The Architecture 
 of the Building is unimpressive, but the situation is worthy of 
 the honour which the imagination of the Mountaineete has con- 
 ferred upon it. 
 
 t Mount Right. 
 
 20* 
 
234 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 On mortal succour, all distrest 
 
 That pine of luiman hope bereft, 
 Nor wish for earthly friend. 
 
 And hence, O Virgin Mother mild ! 
 Though plenteous flowers around thee blow, 
 Not only from tlie dreary strife 
 Of Winter, but the storms of life, 
 Thee have thy Votaries aptly styled 
 Our Lady op the Snow. 
 
 Even for the Man who stops not here. 
 But down the irriguous valley hies. 
 Thy very name, O Lady I flings. 
 O'er blooming fields and gushing springs, 
 A tender sense of shadowy fear. 
 And chastening sympathies ! 
 
 Nor falls that intermingling shade 
 To Summer gladsomeness unkind ; 
 It chastens only to requite 
 With gleams of fresher, purer, light ; 
 While, o'er the flower-enamelled glade, 
 More sweetly breathes the wind. 
 
 But on! — a tempting downward way, 
 A verdant path before us lies ; 
 Clear shines the glorious sun above ; 
 Then give free course to joy and love, 
 Deeming the evil of the day 
 Sufficient for the wise. 
 
 xvin. 
 
 EFFUSION 
 
 IN PRESENCE OF THE PAINTtCD TOWER OF TELL, 
 
 AT ALTOKF. 
 
 This Tnwer is said to stand upon the spot where grew the 
 Linden Tree against which his .Son was plared, when the Fath- 
 er's archery was put to proof under circumstances so lUmous in 
 Swiss History. 
 
 What though the Italian pencil wrought not here, 
 Nor such fine skill as did the meed bestow 
 On Marathonian valour, yet the tear 
 Springs forth in presence of this gaudy show. 
 While narrow cares their limits overflow. 
 Thrice happy. Burghers, Peasants, Warriors old. 
 Infants in arms, and Ye, that as ye go 
 Home-ward or School-ward, ape what ye behold ; 
 Heroes before your time, in frolic fancy bold ! 
 
 But when that calm Spectatress from on high 
 Looks down — the briglit and solitary Moon, 
 Who never gazes but to beautify ; 
 And snow-fed torrents, which the blaze of noon 
 
 Roused into fury, murmur a soft tune 
 That fosters peace, and gentleness recalls ; 
 Then might the passing Monk receive a boon 
 Of saintly pleasure from these pictured walls. 
 While, on the warlike groups, the mellowing lustre falls 
 
 How blest the souls who when their trials come 
 Yield not to terror or despondency. 
 But face like that sweet Boy their mortal doom. 
 Whose head the ruddy Apple top.s, while he 
 Expectant stands beneath the linden tree ; 
 He quakes not like the timid forest game. 
 But smiles — the hesitating shaft to free ; 
 Assured that Heaven its justice will proclaim, 
 And to his Father give its own unerring aim. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 THE TOWN OF SCHWYTZ. 
 
 Bv antique Fancy trimmed — though lowly, bred 
 
 To dignity — in thee, O Schwvtz ! are seen 
 
 The genuine features of the golden mean ; 
 
 Equality by Prudence governed. 
 
 Or jealous Nature ruling in her stead ; 
 
 And, therefore, art thou blest with peace, serene 
 
 As that of the sweet fields and meadows green 
 
 In unambitious compass round thee spread. 
 
 Majestic Berne, high on her guardian steep, 
 
 Holding a central station of command. 
 
 Might well be styled this noble Body".s Head; 
 
 Thou, lodged 'mid mountainous entrenchments deep. 
 
 Its Heart ; and ever may the heroic Land 
 
 Thy name, O Schvvytz, in happy freedom keep !* 
 
 XX. 
 
 ON HEARING THE "RANZ DES VACHES," ON THE 
 TOP OF THE PASS OF ST. GOTIIARD. 
 
 I LISTEN — but no faculty of mine 
 
 Avails those modulations to detect. 
 
 Which, heard in foreign lands, the Swiss aflfect 
 
 With tenderest passion ; leaving liim to pine 
 
 (So fame reports) and die ; his sweet-breathed kine 
 
 Remembering, and green Alpine pastures decked 
 
 With vernal flowers. Yet may we not reject 
 
 The tale as fabulous. — Here while I recline 
 
 Mindful how others love this simple Strain, 
 
 Even here, upon this glorious Mountain (named 
 
 Of God himself from dread pre-eminence) 
 
 Aspiring thoughts, by memory reclaimed, 
 
 Yield to the Music's touching influence. 
 
 And joys of distant home my heart enchain. 
 
 * Nearly 500 years fsays Ebel, speaking of the French Inva 
 sion,) had elapsed, when, for tlie first time, tbreign soldiers wer( 
 seen upon the frontiers of this small Canton, to impose upon i 
 the laws of their governors. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 235 
 
 XXI. 
 
 rHE CHURCH OF SAN SALVADOR, SEEN FROM THE 
 LAKE OF LUGANO. 
 
 This Church was almost destroyed by lightning a few years 
 ;o, but the Altar and the Image of the Patron Saint were un- 
 »uched. The Mount, upon the summit of which the Church is 
 built, stands amid the intricacies of the Lake of Lugano ; and is, 
 from a hundred points of view, its principal ornament, rising to 
 the height of 2000 feet, and, on one side, nearly perpendicular. 
 The ascent is toilsome ; but the traveller who performs it will be 
 amply rewarded. — Splendid fertility, rich woods and dazzling 
 waters, seclusion and confinement of view contrasted with sea- 
 ilike extent of plain fading into the sky ; and this again, in an 
 Ijpposite quarter, with an horizon of the loftiest and boldest Alps 
 —unite in composing a prospect more diversified by magnifi- 
 cence, beauty, and sublimity, than perhaps any other point in 
 Europe, of so inconsiderable an elevation, commands. 
 
 Thou sacred Pile ! whose turrets rise 
 From yon steep Mountain's loftiest stage, 
 Guarded by lone San Salvador; 
 Sink (if thou must) as heretofore, 
 To sulphurous bolts a sacrifice. 
 But ne'er to human rage ! 
 
 On Horeb's top, on Sinai, deigned 
 
 To rest the universal Lord: 
 
 Why leap the fountains from their cells 
 
 Where everlasting Bounty dwells'! 
 
 — That, while the Creature is sustained, 
 
 His God may be adored. 
 
 Cliffs, fountains, rivers, seasons, times. 
 Let all remind the soul of heaven ; 
 Our slack devotion needs them all ; 
 And Faith, so oft of sense the thrall. 
 While she, by aid of Nature, climbs, 
 May hope to be forgiven. 
 
 Glory, and patriotic Love, 
 
 And all the Pomps of this frail " Spot 
 
 Which men call Earth," have yearned to seek, 
 
 Associate with the simply meek. 
 
 Religion in the sainted grove. 
 
 And in the hallowed grot. 
 
 Thither, in time of adverse shocks, 
 Of fainting hopes and backward wills, 
 Did mighty Tell repair of old — 
 A Hei:o cast in Nature's mould, 
 Deliverer of the steadfast rocks 
 And of the ancient hills ! 
 
 He, too, of battle-martyrs chief! 
 Who, to recall his daunted peers, 
 
 For victory shaped an open space. 
 By gathering with a wide embrace, 
 Into his single heart, a sheaf 
 Of fatal Austrian spears.* 
 
 XXIL 
 FORT FUENTES. 
 
 The Ruins of Fort Fuentes form the crest of a rocky emi- 
 nence that rises from the plain at the head of the Lake of Como, 
 commanding views up the Valteline, and toward the town of 
 Chiavenna. The prospect in the latter direction is characterised 
 by melancholy sublimity. We rejoiced at being favoured with 
 a distinct view of those Alpine heights ; not, as we had ex- 
 pected from the breaking up of the storm, steeped in celestial 
 glory, yet in communion with clouds floating or stationary — ■ 
 scatterings from heaven. The Ruin is interesting both in mass 
 and in detail. An Inscription, upon elaborately-sculptured mar- 
 ble lying on the ground, records that tlie Fort had been erected 
 by Count Fuentes in the year 1600, during the reign of Philip 
 the Third ; and the Chapel, about twenty years after, by one of 
 his Descendants. Marble pillars of gateways are yet standing, 
 and a considerable part of the Chapel walls; a smotith green 
 turf has taken place of the pavement, and we could see no trace 
 of altar or image ; but everywhere something to rem.ind one of 
 former splendour, and of devastation and tumult. Jn our ascent 
 we had passed abundance of wild vines intermingled with 
 bushes : near the ruins were some iU-tended, but growing 
 willingly ; and rock, turf, and fragments of the pile, arc alike 
 covered or adorned with a variety of flowers, among which the 
 rose-coloured pink was growing in great beauty. While de- 
 scending, we discovered on the ground, apart from the path, and 
 at a considerable distance from the ruined Chapel, a statue of a 
 Child in pure white marble, uninjured by the explosion that had 
 driven it so far down the hill. "How little," we exclaimed, 
 "are these things valued here! Could we but transport this 
 pretty Image to our own garden !" — Yet it seemed it would 
 have been a pity any one should remove it from its couch in the 
 wilderness, which may be its own for hundreds of years. 
 
 Extract from Journal. 
 
 Dread hour ! when, upheaved by war's sulphurous 
 blast. 
 
 This sweet-visaged Cherub of Parian stone 
 So far from the holy enclosure was cast. 
 
 To couch in this thicket of brambles alone ; 
 
 To rest where the lizard may bask in the palm 
 Of his half-open hand pure from blemish or speck ; 
 
 And the green, gilded snake, without troubling the 
 calm 
 Of the beautiful countenance, twine round his neck. 
 
 Where haply (kind service to Piety due !) 
 
 When winter the grove of its mantle bereaves. 
 
 Some Bird (like our own honoured Redbreast) may 
 strew 
 The desolate Slumberer with moss and with leaves. 
 
 * Arnold Winkelried, at the battle of Sempach, broke an Aus- 
 trian phalanx in this manner. The event is one of the most fa- 
 mous in the annals of Swiss heroism ; and pictures and prints 
 of it are frequent tliroughout the country. 
 
236 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 FuENTES once harboured the good and the brave, 
 Nor to her was the dance of soft pleasure unknown ; 
 
 Her banners for festal enjoyment did wave, 
 
 While the thrill of her fifes thro' the mountains was 
 blown : 
 
 Now gads the wild vine o'er the pathless Ascent — 
 O silence of Nature, how deep is thy sway 
 
 When the whirlwind of human destruction is spent, 
 Our tumults appeased, and our strifes passed away ! — 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 THE ITALIAN ITINERANT, AND THE SWISS 
 GOATHERD. 
 
 Now that the farewell tear is dried. 
 Heaven prosper thee, be hope thy guide ! 
 Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy ; 
 The wages of thy travel, joy ! 
 Whether for London bound — to trill 
 Thy mountain notes with simple skill ; 
 Or on thy head to poise a show 
 Of Images in seemly row ; 
 The graceful form of milk-white steed, 
 Or Bird that soared with Ganymede ; 
 Or through our hamlets thou wilt bear 
 The sightless Milton, with his hair 
 Around his placid temples curled ; 
 And Shakspeare at his side — a freight. 
 If clay could think and mind were weight, 
 For him who bore the world ! 
 Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy; 
 The wages of thy travel, joy ! 
 
 But thou, perhaps, (alert and free 
 
 Though serving sage philosophy) 
 
 Wilt ramble over hill and dale, 
 
 A Vender of the well-wrought Scale 
 
 Whose sentient tube instructs to time 
 
 A purpose to a fickle clime: 
 
 Whether thou choose this useful part. 
 
 Or minister to finer art. 
 
 Though robbed of many a cherished dream, 
 
 And crossed by many a shattered scheme, 
 
 What stirring wonders wilt thou see 
 
 In the proud Isle of Liberty ! 
 
 Yet will the Wanderer sometimes pine 
 
 With thoughts which no delights can chase. 
 
 Recall a Sister's last embrace. 
 
 His Mother's neck entwine ; 
 
 Nor shall forget the Maiden coy 
 
 That would have loved the briglit-haired Boy ! 
 
 3. 
 
 My Song, encouraged by the grace 
 
 That beams from his ingenuous face. 
 
 For this Adventurer scruples not 
 
 To prophesy a golden lot ; 
 
 Due recompense, and safe return 
 
 To CoMo's steeps — his happy bourne! 
 
 Where he, aloft in garden glade, 
 
 Shall tend, with his own dark-eyed Maid, 
 
 The towering maize, and prop the twig 
 
 That ill supports the luscious fig ; 
 
 Or feed his eye in paths sun-proof 
 
 With purple of the trellis-roof, 
 
 That through the jealous leaves escapes 
 
 From Cadenabbia's pendent grapes. 
 
 — Oh might he tempt that Goatherd-child 
 
 To share his wanderings ! him whose look 
 
 Even yet my heart can scarcely brook, 
 
 So touchingly he smiled. 
 
 As with a rapture caught from heaven, 
 
 For unasked alms in pity given. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 1. 
 
 With nodding plumes, and lightly drcst 
 Like Foresters in leaf-green vest, 
 The Helvetian Mountaineers, on ground 
 For Tell's dread archery renowned, 
 Before the target stood — to claim 
 The guerdon of the steadiest aim. 
 Loud was the rifle-gun's report, 
 A startling thunder quick and short ! 
 But, flying through the heights around, 
 Echo prolonged a tell-tale sound 
 Of hearts and hands alike " prepared 
 The treasures they enjoy to guard !" 
 And, if there be a favoured hour 
 When Heroes are allowed to quit 
 The Tomb, and on the clouds to sit 
 With tutelary power. 
 On their Descendants shedding grace, 
 This was the hour, and that the place. 
 
 2. 
 But Truth inspired the Bards of old, 
 When of an iron age they told. 
 Which to unequal laws gave birth. 
 That drove Astrfea from the earth. 
 — A gentle Boy (perchance with Uood 
 As noble as the best endued, 
 But seemingly a Thing despised. 
 Even by the sun and air unprized; 
 For not a tinge or flowery streak 
 Appeared upon his tender cheek) 
 Heart-deaf to those rebounding notes, 
 Sate watching by his silent Goats, 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 237 
 
 Apart within a forest shed, 
 
 Pale, ragged, with bare feet and head; 
 
 Mute as the snow upon the hill, 
 
 And, as the saint he prays to, still. 
 
 Ah, what avails heroic deedl 
 
 What liberty 1 if no defence 
 
 Be won for feeble Innocence — 
 
 Father of All ! though wilful manhood read 
 
 His punishment in soul-distress. 
 
 Grant to the morn of life its natural blessedness. 
 
 xxrv. 
 
 THE LAST SDPPEB, BT LEONAiSDO DA VINCI, IN THE REFECTORY OF 
 THE CONVENT OF MAKIA DELLA GRAZIA— MILAN. 
 
 Tho' searching damps and many an envious flaw 
 
 Have marred this Work*, the calm ethereal grace, 
 
 The love deep-seated in the Saviour's face. 
 
 The mercy, goodness, have not failed to awe 
 
 The Elements; as they do melt and thaw 
 
 The heart of the Beholder — and erase 
 
 (At least for one rapt moment) every trace 
 
 Of disobedience to the primal law. 
 
 The annunciation of the dreadful truth 
 
 Made to the Twelve, survives : lip, forehead, cheek. 
 
 And hand reposing on the toard in ruth 
 
 Of what it uttersf, while the unguilty seek 
 
 Unquestionable meanings — still bespeak 
 
 |A labour worthy of eternal youth ! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 THE ECLIPSE OF THE SUN, 1820. 
 
 High on her speculative Tpwer 
 Stood Science waiting for the Hour 
 When Sol was destined to endure 
 That darkening of his radiant face 
 Which Superstition strove to chase, 
 Erewhile, with rites impure. 
 
 Afloat beneath Italian skies. 
 Through regions fair as Paradise 
 We gaily passed, — till Nature wrought 
 A silent and unlooked-for change. 
 That checked the desultory range 
 Of joy and sprightly thought. 
 
 *This picture of the Last Supper has not only been grievous- 
 ly injured by time, but parts are said to have been painted over 
 again. These niceties may be left to connoisseurs, — I speak 
 of it as I felt The copy exhibited in London some years ago, 
 and the engraving by Morglien, are both admirable; but in 
 the original is a power which neither of those worlcs has attain- 
 ed, or even approached. 
 
 t "The hand 
 
 I Sang with the voice, and this the argument." 
 
 Milton. 
 
 Where'er was dipped the toilmg oar, 
 The waves danced round us as beforei 
 As lightly, though of altered hue ; 
 'Mid recent coolness, such as falls 
 At noontide from umbrageous walls 
 That screen the morning dew. 
 
 No vapour stretched its wings ; no cloud 
 
 Cast far or near a murky shroud ; 
 
 The sky an azure field displayed ; 
 
 'Twas sunlight sheathed and gently charmed, 
 
 Of all its sparkling rays disarmed, 
 
 And as in slumber laid : — 
 
 Or something night and day between, 
 Like moonshine — but the hue was green ; 
 Still moonshine, without shadow, spread 
 On jutting rock, and curved shore. 
 Where gazed the Peasant from his door. 
 And on the mountain's head. 
 
 It tinged the Julian steeps — it lay, 
 Lugano ! on thy ample bay ; 
 The solemnizing veil was drawn 
 O'er Villas, Terraces, and Towers, 
 To Albogasio's olive bowers, 
 Porlezza's verdant lawn. 
 
 But Fancy, with the speed of fire, 
 Hath fled to Milan's loftiest spire. 
 And there alights 'mid that aerial host 
 Of figures human and divinej, 
 White as the snows of Appenine 
 Indurated by frost. 
 
 Awe-stricken she beholds the array 
 
 That guards the Temple night and day; 
 
 Angels she sees that might from Heaven have flown. 
 
 And Virgin-saints — who not in vain 
 
 Have striven by purity to gain 
 
 The beatific crown ; 
 
 t The Statues ranged round the Spire and along the roof of 
 the Cathedral of Milan, have been found fault with by Persons 
 whose exclusive taste is unfortunate for themselves. It is true 
 that the same expense and labour, judiciously directed to pur- 
 poses more strictly architectural, might have much heightened 
 the general effect of the building ; for, seen from the ground, 
 the Statues appear diminutive. But the coirp-d'(eil, from the best 
 point of view, which is half way up the Spire, must strike an 
 unprejudiced Person with admiration; and, surely, the selection 
 and arrangement of the Figures is exquisitely fitted to support 
 the religion of the Country in the imaginations and feelings of 
 the Spectator. It was with great pleasure that I saw, daring 
 the two ascents which we made, several Children, of different 
 ages, tripping up and down the slender spire, and pausing to 
 look around them, with feelings much more animated than 
 could have been derived from these, or the finest works of art, 
 if placed within easy reach. — Remember also that you have 
 the Alps on one side, and on the other the Apennines, with the 
 Plain of Lombardy between ! 
 
238 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Sees long-drawn files, concentric rings 
 Each narrowing above each ; — the wings, 
 The uplifted palms, the silent marble lips, 
 The starry zone of sovereign height*, 
 All steeped in this portentous light ! 
 All suffering dim eclipse ! 
 
 Thus after Man had fallen (if aught 
 These perishable spheres have wrought 
 May with that issue be compared) 
 Throngs of celestial visages. 
 Darkening like water in the breeze, 
 A holy sadness shared. 
 
 Lo ! while I speak, the labouring Sun 
 His glad deliverance has begun : 
 The Cypress waves her sombre plume 
 More cheerily ; and Town and Tower, 
 The Vineyard and the Olive bower. 
 Their lustre re-assume ! 
 
 ye, who guard and grace my Home 
 While in far-distant Lands we roam. 
 
 What countenance hath this day put on for you"! 
 Do clouds surcharged with irksome rain, 
 Blackening the Eclipse, take hill and plain 
 From your benighted view 1 
 
 Or was it given you to behold 
 Like vision, pensive though not cold. 
 Of gay Winandermere 1 
 Saw ye the soft yet awful veil 
 Spread over Grasmere's lovely dale, 
 Helvellyn's brow severe! 
 
 1 ask in vain — and know far less 
 If sickness, sorrow, or distress, 
 
 Have spared my Dwelling to this hour: 
 Sad blindness! but ordained to prove 
 Our Faith in Heaven's unfailing love 
 And all-controlling Power. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 THE THREE COTTAGE GIRLS. 
 How blest the Maid whose heart — yet free 
 From Love's uneasy sovereignty. 
 Beats with a fancy running high, 
 Iler simple cares to magnify ; 
 Whom Labour, never urged to toil. 
 Hath cherislied on a liealthful soil; 
 Who knows not pomp, who heeds not pelf; 
 Whose heaviest sin it is to look 
 Askance upon her pretty Self 
 Reflected in some crystal brook; 
 Whom grief hath spared — who sheds no tear 
 But in sweet pity; and can hear 
 Another's praise from envy clear. 
 
 2. 
 
 Such, (but O lavish Nature ! why 
 
 That dark unfathomable eye. 
 
 Where lurks a Spirit that replies 
 
 To stillest mood of softest skies, 
 
 Yet hints at peace to be o'erthrown, 
 
 Another's first, and then her ownO 
 
 Such, haply, yon Italian Maid, 
 
 Our Lady's laggard Votaress, 
 
 Halting beneath the chestnut shade 
 
 To accomplish there her loveliness: 
 
 Nice aid maternal fingers lend; 
 
 A Sister serves with slacker hand; 
 
 Then, glittering like a star, she joins the festal band. 
 
 How blest (if truth may entertain 
 
 Coy fancy with a bolder strain) 
 
 The Helvetian Girl — who daily braves. 
 
 In her light skifl^, the tossing waves, 
 
 And quits the bosom of the deep 
 
 Only lo climb the rugged steep ! 
 
 — Say whence that modulated shout 1 
 
 From Wood-nymph of Diana's throng ! 
 
 Or does the greeting to a rout 
 
 Of giddy Bacchanals belong 1 
 
 Jubilant outcry ! — rock and glade 
 
 Resounded — but the voice obeyed 
 
 The breath of an Helvetian Maid. 
 
 Her beauty dazzles the thick wood; 
 
 Her courage animates the flood; 
 
 Her steps the elastic green-sward meets 
 
 Returning unreluctant sweets; 
 
 The mountains (as ye heard) rejoice 
 
 Aloud, saluted by her voice ! 
 
 Blithe Paragon of Alpine grace, 
 
 Be as thou art — for through thy veins 
 
 The blood of Heroes runs its race ! 
 
 And nobly wilt thou brook the chains 
 
 That, for the virtuous, Life prepares; 
 
 The fetters which the Matron wears; 
 
 The Patriot Mother's weight of an.vious cares ! 
 
 t" Sweet Highland Girl! a very shower 
 Of beauty was thy earthly dower," 
 When thou didst flit before my eyes. 
 Gay Vision under sullen skies. 
 While Hope and love around thee played. 
 Near the rough Falls of Inversneyd ! 
 Time cannot thin thy flowing hair. 
 Nor take one ray of light from Thee ; 
 For in my Fancy thou dost share 
 The gift of Immortality ; 
 
 * Above the highest circle of figures is a zone of metallic stars. 
 
 tSee Address to a Highland Girl, p. 198- 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 239 
 
 And there shall bloom, with Thee allied, 
 
 The Votaress by Lugano's side ; 
 
 And that intrepid Nymph, on Uri's steep, descried ! 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 THE COLUMN. 
 
 INTENDED BY BUONAPARTE FOR A TRIDMPHAL EDIFICE IN MILAN, 
 NOW LYING BY THE WAY-SIDE IN THE SIMPLON PASS. 
 
 Ambition, following' down this far-famed slope 
 Her Pioneer, the snow-dissolving Sun, 
 While clarions prate of Kingdoms to be won. 
 Perchance, in future ages, here may stop; 
 Taught to mistrust her flattering horoscope 
 By admonition from this prostrate Stone ; 
 Memento uninscribed of Pride o'erthrown, 
 Vanity's hieroglyphic ; a choice trope 
 In Fortune's rhetoric. Daughter of the Rock, 
 Rest where thy course was stayed by Power divine ! 
 The Soul transported sees, from hint of thine, 
 Crimes which the great Avenger's hand provoke, 
 Hears combats whistling o'er the ensanguined heath : 
 What groans ! what shrieks ! what quietness in death ! 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 STANZAS, 
 COMPOSED IN THE SIMPLON PASS. 
 
 Vailombeosa ! I longed in thy shadiest wood 
 
 To slumber, reclined on the moss-covered floor, 
 
 To listen to Anio's precipitous flood. 
 
 When the stillness of evening hath deepened its roar ; 
 
 To range through the Temples of PiESTUM, to muse 
 
 In Pompeii preserved by her burial in earth ; 
 
 On, pictures to gaze where they drank in their hues ; 
 
 And murmur sweet Songs on the ground of their birtli ! 
 
 The beauty of Florence, the grandeur of Rome, 
 Could I leave them unseen, and not yield to regret] 
 With a hope (and no more) for a season to come, 
 Which ne'er may discharge the magnificent debt 1 
 Thou fortunate Region ! whose Greatness inurned 
 Awoke to new life from its ashes and dust ; 
 Twice-glorified fields! if in sadness I turned 
 From your infinite marvels, the sadness was just. 
 
 Now, risen ere the light-footed Chamois retires 
 
 From dew-sprinkled grass to heights guarded with snow, 
 
 Tow'rd the mists that hang over the land of my Sires, 
 
 From the climate of myrtles contented I go. 
 
 My thoughts become bright like yon edging of Pines, 
 
 How black was its hue in the region of air ! 
 
 But, touched from behind by the Sun, it now shines 
 
 With threads that seem part of its own silver hair. 
 
 Though the burthen of toil with dear friends we divide, 
 Though by the same zephyr our temples are fanned 
 As we rest in the cool orange-bower side by side, 
 A yearning survives which few hearts shall withstand : 
 Each step hath its value while homeward we move ; — 
 O joy when the girdle of England appears ! 
 What moment in life is so conscious of love, 
 So rich in the tenderest sweetness of tears '! 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 ECHO, UPON THE GEMMI. 
 
 What Beast of Chase hath broken from the cover 7 
 
 Stern Gemmi listens to as full a cry. 
 
 As multitudinous a harmony. 
 
 As e'er did ring the heights of Latmos over, 
 
 When, from the soft couch of her sleeping Lover, 
 
 Up-starting, Cynthia skimmed the mountain dew 
 
 In keen pursuit — and gave, where'er she flew. 
 
 Impetuous motion to the Stars above her. 
 
 A solitary Wolf-dog, ranging on 
 
 Through the bleak concave, wakes this wonderous 
 chime 
 
 Of aery voices locked in unison, — 
 
 Faint — far-off" — near — deep — solemn and sublime ! 
 
 So, from the body of one guilty deed, 
 
 A thousand ghostly fears, and haunting thoughts, pro- 
 ceed ! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 PROCESSSIONS. 
 
 SUGGESTED ON A SABBATH MORNING IN THE 
 VALE OF CHAMOUNY. 
 
 To appease the Gods ; or public thanks to yield ; 
 Or to solicit knowledge of events. 
 Which in her breast Futurity concealed; 
 And that the past might have its true intents 
 Feelingly told by living monuments; 
 Mankind of yore were prompted to devise 
 Rites such as yet Persepolis presents 
 Graven on her cankered walls, — solemnities 
 That moved in long array before admiring eyes. 
 
 The Hebrews thus, carrying in joyful state 
 Thick boughs of palm, and willows firom the brook. 
 Marched round the Altar — to commemorate 
 How, when their course they through the desert took. 
 Guided by signs which ne'er the sky forsook. 
 They lodged in leafy tents and cabins low ; 
 Green boughs were borne, while for the blast that shook 
 Down to the earth the walls of Jericho, 
 These shout hosannas — those the startling trumpets 
 blow ! 
 
240 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And thus, in order, 'mid the sacred Grove 
 Fed in the Libyan waste by gushing wells. 
 The Priests and Damsels of Ammonian Jove 
 Provoked responses with shrill canticles ; 
 While, in a Ship begirt with silver bells. 
 They round his Altar bore the horned God, 
 Old Cham, the solar Deity, who dwells 
 Aloft, yet in a tilting Vessel rode. 
 When universal sea the mountains overflowed. 
 
 Why speak of Roman Pomps 1 the haughty claims 
 Of Chiefs triumphant after ruthless wars; 
 The feast of Neptune — and the Cereal Games, 
 With images, and crowns, and empty cars ; 
 The dancing Salii — on the shields of Mars 
 Smiting with fury ; and the deeper dread 
 Scattered on all sides by the hideous jars 
 Of Corybantian cymbals, while the head 
 Of Cybele was seen, sublimely turreted ! 
 
 At length a Spirit more subdued and soft 
 Appeared, to govern Christian pageantries : 
 The Cross, in calm procession, borne aloft. 
 Moved to the chant of sober litanies. 
 Even such, this day, came wafted on the breeze 
 From a long train — in hooded vestments fair 
 Enwrapt — and winding, between Alpine trees, 
 Spiry and dark, around their House of Prayer 
 Below the icy bed of bright Argentiere. 
 
 Still, in the vivid freshness of a dream. 
 
 The pageant haunts me as it met our eyes ! 
 
 Still, with those white-robed Shapes — a living Stream, 
 
 The glacier Pillars join in solemn guise* 
 
 For the same service, by mysterious ties ; 
 
 Numbers exceeding credible account 
 
 Of number, pure and silent Votaries 
 
 Issuing or issued from a wintry fount ; 
 
 The impenetrable heart of that exalted Mount ! 
 
 They, too, who send so far a holy gleam 
 
 While they the Church engird with motion slow, 
 
 A product of that awful Mountain seem. 
 
 Poured from his vaufts of everlasting snow ; 
 
 Not virgin-lilies marshalled in bright row. 
 
 Not swans descending with the stealthy tide, 
 
 A livelier sisterly resemblance show 
 
 Than the fair Forms, that in long order glide. 
 
 Bear to the glacier band — those shapes aloft descried. 
 
 Trembling, I look upon the secret springs 
 Of that licentious craving in the mind 
 To act the God among external things, 
 To bind, on apt suggestion, or unbind; 
 And marvel not that antique Faith inclined 
 To crowd the world with metamorphosis. 
 Vouchsafed in pity or in wrath assigned : 
 Such insolent temptations wouldst thou miss. 
 Avoid these sights ; nor brood o'er Fable's dark 
 
 I 
 
 XXXI. 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS. 
 
 The lamented Youth whose untimely death gave oroa-sion to 
 these elegiac verses, was Frederic William Goddard, from Boe- 
 ton in North America. He was in his twentieth year, and hadl 
 resided for some time with a clergyman in the neighbourhood 
 of Geneva for the completion of his education. Accompanied'! 
 by a fellow-pupil, a native of Scotland, he had just set out on aii 
 Swiss tour when it was his misfortune to fall in with a f.iend 
 of mine who was hastening to join our party. The travclleis, 
 after spending a day together on the road from Berne and all 
 Soleure, took leave of each other at night, the young men having 
 intended to proceed directly to Zurich. But early in the morning 
 my friend found his new acquaintances, who were inliirmod of 
 the object of his journey, and the friends he was in pursuit of, 
 equipped to accompany him. We met at Lucerne the succeed- 
 ing evening, and Mr. G. and his fellow-student became in con. 
 sequence our travelling companions for a couple of days. We 
 ascended the Righi together; and, after contemplating the sun- 
 rise from that noble mountain, we separated at an hour and on 
 a spot well suited to the parting of those who were to meet no 
 more. Our party descended through the valley of o\ir Ijidy of 
 the Snow, and our late companions, to Art. We had hoped to 
 meet in a few weeks at Geneva ; but on the third succeeding 
 day (on the 21st of August) Mr. Goddard perished, being oveteel. 
 in a boat while crassing the lake of Zurich. His companion 
 saved himself by swimming, and was hospitably received in the ^ 
 mansion of a Swiss gentleman (M. Keller) situated on the east- 
 ern coast of the Lake. The corpse of poor G. was cast ashort 
 on the estate of the same gentleman, who generously performed 
 all tlie riles of hospitality which could be rendered to the deadi| 
 as well as to the living. He caused a handsome mural monU'; 
 ment to be erected in the church of Kiisnacht, which reeonli' 
 the premature fate of the young American, and on the shore! 
 too of the lake, the traveller may read an inscription pointing out 
 the spot where the body was deposited by the waves. 
 
 * This Procession is a part of the sacramental service perform- 
 ed once a month. In the Valley of Engelbcrg we had the good 
 fortune to be present at the Grand Feslival of the Virgin — but 
 the Procession on that day, though consisting of upwards of 
 1000 Persons, assembled from all the branches of the sequestered 
 Valley, was much less striking (notwitlislauding the sublimity 
 of the surrounding scenery) : it wanted both the simplicity of the 
 other and the accompaniment of ihe Glacier-columns, whose sis- 
 terly resemblance to the moving Figures gave it a most beauti- 
 ful and solemn peculiarity. 
 
 Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells, 
 Rtide Nature's Pilgrims did we go. 
 From the dread sumtnit of the Queenf 
 Of Mountains, through a deep ravine. 
 Where, in her holy Chapel, dwells 
 " Our Lady of the Snow." 
 
 The sky was blue, the air was mild ; 
 
 Free were the streams and green the bowers ; 
 
 As if, to rough assaults unknown. 
 
 The genial spot had ever shown 
 
 A countenance that sw'eetly smiled, 
 
 The face of summer-hours. 
 
 t Mount Righi — Regina Montium. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 241 
 
 And we were gay, our hearts at ease; 
 With pleasure dancing through the frame 
 We journeyed; all we knew of care — 
 Our path that straggled here and there, 
 Of trouble — but the fluttering breeze. 
 Of Winter — but a name. 
 
 — If foresight could have rent the veil 
 Of three short days — but hush — no more ! 
 Galm is the grave, and calmer none 
 Than that to which thy cares are gone, 
 Thou Victim of the stormy gale ; 
 Asleep on Zurich's shore 1 
 
 Oh GoDDARD ! what art thou '] — a name — 
 A sunbeam followed by a shade ! 
 Nor more, for aught that time supplies, 
 The great, the experienced, and the wise ; 
 Too much from this frail earth we claim, 
 And therefore are betrayed. 
 
 We met, while festive mirth ran wild. 
 Where, from a deep Lake's mighty urn. 
 Forth slips, like an enfranchised Slave, 
 A sea-green River, proud to lave. 
 With current swift and undefiled. 
 The towers of old Lucerne. 
 
 We parted upon solemn ground 
 Tar-lifted towards the unfading sky ; 
 But all our thoughts were then of Earth, 
 That gives to common pleasures birth ; 
 And nothing in our hearts we found 
 That prompted even a sigh. 
 
 Fetch, sympathising Powers of air. 
 Fetch, ye that post o'er seas and lands, 
 Herbs moistened by Virginian dew, 
 A most untimely grave to strew, 
 Whose turf may never know the care 
 Of kindred human hands ! 
 
 Beloved by every gentle Muse, 
 
 He left his Transatlantic home: 
 
 Europe, a realised romance. 
 
 Had opened on his eager glance; 
 
 What present bliss! — what golden views! 
 
 What stores for years to come ! 
 
 Though lodged within no vigorous frame, 
 His soul her daily tasks renewed. 
 Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings 
 High poised — or as the wren that sings 
 In shady places, to proclaim . 
 Her modest gratitude. 
 
 Not vain is sadly-uttered praise; 
 The words of truth's memorial vow 
 Are sweet as morning fragrance shed 
 From flowers 'mid Goldau's * ruins bred ; 
 
 ' One of the villages desolated by the fall of part of the Moun- 
 tain Rossberg. 
 
 2F 
 
 As evening's fondly-lingering rays. 
 On RiGHi's silent brow. 
 
 Lamented Youth ! to thy cold clay 
 Fit obsequies the Stranger paid ; 
 And piety shall guard the stone 
 Which hath not left the spot unknown 
 Where the wild waves resigned their prey, 
 And tliat which marks thy bed. 
 
 And, when thy Mother weeps for Thee, 
 Lost Youth ! a solitary Mother ; 
 This tribute from a casual Friend 
 A not unwelcome aid may lend. 
 To feed the tender luxury. 
 The rising pang to smother.f 
 
 XXXH. 
 
 SKY-PROSPECT — FROM THE PLAIN OF FRANCE. 
 
 Lo ! in the burning West, the craggy nape 
 Of a proud Ararat ! and, thereupon. 
 The Ark, her melancholy voyage done ! 
 Yon rampant Cloud mimics a Lion's shape; 
 There, combats a huge Crocodile — agape 
 A golden spear to swallow ! and that brown 
 And massy Grove, so near yon blazing Town, 
 Stirs — and recedes — destruction to escape ! 
 Yet all is harmless as the Elysian shades 
 Where Spirits dwell in undisturbed repose. 
 Silently disappears, or quickly fades; — 
 Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows 
 That for oblivion take their daily birth 
 From all the fuming vanities of Earth ! 
 
 XXXIIL 
 
 ON BEING STRANDED NEAR THE HARBOUK OP 
 BOULOGNE.! 
 
 Why cast ye back upon the Gallic shore. 
 
 Ye furious waves ! a patriotic Son 
 
 Of England — who in hope her coast had won, 
 
 t The persuasion here expressed was not groundless. The 
 first human consolation that the afflicted Mother felt, was deri- 
 ved from this tribute to her son's memory, a fact which the au- 
 thor learned, at his own residence, from her Daughter, who vis- 
 ited Europe some years afterwards. 
 
 JNear the Town of Boulogne, and overhanging the Beach, are 
 the remains of a Tower which bears the name of Caligula, who 
 here terminated his western Expedition, of which these sea-shells 
 were the boasted spoils. And at no great distance from these 
 Ruins, Buonaparte, standing upon a mound of earth, harangued 
 his " Army of England," reminding them of the exploits of 
 Cffisar, and pointing towards the white cliffs, upon which their 
 standards were io float. He recommended also a subscription to 
 be raised among the Soldiery to erect on that Ground, in memo- 
 ry of the Foundation of the *' Legion of Honour," a Colunm — 
 which was not completed at the time we were there. 
 21 
 
242 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 His project crowned, his pleasant travel o'er ? 
 Well — let him pace this noted beach once more, 
 That gave the Roman his triumphal shells; 
 That saw the Corsican his cap and bells 
 Haughtily shake, a dreaming Conqueror ! 
 Enough ; my Country's Cliffs I can beliold. 
 And proudly think, beside the murmuring sea, 
 Of checked ambition, tyranny controlled, 
 And folly cursed with endless memory : 
 These local recollections ne'er can cloy; 
 Such ground 1 from my very heart enjoy 1 
 
 AFTER LANDING 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 -THE VALLEY OF DOVER.— 
 NOV. 1830. 
 
 Where be the noisy followers of the game 
 
 Which Faction breeds ; the turmoil where 1 that past 
 
 Through Europe, echoing from the Newsman's blast, 
 
 And filled our hearts with grief for England's shame. 
 
 Peace greets us; — rambling on without an aim 
 
 We mark majestic herds of cattle free 
 
 To ruminate* — couched on the grassy lea. 
 
 And hear far-off the mellow horn proclaim 
 
 The Season's harmless pastime. Ruder sound 
 
 Stirs not; enrapt I gaze with strange delight. 
 
 While consciousnesses, not to be disov-fned, 
 
 Here only serve a feeling to invite 
 
 That lifts the Spirit to a calmer height. 
 
 And makes the rural stillness more profound. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 DESULTORY STANZAS. 
 
 UPON RECEIVING THE PRECEDING SHEETS FROM 
 THE PRESS. 
 
 1. 
 
 Is then the final page before me spread. 
 Nor further outlet left to mind or heart "! 
 Presumptuous Book ! too forward to be read — 
 How can I give thee license to depart ■! 
 One tribute more; — unbidden feelings start 
 Forth from their coverts — slighted objects rise — 
 My Spirit is the scene of such wild art 
 As on Parnassus rules, when lightning flies. 
 Visibly leading on the thunder's harmonies. 
 
 2. 
 All that I saw returns upon my view, 
 All tliat I heard comes back upon my ear. 
 All that I fell this moment doth renew; 
 And where the foot with no unmanly fear 
 Recoiled — and wings alone could travel — there 
 
 *Thls is a most grateful sight for an Englisliman returning to 
 his native land. Everywhere one misses, in the cultivated 
 grounds abroad, tlie animated and soothing aceompaniment of 
 animals tanging and selecting tlieir own food at will. 
 
 I move at ease, and meet contending themes 
 That press upon me, crossing the career 
 Of recollections vivid as the dreams 
 Of midnight, — cities — plains — forests — and mighty 
 streams. 
 
 3. 
 
 Where Mortal never breathed I dare to sit 
 Among the interior Alps, gigantic crew. 
 Who triumphed o'er diluvian power! — and yet 
 What are they but a wreck and residue. 
 Whose only business is to perish ? — true 
 To which sad course, these wrinkled Sons of Time 
 Labour their proper greatness to subdue; 
 Speaking of death alone, beneath a clime 
 Where life and rapture flow in plenitude sublime. 
 
 4. 
 
 Fancy hath flung for me an airy bridge 
 
 Across thy long deep Valley, furious Rhone ! 
 
 Arch that here rests upon the granite ridge 
 
 Of Monte Rosa — there on frailer stone 
 
 Of secondary birth — the Jung-frau's cone; 
 
 And, from that arch, down-looking on the Vale 
 
 The aspect I behold of every zone ; 
 
 A sea of foliage tossing with the gale. 
 
 Blithe Autumn's purple crown, and Winter's icy mail! 
 
 5. 
 
 Far as St. Maurice, from yon eastern FoRKsf, 
 Down the main avenue my sight can range: 
 And all its brancliy vales, and all that lurks 
 Within them, church, and town, and hut, and grange,: 
 For my enjoyment meet in vision strange; 
 Snows — torrents; — to the region's utmost bound, 
 Life, Death, in amicable interchange — 
 But list ! the avalanche — the hush profound 
 That follows, yet more awful tlian that awful sound! 
 
 6. 
 
 Is not the Chamois suited to his place "! 
 
 The Eagle worthy of her ancestry I 
 
 — Let Empires fall ; but ne'er shall Ye disgrace 
 
 Your noble birthright, Ye that occupy 
 
 Your Council-seats beneath the open sky, 
 
 On Sarnen's MountJ, there judge of fit and right, 
 
 t At the head of the Vallais. Les Fourches, the point alt 
 which the two chains of mountains part, that enclose the \ll-\ 
 lais, which terminates at St. Maurice. 
 
 t Samen, one of the two Capitals of the Canton of Under 
 walden : the spot here alluded to is close to the town, and ii 
 called the Laudenberg, from the tyrant of tliat name, whose 
 chateau formerly stood .tliere. On the 1st of January, 1308 
 the great day which the confederated Heroes had chosen foi 
 the deliverance of their Country, all the Castles of the Go 
 vernors were taken by force or stratagem; and the TyrantJ 
 themselves conducted, with their creatures, to the frontiers 
 after having witnessed the destruction of their Strong-holds. 
 From that time the Landenherg has been the place where th< 
 Legislators of this division of the Canton assemble. The site 
 which is well described by Ebel, is one of the most heautifii 
 in Switzerland. 
 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 243 
 
 i[n simple democratic majesty; 
 
 iSoft breezes fanning your rough brows — the might 
 
 jAnd purity of nature spread before your sight ! 
 
 f 7. 
 
 From this appropriate Court, renowned Lucerne 
 Calls me to pace her honoured Bridge* — that cheers 
 The Patriot's heart with pictures rude and stern, 
 An uncouth Chronicle of glorious years. 
 Like portraiture, from loftier source, endears 
 That work of kindred frame, which spans the Lake 
 Just at the point of issue, where it fears 
 The form and motion of a Stream to take ; 
 Where it begins to stir, yet voiceless as a Snake. 
 
 Volumes of sound, froai the Cathedral rolled. 
 This long-roofed Vista penetrate — but see. 
 One after one, its Tablets, that unfold 
 The whole design of Scripture history ; 
 From the first tasting of the fatal Tree, 
 Till the bright Star appeared in eastern skies, 
 Announcing, One was born Mankind to free ; 
 His acts, his wrongs, his final sacrifice ; 
 Lessons for every heart, a Bible for all eyes. 
 
 9. 
 
 Oiir pride misleads, our timid likings kill. 
 — Long may these homely works devised of old. 
 These simple Efforts of Helvetian skill. 
 Aid, with congenial influence, to uphold 
 The State, — the Country's destiny to mould; 
 Turning, for them who pass, the common dust 
 '. Of servile opportunity to gold ; 
 Filling the soul with sentiments august — 
 The beautiful, the brave, the holy, and the just ! 
 
 10. 
 
 No more; — Time halts not in his noiseless march — 
 Nor turns, nor winds, as doth the liquid flood ; 
 Life slips from underneath us, like that arch 
 Of airy workmanship whereon we stood. 
 Earth stretched below. Heaven in our neighbourhood. 
 Go forth, my little Book ! pursue thy way ; 
 Go forth, and please the gentle and the good ; 
 ' Nor be a whisper stifled, if it say 
 That treasures, yet untouched, may grace some future 
 Lay. 
 
 i * The Bridges of Lucerne are roofed, and open at the sides, 
 I eo that the Passenger has, at the same time, the benefit of shade, 
 and a view of the magnificent country. The pictures are 
 attached to the rafters ; those from Scripture Historj', on the 
 Cathedral-bridge, amount, according to my notes, to 240. Sub- 
 jects from the Old Testament face the Passenger as he goes 
 towards the Cathedral, and those from the New as he returns. 
 The Pictures on these Bridges, as well as those in most olher 
 parts of Switzerland, are not to be spoken of as works of art ; 
 but they are instruments admirably answering the purpose for 
 vfhieh they were designed. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 TO ENTERPRISB.t 
 Keep for the Young the impassioned smile 
 Shed fi-om thy countenance, as I see thee stand 
 High on a chalky cliff" of Britain's Isle, 
 A slender Volume grasping in thy hand — 
 (Perchance the pages that relate 
 The various turns of Crusoe's fate) — 
 Ah, spare the e.xulting smile. 
 And drop thy pointing finger bright 
 As the first flash of beacon light ; 
 But neither veil thy head in shadows dim. 
 Nor turn thy face awa)' 
 From One who, in the evening of his day. 
 To thee would offer no presumptuous hymn ! 
 
 1. 
 
 Bom Spirit ! who art free to rove . 
 
 Among the starry courts of Jove, 
 
 And oft in splendour dost appear 
 
 Embodied to poetic eyes. 
 
 While traversing tlias nether sphere. 
 
 Where Mortals call thee Enterprise. 
 
 Daughter of Hope ! her favourite Child, 
 
 Whom she to young Ambition bore, 
 
 When Hunter's arrow first defiled 
 
 The Grove, and stained the turf with gore ; 
 
 Thee winged Fancy took, and nursed 
 
 On broad Euphrates' palmy shore. 
 
 Or where the mightier Waters burst 
 
 From caves of Indian mountains hoar ! 
 
 She wrapped thee in a panther's skin ; 
 
 And thou, whose earliest thoughts held dear 
 
 Allurements that were edged with fear, 
 
 (The food that pleased thee best, to win) 
 
 With infant shout wouldst often scare 
 
 From her rock-fortress in mid air 
 
 The flame-eyed Eagle — often sweep, 
 
 Paired with the Ostrich, o'er the plain ; 
 
 And, tired with sport, wouldst sink asleep 
 
 Upon the couchant Lion's mane ! 
 
 With rolling years thy strength increased ; 
 
 And, far beyond thy native East, 
 
 To thee, by varying titles known, 
 
 As variously thy power was shown, 
 
 Did incense-bearing Altars rise, 
 
 W^hich caught the blaze of sacrifice. 
 
 From Suppliants panting for the skies ! 
 
 2. 
 
 What though this ancient Earth he trod 
 No more by step of Demi-god 
 Mounting from glorious deed to deed 
 As thou from clime to clime didst lead, 
 
 + This Poem having risen out of the " Italian Itinerant," &c, 
 (page 236,) it is here annexed. 
 
244 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Yet still, the bosom beating high, 
 
 And the hushed farewell of an eye 
 
 Where no procrastinating gaze 
 
 A last infirmity betrays. 
 
 Prove that thy heaven-descended sway 
 
 Shall ne'er submit to cold decay. 
 
 By thy divinity impelled, 
 
 The stripling seeks the tented field; 
 
 The aspiring Virgin kneels ; and, pale 
 
 With awe, receives the hallowed veil, 
 
 A soft and tender Heroine 
 
 Vowed to severer discipline 
 
 Inflamed by thee, the blooming Boy 
 
 Makes of the whistling shrouds a toy. 
 
 And of the Ocean's dismal breast 
 
 A play-ground and a couch of rest ; 
 
 'Mid the blank world of snow and ice. 
 
 Thou to his dangers dost enchain 
 
 The Chamois-chaser awed in vain 
 
 By chasm or dizzy precipice ; 
 
 And hast Thou not with triumph seen 
 
 How soaring Mortals glide serene 
 
 From cloud to cloud, and brave the light 
 
 With bolder than Icarian flights 
 
 How they in bells of crystal dive, 
 
 Where winds and waters cease to strive, 
 
 For no unholy visilings. 
 
 Among the monsters of the deep, 
 
 And all the sad and precious things 
 
 Which there in ghastly silence sleep'! 
 
 Or, adverse tides and currents headed, 
 
 And breathless calms no longer dreaded. 
 
 In never slackening voyage go 
 
 Straight as an arrow from the bow ; 
 
 And, slighting sails and scorning oars. 
 
 Keep faith with Time on distant shores. 
 
 — Within our fearless reach are placed 
 
 The secrets of the burning Waste, — 
 
 Egyptian Tombs unlock their Dead, 
 
 Nile trembles at his fountain head ; 
 
 Thou speak'st — and lo ! the polar Seas 
 
 Unbosom their last mysteries. 
 
 — But oh ! what transports, what sublime reward, 
 Won from the world of mind, dost thou prepare 
 For philosophic Sage, or high-souled Bard, 
 Who, for thy service trained in lonely woods, 
 Hath fed on pageants floating through the air. 
 Or calentured in depth of limpid floods ; 
 Nor grieves — tho' doomed thro' silent night to bear 
 The domination of his glorious themes, 
 Or struggle in the net-work of thy dreams ! 
 
 If there be movements in the Patriot's soul, 
 From source still deeper, and of higher worth, 
 'T is thine the quickening impulse to control. 
 
 And in due season send the mandate forth ; 
 
 Thy call a prostrate Nation can restore. 
 
 When but a single Mind resolves to crouch no more. 
 
 Dread Minister of wrath ! 
 
 Who to their destined punishment dost urge 
 
 The Pharaohs of the earth, the men of hardened heart! 
 
 Not unassisted by the flattering stars. 
 
 Thou strew'st temptation o'er the path 
 
 When they in pomp depart. 
 
 With trampling horses and refulgent cars — 
 
 Soon to be swallowed by the briny surge 
 
 Or cast, for lingering death, on unknown strands ; 
 
 Or stifled under weight of desert sands — 
 
 An Army now, and now a living hill* 
 
 Heaving with convulsive throes, — 
 
 It quivers — and is still; 
 
 Or to forget their madness and their woes, 
 
 Wrapt in a winding-sheet of spotless snows ! 
 
 Back flows the willing current of my Song : 
 
 If to provoke such doom the Impious dare. 
 
 Why should it daunt a blameless prayer 1 
 
 — Bold Goddess ! range our Youth among ; 
 
 Nor let thy genuine impulse fail to beat 
 
 In hearts no longer young ; 
 
 Still may a veteran Few have pride 
 
 In thoughts whose sternness makes them sweet; 
 
 In fixed resolves by Reason justified; 
 
 That to their object cleave like sleet 
 
 Whitening a tall pine's northern side, 
 
 While fields are naked far and wide. 
 
 And withered leaves, from Earth's cold breast 
 
 Upcaught in whirlwinds, nowhere can find rest. 
 
 6. 
 
 But, if such homage thou disdain 
 
 As doth with mellowing years agree. 
 
 One rarely absent from thy train 
 
 More humble favours may obtain 
 
 For thy contented Votary. 
 
 She, who incites the frolic lambs 
 
 In presence of their heedless dams. 
 
 And to the solitary fawn 
 
 Vouchsafes her lessons — bounteous Nymph 
 
 That wakes the breeze — the sparkling lymph 
 
 Doth hurry to the lawn ; 
 
 She, who inspires that strain of joyance holy 
 
 Which the sweet Bird, misnamed the melancholy. 
 
 Pours forth in shady groves, shall plead for me ; 
 
 And vernal mornings opening bright 
 
 With views of undefined delight, 
 
 • * "awhile the living hill 
 
 Heaved with convulsive throes, and all was still." 
 
 Db. Darwin. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 245 
 
 And cheerful songs, and suns that shine 
 
 On busy days, with thankful nights, be mine. 
 
 But thou, O Goddess ! in thy favourite Isle 
 
 (Freedom's impregnable redoubt. 
 
 The wide Earth's store-house fenced about 
 
 With breakers roaring to the gales 
 That stretch a thousand thousand sails) 
 Quicken the Slothful, and exalt the Vile! 
 Thy impulse is the life of Fame ; 
 Glad Hope would almost cease to be 
 If torn from thy society ; 
 And Love, when worthiest of the name, 
 Is proud to walk the Earth with thee ! 
 
 THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 A SERIES OF SONNETS. 
 
 The River Duddon rises upon Wrynose Fell, on 
 the confines of Westmoreland, Cumberland, and Lan- 
 cashire; and, serving as a boundary to the two last 
 counties, for the space of about twenty-five miles, enters 
 the Irish Sea, between the Isle of Walney and the 
 Lordship of Milium. 
 
 TO THE REV. DR. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 (WITH THE SONNETS TO THE RIVEK DUDDON, AND 
 OTHER POEMS IN THIS COLLECTION.) 
 
 The Minstrels played their Christmas tune 
 To-night beneath my cottage eaves ; 
 While, smitten by a lofty moon. 
 The encircling laurels, thick with leaves. 
 Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen. 
 That overpowered their natural green. 
 
 Through hill and valley every breeze 
 
 Had sunk to rest with folded wings: 
 
 Keen was the air, but could not freeze 
 
 Nor check the music of the strings ; 
 
 So stout and hardy were the band 
 
 That scraped the chords with strenuous hand. 
 
 And who but listened 1 — till was paid 
 Respect to every Inmate's claim ; 
 The greeting given, the music played, 
 In honour of each household name. 
 Duly pronounced with lusty call. 
 And " merry Christmas" wished to all ! 
 
 O Brother ! I revere the choice 
 That took thee from thy native hills ; 
 And it is given thee to rejoice : 
 Though public care full often tills 
 (Heaven only witness of the toil) 
 A barren and ungrateful soil. 
 
 Yet, would that Thou, with me and mine, 
 Hadst heard this never-failing rite ; 
 And seen on other faces shine 
 A true revival of the light 
 
 Which Nature and these rustic Powers, 
 In simple childhood, spread through ours ! 
 
 For pleasure hath not ceased to wait 
 On these expected annual rounds. 
 Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate 
 Call forth the unelaborate sounds. 
 Or they are offered at the door 
 That guards the lowliest of the poor. 
 
 How touching, when, at midnight, sweep 
 Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark, 
 To hear — and sink again to sleep ! 
 Or, at an earlier call, to mark, 
 By blazing fire, the still suspense 
 Of self-complacent innocence ; 
 
 The mutual nod, — the grave disguise 
 
 Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er ; 
 
 And some unbidden tears that rise 
 
 For names once heard, and heard no more ; 
 
 Tears brightened by tlie serenade 
 
 For infant in the cradle laid. 
 
 Ah ! not for emerald fields alone. 
 
 With ambient streams more pure and bright 
 
 Than fabled Cytherea's zone 
 
 Glittering before the Thunderer's sight. 
 
 Is to my heart of hearts endeared. 
 
 The ground where we were born and reared ! 
 
 Hail, ancient Manners ! sure defence. 
 Where they survive, of wholesome laws ; 
 Remnants of love whose modest sense 
 Thus into narrow room withdraws ; 
 Hail, Usages of pristine mould. 
 And ye that guard them. Mountains old ! 
 
 Bear with me. Brother ! quench the thought 
 That slights this passion, or condemns ; 
 If thee fond Fancy ever brought 
 From the proud margin of the Thames, 
 And Lambeth's venerable towers. 
 To humbler streams, and greener bowers. 
 21* 
 
246 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Yes, they can make, who fail to find, 
 
 Short leisure even in busiest days ; 
 
 Moments, to cast a looic behind, 
 
 And profit by those kindly rays 
 
 That through the clouds do sometimes steal, 
 
 And all the far-oflf past reveal. 
 
 Hence, while tlie imperial City's din 
 Beats frequent on thy satiate ear, 
 A pleased attention I may win 
 To agitations less severe, 
 That neither overwhelm nor cloy. 
 But fill the hollow vale with joy ! 
 
 Not envying shades which haply yet may throw 
 
 A grateful coolness round that rocky spring, 
 
 Bandusia, once responsive to the string 
 
 Of the Horatian lyre with babbling flow; 
 
 Careless of flowers that in perennial blow 
 
 Round the moist marge of Persian fountains cling; 
 
 Heedless of Alpine torrents thundering 
 
 Through icy portals radiant as heaven's bow ; 
 
 I seek the birth-place of a native Stream. — 
 
 All hail, ye mountains! hail, thou morning light! 
 
 Better to breatlie upon this aery height 
 
 Than pass in needless sleep from dream to dream : 
 
 Pure flow the verse, pure, vigorous, free, and bright, 
 
 For Duddon, long-loved Daddon, is my theme ! 
 
 II. 
 Child of the clouds ! remote from every taint 
 Of sordid industry thy lot is cast ; 
 Thine are the honours of the lofty waste ; 
 Not seldom, when with heat the valleys faint, 
 Thy handmaid Frost with spangled tissue quaint 
 Thy cradle decks ; — to chant thy birth, thou hast 
 No meaner Poet than the whistling Blast, 
 And Desolation is thy Patron-saint ! 
 She guards thee, ruthless Power ! who would not spare 
 Those mighty forests, once the bison's screen. 
 Where stalked the huge deer to his shaggy lair* 
 Tlirough paths and alleys roofed with sombre green, 
 Thousands of years before the silent air 
 Was pierced by whizzing shaft of hunter keen ! 
 
 III. 
 
 How shall I paint thee : — Be this naked stone 
 My seat while I give way to such intent; 
 Pleased could my verse, a speaking monument. 
 Make to tl:e eyes of men thy features known. 
 
 But as of all those tripping lambs not one 
 Outruns his fellows, so hath Nature lent 
 To thy beginning nought that doth present 
 Peculiar grounds for hope to build upon. 
 To dignify the spot that gives thee birth, 
 No sign of hoar Antiquity's esteem 
 Appears, and none of modern Fortune's care ; 
 Yet thou thyself hast round thee shed a gleam 
 Of brilliant moss, instinct with freshne.'^s rare; 
 Prompt oflering to thy Foster-mother, Earth ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Take, cradled Nursling of the mountain, take 
 
 This parting glance, no negligent adieu ! 
 
 A Protean change seems wrought while I pursue 
 
 The curves, a loosely-scattered chain doth make ; 
 
 Or rather thou appear'st a glistering snake. 
 
 Silent, and to the gazer's eye untrue, 
 
 Thridding with sinuous lapse the rushes, through 
 
 Dwarf willows gliding, and by ferny brake. 
 
 Starts from a dizzy steep the undaunted Rill 
 
 Robed instantly in garb of snow-white foam ; 
 
 And laughing dares the Adventurer, who hath clomb 
 
 So high, a rival purpose to fulfil ; 
 
 Else let the Dastard backward wend, and roam. 
 
 Seeking less bold achievement, where he will ! 
 
 *The deer alluded to ia the Leigh, a gigantic species long 
 since extmct. 
 
 V. 
 
 Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played 
 With thy clear voice, I caught the fitful sound 
 Waft;ed o'er sullen moss and craggy mound. 
 Unfruitful solitudes, that seemed to upbraid 
 The sun in heaven ! — but now, to form a shade 
 For Thee, green alders have together wound 
 Their foliage ; ashes flung their arms around ; 
 And birch-trees risen in silver colonnade. 
 And thou hast also tempted here to rise, 
 'Mid sheltering pines, this Cottage rude and gray; 
 Whose ruddy Children, by the mother's eyes 
 Carelessly watched, sport through the summer day 
 Thy pleased associates : — light as endless May 
 On infant bosoms lonely Nature lies. 
 
 VI. 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 Ere yet our course was graced with social trees 
 It lacked not old remains of hawthorn bowers. 
 Where small birds vparbled to their paramours 
 And, earlier still, was heard the hum of bees; 
 I saw them ply their harmless robberies, 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 247 
 
 iind caught the fragrance which the sundry flowers, 
 !^ed by the stream with soft perpetual showers, 
 f'lenteously yielded to the vagrant breeze. 
 Inhere bloomed the strawberry of the wilderness ; 
 iphe trembling eyebright showed her sapphire blue,* 
 The thyme her purple, like the blush of even ; 
 \nd, if the breath of some to no caress 
 invited, forth they peeped so fair to view, 
 iUl kinds alike seemed favourites of Heaven. 
 
 VII. 
 
 ' Change me, some God, into that breathing rose !" 
 
 The love-sick Stripling fancifully sighs, 
 
 The envied flower beholding, as it lies 
 
 3n Laura's breast, in exquisite repose ; 
 
 3r he would pass into her Bird, that throws 
 
 fhe darts of song from out its wiry cage ; 
 
 Enraptured, — could he for himself engage 
 
 irhe thousandth part of what the Nymph bestows, 
 
 And what the little careless Innocent 
 
 Jngraciously receives. Too daring choice ! 
 
 There are whose calmer mind it would content 
 
 To be an unculled floweret of the glen, 
 
 fearless of plough and scythe ; or darkling wren. 
 
 That tunes on Duddon's banks her slender voice. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 What aspect bore the Man who roved or fled, 
 
 Pirst of his tribe, to this dark dell — who first 
 
 [n this pellucid Current slaked his thirst 1 
 
 iVVhat hopes came with him 1 what designs were spread 
 
 Along his path ? His unprotected bed 
 
 What dreams encompassed t Was the intruder nursed 
 
 In hideous usages, and rites accursed. 
 
 That thinned the living and disturbed the dead? 
 
 No voice replies; — the earth, the air is mute; 
 
 i'And Thou, blue Streamlet, murmuring yield'st no more 
 
 Than a soft record that, whatever fruit 
 
 Of ignorance thou might'st witness heretofore, 
 
 Thy function was to heal and to restore, 
 
 To soothe and cleanse, not madden and pollute ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE STEPPING-STONES. 
 
 The struggling Rill insensibly is grown 
 Into a Brook of loud and stately march. 
 Crossed ever and anon by plank and arch ; 
 And, for like use, lo ! what might seem a zone 
 Chosen for ornament ; stone matched with stone 
 In studied symmetry, with interspace 
 For the clear waters to pursue their race 
 
 * See Note 8, p. 316. 
 
 Without restraint. — How swiftly have they flown. 
 
 Succeeding — still succeeding! Here the Child 
 
 Puts, when the high-swoln Flood runs fierce and v.'ild, 
 
 His budding courage to the proof; — and here 
 
 Declining Manhood learns to note the sly 
 
 And sure encroachments of infirmity, 
 
 Thinking how fast time runs, life's end how near ! 
 
 X. 
 
 THE SAME SUBJECT. 
 
 Not so that Pair whose youthful spirits dance 
 With prompt emotion, urging them to pass ; 
 A sweet confusion checks the Shepherd-lass ; 
 Blushing she eyes the dizzy flood askance, — 
 To stop ashamed — too timid to advance ; 
 She ventures once again — another pause ! 
 His outstretched hand He tauntingly withdraws — 
 She sues for help with piteous utterance ! 
 Chidden she chides again ; the thrilling touch 
 Both feel when he renews the wished-for aid : 
 Ah ! if their fluttering hearts should stir too much, 
 Should beat too strongly, both may be betrayed. 
 The frolic Loves, who, from yon high rock, see 
 The struggle, clap their wings for victory ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 THE FAERY CHASM. 
 
 No fiction was it of the antique age : 
 
 A sky-blue stone, within this sunless cleft, 
 
 Is of the very foot-marks unbereft 
 
 Which tiny elves impressed; — on that smooth stage 
 
 Dancing with all their brilliant equipage 
 
 In secret revels — haply after theft 
 
 Of some sweet babe, flower stolen, and coarse weed 
 
 left 
 For the distracted mother to assuage 
 Her grief with, as she might ! — But, where, oh ! where 
 Is traceable a vestige of the notes 
 That ruled those dances wild in character'! 
 — Deep underground'! — Or in the upper air. 
 On the shrill wind of midnight ] or where floats 
 O'er twilight fields the autumnal gossamer ] 
 
 XIL 
 
 HTNTS FOR THE FANCY. 
 
 On, loitering Muse — The swift stream chides us- 
 Albeit his deep-worn channel doth immure 
 Objects immense portrayed in miniature, 
 Wild shapes for many a strange comparison ! 
 Niagaras, Alpine passes, and anon 
 
248 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Abodes of Naiads, calm abysses pure, 
 
 Bright liquid mansions, fashioned to endure 
 
 When the broad Oak drops, a leafless skeleton, 
 
 And the solidities of mortal pride, 
 
 Palace and Tower, are crumbled into dust ! 
 
 — The Bard who walks with Duddon for his guide, 
 
 Shall find such toys of Fancy thickly set : 
 
 Turn from the sight, enamoured Muse — we must; 
 
 And, if thou canst, leave them without regret ! 
 
 XIIL 
 
 OPEN PROSPECT. 
 Hail to the fields— with Dwellings sprinkled o'er. 
 And one small hamlet, under a green hill. 
 Clustered with barn and byre, and spouting mill! 
 A glance suffices; — should we wish for more. 
 Gay June would scorn us ; but when bleak winds roar 
 Through the stiff lance-like shoots of pollard ash. 
 Dread swell of sound ! loud as the gusts that lash 
 The matted forests of Ontario's shore 
 By wasteful steel unsmitten, then would I 
 Turn into port, — and, reckless of the gale. 
 Reckless of angry Duddon sweeping by. 
 While the warm hearth exalts the mantling ale. 
 Laugh with the generous household heartily, 
 At all the merry pranks of Donnerdale ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 O MOUNTAIN Stream ! the Shepherd and his Cot 
 Are privileged Inmates of deep solitude ; 
 Nor would the nicest Anchorite exclude 
 A field or two of brighter green, or plot 
 Of tillage-ground, that seemeth like a spot 
 Of stationary sunshine : — thou hast viewed 
 These only, Duddon ! with their paths renewed 
 By fits and starts, yet this contents thee not. 
 Thee hath some awful Spirit impelled to leave. 
 Utterly to desert, the haunts of men. 
 Though simple thy companions were and few; 
 And through this wilderness a passage cleave 
 Attended but by thy own voice, save when 
 The Clouds and Fowls of the air thy way pursue ! 
 
 Was it by mortals sculptured ■! — vsreary slaves 
 Of slow endeavour ! or abruptly cast 
 Into rude shape by file, with roaring blast 
 Tempestuously let loose from central caves'! 
 Or fashioned by the turbulence of waves. 
 Then, when o'er highest hills the Deluge passed 1 
 
 I 
 
 XVI. 
 
 AMERIC.-VN TRADITION. 
 Such fruitless questions may not long beguile 
 Or plague the fancy, 'mid the sculptured shows 
 Conspicuous yet where Oroonoko flows ; 
 There would the Indian answer with a smile 
 Aimed at the White Man's ignorance the while. 
 Of the Great Waters telling how they rose, 
 Covered the plains, and, wandering where they chose. 
 Mounted through every intricate defile. 
 Triumphant. — Inundation wide and deep. 
 O'er which his Fathers urged, to ridge and steep 
 Else unapproachable, their buoyant way ; 
 And carved, on mural cliS"'s undreaded side. 
 Sun, moon, and stars, and beast of chase or prey ; 
 Whate'er they sought, shunned, loved, or deified !"* 
 
 xvn. 
 
 XV. 
 From this deep chasm — where quivering sunbeams 
 
 play 
 Upon its loftiest crags — mine eyes behold 
 A gloomy Niche, capacious, blank, and cold ; 
 A concave free from shrubs and mosses gray ; 
 In semblance fresh, as if, with dire affray. 
 Some statue, placed amid these regions old 
 For tutelary service, thence had rolled. 
 Startling the flight of timid Yesterday ! 
 
 RETURN. 
 A DARK plume fetch me from yon blasted Yew, 
 Perched on whose top the Danish Raven croaks; 
 Aloft, the imperial Bird of Rome invokes 
 Departed ages, shedding where he flew 
 Loose fragments of wild wailing, that bestrew 
 The clouds, and thrill the chambers of the locks, 
 And into silence hush the timorous flocks. 
 That, calmly couching while the nightly dew 
 Moistened each fleece, beneath the twinkling stars 
 Slept amid that lone Camp on Hardknot's height,t 
 Whose Guardians bent the knee to Jove and Mars: 
 Or, near that mystic Round of Druid frame 
 Tardily sinking by its proper weight 
 Deep into patient Earth, from whose smooth breast it 
 came ! 
 
 xvm. 
 
 SEATHWAITE CHAPEL. 
 
 Sacred Religion, " mother of form and fear," 
 
 Dread Arbilress of mutable respect. 
 
 New rites ordaining when the old are wrecked. 
 
 Or cease to please the fickle worshipper ; 
 
 If one strong wish may be embosomed here, 
 
 » See Humboldt's Personal Narrative. t See Note 9, p. 316. 
 
POEMS- OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 249 
 
 Mother of Love ! for this deep vale, protect 
 Truth's holy lamp, pure source of bright eifect, 
 Gifted to purge the vapoury atmosphere 
 That seelcs to stifle it ; — as in those days 
 When this low Pile* a Gospel Teacher knew. 
 Whose good works formed an endless retinue: 
 Such Priest as Chaucer sang in fervent lays ; 
 Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew; 
 And tender Goldsmith crowned with deathless praise ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 TRIBUTARY STREAM. 
 
 Mt frame hath often trembled with delight 
 When hope presented some far-distant good, 
 i That seemed from heaven descending, like the flood 
 Of yon pure waters, from their aery height 
 Hurrying, with lordly Duddon to unite; 
 Who, 'mid a world of images imprest 
 On the calm deptli of his transparent breast, 
 Appears to cherish most that Torrent white, 
 The fairest, softest, liveliest of them all ! 
 And seldom hath ear listened to a tune 
 More lulling than the busy hum of Noon, 
 Swoln by that voice — ■ whose murmur musical 
 Announces to the thirsty fields a boon 
 Dewy and fresh, till showers again shall fall. 
 
 XX. 
 
 THE PLAIN OF DONNERDALE. 
 
 The old inventive Poets, had they seen. 
 Or rather felt, the entrancement that detains 
 Thy waters, Duddon ! 'raid these flowery plains, 
 ', The still repose, the liquid lapse serene, 
 I Transferred to bowers imperishably green, 
 : Had beautified Elysium ! But these chains 
 i Will soon be broken ; — a rough course remains, 
 Rough as the past ; where Thou, of placid mien, 
 Innocuous as a firstling of the flock. 
 And countenanced like a soft cerulean sky, 
 Shall change thy temper; and, with many a shock 
 Given and received in mutual jeopardy, 
 Dance, like a Bacchanal, from rock to rock, 
 Tossing her frantic thyrsus wide and high ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Whence that low voice ? — -A whisper from the heart. 
 That told of days long past, when here I roved 
 With friends and kindred tenderly beloved ; 
 
 * See the conclusion of Note 9, p. 318, and Appendix III. 
 2G 
 
 Some who had early mandates to depart. 
 
 Yet are allowed to steal my path athwart, 
 
 By Duddon's side ; once more do we unite. 
 
 Once more beneath the kind Earth's tranquil light; 
 
 And smothered joys into new being start. 
 
 From her unworthy seat, the cloudy stall 
 
 Of Time, breaks forth triumphant Memory; 
 
 Her glistening tresses bound, yet light and free 
 
 As golden locks of birch, that rise and fall 
 
 On gales that breathe too gently to recall 
 
 Aught of the fading year's inclemency ! 
 
 XXII. 
 TRADITION. 
 
 A LOVELORN Maid, at some far-distant time, 
 
 Came to this hidden pool, whose depths surpass 
 
 In crystal clearness Dian's looking-glass ; 
 
 And, gazing, saw that Rose, which from the prime 
 
 Derives its name, reflected as the chime 
 
 Of echo doth reverberate some sweet sound : 
 
 The starry treasure from the blue profound 
 
 She longed to ravish; — shall she plunge, or climb 
 
 The humid precipice, and seize the guest 
 
 Of April, smiling high in upper airl 
 
 Desperate alternative ! what fiend could dare 
 
 To prompt the thought 1 — Upon the steep rock's breast 
 
 The lonely Primrose yet renews its bloom, 
 
 Untouched memento of her hapless doom ! 
 
 XXIII. 
 SHEEP-WASHING. 
 
 Sad thoughts, avaunt ! — the fervour of the year, 
 
 Poured on the fleece-encumbered flock, invites 
 
 To laving currents for prelusive rites 
 
 Duly performed before the Dalesmen shear 
 
 Their panting charge. The distant Mountains hear, 
 
 Hear and repeat, the turmoil that unites 
 
 Clamour of boys with innocent despites 
 
 Of barking dogs, and bleatings from strange fear. 
 
 Meanwhile, if Duddon's spotless breast receive 
 
 Unwelcome mixtures as the uncouth noise 
 
 Thickens, the pastoral River will forgive 
 
 Such wrong; nor need we blame the licensed joys, 
 
 Though false to Nature's quiet equipoise: 
 
 Frank are the sports, the stains are fugitive. 
 
 xxrv. 
 
 THE RESTING PLACE. 
 
 Mid-noon is past ; — upon the sultry mead 
 No zephyr breathes, no cloud its shadow throws : 
 If we advance unstrengthened by repose. 
 Farewell the solace of the vagrant reed ! 
 
250 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 This Nook, with woodbine hung and straggling weed, 
 
 Templing recess as ever pilgrim chose, 
 
 Half grot, half arbour, proffers to enclose 
 
 Body and mind from molestation freed, 
 
 In narrow compass — narrow as itself: 
 
 Or if the fancy, too industrious Elf, 
 
 Be loth that we should breathe awliile exempt 
 
 From new incitements friendly to our task, 
 
 There wants not stealthy prospect, tliat may tempt 
 
 Loose Idless to forego her wily mask. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Methinks 't were no unprecedented feat, 
 
 Should some benignant Minister of air 
 
 Lift, and encircle witli a cloudy chair, 
 
 The One for whom my heart shall ever beat 
 
 With tenderest love ; — or, if a safer seat 
 
 Atween his downy wings be furnished, there 
 
 Would lodge her, and the cherished burden bear 
 
 O'er hill and valley to this dim retreat! 
 
 Rough ways my steps have trod ; — too rough and long 
 
 For her companionship ; here dwells soft ease : 
 
 With sweets whicli she partakes not some distaste 
 
 Mingles, and lurking consciousness of wrong; 
 
 Languish the flowers; the waters seem to waste 
 
 Their vocal charm ; their sparklings cease to please. 
 
 XXVL 
 
 Return, Content ! for fondly I pursued. 
 Even when a child, the Streams — unheard, unseen ; 
 Through tangled woods, impending rocks between; 
 Or, free as air, with flying inquest viewed 
 The sullen reservoirs whence their bold brood. 
 Pure as the morning, fretful, boisterous, keen. 
 Green as the salt-sea billows, white and green. 
 Poured down the hills, a choral multitude ! 
 Nor have I tracked their course for scanty gains ; 
 They taught me random cares and truant joys. 
 That shield from mischief and preserve from stains 
 Vague minds, while men are growing out of boys ; 
 Maturer Fancy owes to their rough noise 
 Impetuous thoughts that brook not servile reins. 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 Fallen, and difiiised into a shapeless heap, 
 
 Or quietly self-buried in earth's mould, 
 
 Is that embattled House, whose massy Keep 
 
 Flung from yon clifT a shadow large and cold. — 
 
 There dwelt the gay, the bountiful, the bold, 
 
 Till nightly lamentations, like the sweep 
 
 Of winds — though winds were silent, struck a deep 
 
 And lasting terror through that ancient Hold. 
 
 Its line of Warriors fled ; — they shrunk when tried 
 
 By ghostly power: — but Time's unsparing hand 
 
 Hath plucked such foes, like weeds, from out the land; 
 
 And now, if men with men in peace abide, 
 
 AH other strength the weakest may withstand, 
 
 All worse assaults may safely be defied. 
 
 xxvni. 
 
 JOURNEY RENEWED. 
 
 I rose while yet tlie cattle, heat-opprest. 
 Crowded together under rustling trees. 
 Brushed by the current of the water-breeze; 
 And for their sakes, and love of all that rest. 
 On Duddon's margin, in the sheltering nest; 
 For all the startled scaly tribes that slink 
 I Into his coverts, and each fearless link 
 Of dancing insects forged upon his breast; 
 For these, and hopes and recollections worn 
 Close to the vital seat of human clay ; 
 Glad meetings — tender partings — that upstay 
 The drooping mind of absence, by vows sworn 
 In his pure presence near the trysting thorn ; 
 I thanked the Leader of my onward way. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 No record tells of lance opposed to lance, 
 
 Horse charging horse, 'mid these retired domains ; 
 
 Tells that their turf drank purple from the veins 
 
 Of heroes fallen, or struggling to advance. 
 
 Till doubtful combat issued in a trance 
 
 Of victory, that struck through heart and reins. 
 
 Even to the inmost seat of mortal pains. 
 
 And lightened o'er the pallid countenance. 
 
 Yet, to the loyal and the brave, who lie 
 
 In the blank earth, neglected and forlorn, 
 
 The passing Winds memorial tribute pay ; 
 
 The Torrents chant their praise, inspiring scorn 
 
 Of power usurped with proclamation liigh, 
 
 And glad acknowledgment of lawful sway. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Who swerves from innocence, who makes divorce 
 Of that serene companion — a good name. 
 Recovers not his loss; but walks with shame, 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 251 
 
 With doubt, with fear, and haply with remorse : 
 
 And oft-times he, who, yielding to the force 
 
 Of chance-temptation, ere his journey end, 
 
 Prom chosen comrade turns, or faithful friend, 
 
 In vain shall rue the broken intercourse. 
 
 Not so with such as loosely wear the chain 
 
 That binds them, pleasant River ! to thy side : — 
 
 Through the rough copse wheel Thou with hasty stride, 
 
 I choose to saunter o'er the grassy plain, 
 
 Sure, when the separation has been tried, 
 
 That we, who part in love, shall meet again. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The Kirk of Ulpha to the Pilgrim's eye 
 
 Is welcome as a Star, that doth present 
 
 Its shining forehead through the peacefbl rent 
 
 Of a black cloud diffused o'er half the sky : 
 
 Or as a fruitful palm-tree towering high 
 
 O'er the parched waste beside an Arab's tent ; 
 
 Or the Indian tree whose branches, downward bent, 
 
 Take root again, a boundless canopy. 
 
 How sweet were leisure ! could it yield no more 
 
 Than 'mid that wave-washed Church-yard to recline, 
 
 From pastoral graves extracting thoughts divine ; 
 
 Or there to pace, and mark the summits hoar 
 
 Of distant moon-lit mountains faintly shine, 
 
 Soothed by the unseen River's gentle roar. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep ; 
 Lingering no more 'mid flower-enamelled lands 
 And blooming thickets ; nor by rocky bands 
 Held; — but in radiant progress tow'rd the Deep 
 Where mightiest rivers into powerless sleep 
 Sink, and forget their nature ; — now expands 
 Majestic Duddon, over smooth flat sands 
 Gliding in silence with unfettered sweep ! 
 Beneath an ampler sky a region wide 
 Is opened round him : — hamlets, towers, and towns. 
 And blue-topped hills, behold him from afar ; 
 In stately mien to sovereign Thames allied, 
 Spreading his bosom under Kentish Downs, 
 With Commerce freighted, or triumphant War. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 But here no cannon thunders to the gale ; 
 Upon the wave no haughty pendants cast 
 A crimson splendour ; lowly is the mast 
 That rises here, and humbly spread the sail ; 
 While, less disturbed than in the narrow Vale 
 Through which with strange vicissitudes he passed, 
 
 The Wanderer seeks that receptacle vast 
 Where all his unambitious functions fail. 
 And may thy Poet, cloud-born Stream ! be free, 
 The sweets of earth contentedly resigned, 
 And each tumultuous working left behind 
 At seemly distance, to advance like Thee, 
 Prepared, in peace of heart, in calm of mind 
 And soul, to mingle with Eternity. 
 
 AFTER-THOUGPIT. 
 
 I THOUGHT of Thee, my partner and my guide, 
 
 As being past away. — Vain sympathies ! 
 
 For, backward, Duddon ! as I cast my eyes, 
 
 I see what was, and is, and will abide ; 
 
 Still glides the Stream, and shall not cease to glide; 
 
 The Form remains, the Function never dies ; 
 
 While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise, 
 
 We Men, who in our morn of youth defied 
 
 The elements, must vanish ; — be it so ! 
 
 Enough, if something from our hands have power 
 
 To live, and act, and serve the future hour; 
 
 And if, as tow'rd the silent tomb we go. 
 
 Through love, through hope, and faitli's transcendent 
 
 dower. 
 We feel that we are greater than we know.* 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 A Poet, whose works are not yet known as they de- 
 serve to be, thus enters upon his description of the 
 " Ruins of Rome :" 
 
 " The rising Sun 
 Flames on the ruins in the purer air 
 Towering aloft ,-^ 
 
 and ends thus — 
 
 " The setting Sun displays 
 His visible great round, between yon towerg, 
 As through two shady cliffs." 
 
 Mr. Crowe, in his excellent loco-descriptive Poem, 
 " Lewesdon Hill," is still more expeditious, finishing 
 the whole on a May-morning, before breakfast. 
 "To-morrow for severer thought, but now 
 To breakfast, and keep festival to-day." 
 
 No one believes, or is desired to believe, that these 
 Poems were actually composed within such limits of 
 time ; nor was there any reason why a prose statement 
 should acquaint the Reader with the plain fact, to the 
 disturbance of poetic credibility. But, in the present 
 case, I am compelled to mention, that the above series 
 of Sonnets was the growth of many years; — the one 
 which stands the 14th was the first produced; and 
 
 • " And feel that I am happier than I know." — Milton. 
 The allusion to the Greek Poet will be obvious to the classi- 
 cal reader. 
 
252 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 others were added upon occasional visits to the Stream, 
 or as recollections of the scenes upon its banks 
 awakened a wish to describe them. In this manner I 
 had proceeded insensibly, without perceiving that I 
 was trespassing upon ground pre-occupied, at least as 
 far as intention went, by Mr. Coleridge ; who, more 
 than twenty years ago, used to speak of writing a rural 
 Poem, to be entitled " The Brook," of whicli he has 
 given a sketch in a recent publication. But a par- 
 ticular subject cannot, I think, much interfere with a 
 general one ; and I have been further kept from en- 
 croaching upon any right Mr. C. may still wish to ex- 
 ercise, by the restriction which the frame of the Son- 
 net imposed upon me, narrowing unavoidably the range 
 of thought, and precluding, though not without its ad- 
 vantages, many graces to which a freer movement of 
 verse would naturally have led. 
 
 May I not venture, then, to hope, that, instead of 
 being a hindcrance, by anticipation of any part of the 
 subject, these Sonnets may remind Mr. Coleridge of 
 
 his own more comprehensive design, and induce him 
 
 to fulfil it! There is a sympathy in streams, — 
 
 " one calleth to another ;" and, I would gladly believe, 
 that " The Brook" will, ere long, murnmr in concert 
 with "The Duddon." But, asking pardon for this 
 fancy, I need not scruple to say, that those verses 
 must indeed be ill-fated which can enter upon such 
 pleasant walks of nature, without receiving and giving 
 inspiration. The power of waters over the minds of 
 Poets has been acknowledged from the earliest ages; 
 — through the " Flumina amem sylvasque inglorius" 
 of Virgil, down to the sublime apostrophe to the 
 great rivers of the earth, by Armstrong, and the 
 simple ejaculation of Burns, (chosen, if I recollect 
 right, by Mr. Coleridge, as a motto for liis embryo 
 " Brook,") 
 
 " The Muse nae Poet ever fand her, 
 Till by liimsel' he learned lo wander, 
 Adown some Irolting bum's meander. 
 And na' tuink lang." 
 
 YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS, 
 
 COMPOSED (TWO EXCEPTED) DURING A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, AND ON 
 THE ENGLISH BORDER, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1831. 
 
 TO 
 
 SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. 
 
 AS 
 
 A TESTIMONY OF FRIENDSHIP, 
 
 AND 
 AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF INTELLECTUAL OBLIGATIONS, 
 
 THESE POE3VIS 
 
 ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 RVDAL Mount, Dec. II, 1834. 
 
 YARROW REVISITED. 
 
 [The foil owing Stanzas are a memorial of a day passed with 
 Sir Waller Scott, and other Friends visiting the Banks of the 
 Yarrow under his guidance, immediately before his departure 
 from Abbotsford, ior Naples. 
 
 The title Yarrow Revisited will stand in no need of explana- 
 tion, for Readers acquainted with the Author's previous poems 
 suggested by that celebrated stream. See pp. 202 and 210.] 
 
 The gallant Youth, who may have gained, 
 Or seeks, a " Win.some Marrow," 
 
 Was but an Infant in the lap 
 When first I looked on Yarrow; 
 
 Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate 
 
 Long left, without a Warder, 
 I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee, 
 
 Great Minstrel of the Border ! 
 
 Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, 
 
 Their dignity installing 
 In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves 
 
 Were on the bough, or falling ; 
 But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed — 
 
 The forest to embolden; 
 Reddened the fiery hues, and shot 
 
 Transparence through the golden. 
 
 For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on 
 
 In foamy agitation; 
 And slept in many a crystal pool 
 
 For quiet contemplation: 
 No public and no private care 
 
 The freeborn mind enthralling, 
 We made a day of happy hours, 
 
 Our happy days recalling. 
 
 Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of youth. 
 With freaks of graceful folly, — 
 
 Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, 
 Her Night not melancholy, 
 
POEMS OF THE 
 
 IMAGINATION. 253 
 
 Past, present, future, all appeared 
 
 And what, for this frail world, were all 
 
 In harmony united, 
 
 That mortals do or suffer 
 
 Like guests that meet, and some from far, 
 
 Did no responsive harp, no pen. 
 
 By cordial love invited. 
 
 Memorial tribute offer ] 
 
 
 Yea, what were mighty Nature's self! 
 
 And if, as Yarrow, through the woods 
 
 Her features, could they win us, 
 
 And down the meadow ranging. 
 
 Unhelped by the poetic voice 
 
 Did meet us with unaltered face, 
 
 That hourly speaks within us ? 
 
 Though we were changed and changing ; 
 
 
 If, fhf.n, some natural sliadows spread 
 Our inward prospect over, 
 
 The soul's deep valley was not slow 
 Its brightness to recover. 
 
 Nor deem that localized Romance 
 Plays false with our aifections ; 
 
 Uusanctifies our tears — made sport 
 For fanciful dejections: 
 
 Eternal blessings on the Muse, 
 And her divine employment ! 
 
 The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons 
 For hope and calm enjoyment ; 
 
 Ah, no ! the visions of the past 
 Sustain the heart in feeling 
 
 Life as she is — our changeful Life, 
 With friends and kindred dealing. 
 
 Albeit sickness lingering yet 
 
 
 Has o'er their pillovsr brooded 
 
 Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day 
 
 And Care waylay their steps — a sprite 
 
 In Yarrow's groves were center'd ; 
 
 Not easily eluded. 
 
 Who through the silent portal arch 
 
 
 Of mouldering Newark entered, 
 
 For thee, Scott ! compelled to change 
 
 And clomb the winding stair that once 
 
 Green Eildon-hdl and Cheviot 
 
 Too timidly was mounted 
 
 For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes ; 
 
 By the " last Minstrel," (not the last) 
 
 And leave thy Tweed and Teviot 
 
 Ere he his Tale recounted 
 
 For mild Sorento's breezy waves; 
 
 
 May classic Fancy, linking 
 With native Fancy her fresh aid, 
 
 Flow on for ever. Yarrow Stream ! 
 
 Preserve thy heart from sinking ! 
 
 Fulfil thy pensive duty. 
 
 
 Well pleased that future Bards should chant 
 
 ! wliile they minister to thee, 
 
 For simple hearts thy beauty. 
 
 Each vying with the other. 
 
 To dream-light dear while yet unseen. 
 
 May Health return to mellow Age, 
 
 Dear to the common sunshine, 
 
 With Strength, her venturous brother; 
 
 And dearer still, as now I feel. 
 
 And Tiber, and each brook and rill 
 
 To memory's shadowy moonshine ! 
 
 Renowned in song and story, 
 
 
 With unimagined beauty shine. 
 
 =— _ 
 
 Nor lose one ray of glory ! 
 
 
 For Thou, upon a hundred streams. 
 
 By tales of love and sorrow, 
 Of faithful love, undaunted truth, 
 
 ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FROM 
 ABBOTSFORD, FOR NAPLES. 
 
 Hast shed the power of Yarrow ; 
 
 A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain. 
 
 And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, 
 
 Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light 
 
 Where'er thy path invite thee. 
 
 Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height : 
 
 At parent Nature's grateful call. 
 
 Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain 
 
 With gladness must requite Thee. 
 
 For kindred Power departing from their sight ; 
 
 
 While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, 
 
 A gracious welcome shall be thine, 
 
 Saddens his voice again, and yet again. 
 
 Such looks of love and honour 
 
 Lift up your hearts, ye mourners ! for the might 
 
 As thy own Yarrow gave to me 
 
 Of the whole world's good vvishes with him goes ; 
 
 When first I gazed upon her; 
 
 Blessings and prayers- in nobler retinue 
 
 Beheld what I had feared to see, 
 
 Than sceptred King or laurelled Conqueror knows, 
 
 Unwilling to surrender 
 
 Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true. 
 
 Dreams treasured up from early days, 
 
 Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea. 
 
 The holy and the tender. 
 
 Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope ! 
 22 
 
254 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 II. 
 
 A PLACE OF BURIAL IN THE SOUTH OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Part fenced by man, part by a ragged steep 
 That curbs a foaming brook, a Grave-yard lies; 
 The Hare's best couching-place for fearless sleep 
 Which moonlit Elves, far seen by credulous eyes, 
 Enter in dance. Of Church, or Sabbath ties, 
 No vestige now remains ; yet thither creep 
 Bereft Ones, and in lowly anguish weep 
 Their prayers out to the wind and naked skies. 
 Proud tomb is none ; but rudely-sculptured knights, 
 By humble choice of plain old times, are seen 
 Level with earth, among the hillocks green : 
 Union not sad, when sunny daybreak smites 
 The spangled turf, and neighbouring thickets ring 
 With jubilate from the choirs of spring ! 
 
 III. 
 
 ON THE SIGHT OF A MANSE IN THE SOUTH OF 
 SCOTLAND. 
 
 Say, ye far-travelled clouds, far-seeing hills, 
 
 Among the happiest-looking Homes of men 
 
 Scatter'd all Britain over, through deep glen, 
 
 On airy upland, and by forest rills. 
 
 And o'er wide plains whereon the sky distils 
 
 Her lark's loved warblings ; does aught meet your ken 
 
 More fit to animate the Poet's pen. 
 
 Aught that more surely by its aspect fills 
 
 Pure minds with sinless envy, than the Abode 
 
 Of the good Priest; who, faithful through all hours 
 
 To his high charge, and truly serving God, 
 
 Has yet a heart and hand for trees and flowers, 
 
 Enjoys the walks his Predecessors trod. 
 
 Nor covets lineal rights in lands and towers. 
 
 IV. 
 
 COMPOSED IN ROSLXN CHAPEL, DURING A STORM. 
 
 The wind is now thy organist ; — a clank 
 
 (We know not whence) ministers for a bell 
 
 To mark some change of service. As the swell 
 
 Of music reached its height, and even when sank 
 
 The notes, in prelude, Roslin ! to a blank 
 
 Of silence, how it thrilled thy sumptuous roof. 
 
 Pillars, and arches, — not in vain ti.me-proof, 
 
 Though Christian rites be wanting! From what bank 
 
 Came those live herbs ! by what hand were they sown 
 
 Where dew falls not, where rain-drops seem unknown? 
 
 Yet in the Temple they a friendly niche 
 
 Share with their sculptured fellows, that, green-grown. 
 
 Copy their beauty more and more, and preach. 
 
 Though mute, of all things blending into one. 
 
 THE TROSACHS. 
 
 There's not a nook within this solemn Pass, 
 
 But were an apt confessional for One 
 
 Taught by his summer spent, his autunm gone, 
 
 That Life is but a tale of morning grass. 
 
 Withered at eve. From scenes of art that chase 
 
 That thought away, turn, and with watchful eye3 '' 
 
 Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities. 
 
 Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glaKi 
 
 Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice-happy Quest, 
 
 If from a golden perch of aspen spray 
 
 (October's workmanship to rival May) 
 
 The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast 
 
 This moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, 
 
 Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest. 
 
 VL I 
 
 CHANGES. : 
 
 The Pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute ; 
 
 The Roman kilt, degraded to a toy 
 
 Of quaint apparel for a half-spoilt boy ; 
 
 The target mouldering like ungathered fruit; 
 
 The smoking steam-boat eager in pursuit. 
 
 As eagerly pursued ; the umbrella spread 
 
 To weather-fend the Celtic herdsman's head — 
 
 All speak of manners withering to the root, 
 
 And some old honours, too, and passions high : 
 
 Then may we ask, though pleased that thought shoulc 
 
 range 
 Among the conquests of civility. 
 Survives imagination — to the change 
 Superior 1 Help to virtue does it give 1 
 If not, O Mortals, better cease to live ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 COMPOSED IN THE GLEN OF LOCH E'nVE. 
 
 This Land of Rainbows, spanning glens whose walls, 
 Rock-built, are hung with rainbow-coloured mists. 
 Of far-stretched Meres, whose salt flood never rests, i 
 Of tuneful caves and playful waterfalls. 
 Of mountains varying momently their crests — 
 Proud be this Land ! whose poorest Huts are Halls 
 W^here Fancy entertains becoming guests; 
 While native song the heroic Past recalls. 
 Thus, in the net of her own wishes caught, 
 The Muse exclaimed; but Story now must hide 
 Her trophies, Fancy crouch; — the course of pride 
 Has been diverted, other lessons taught. 
 That make the Patriot-spirit bow her head 
 Where the all-conqnering Roman feared to tread. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 255 
 
 VIII. 
 
 COMPOSED AFTER READING A NEWSPAPER OF 
 THE DAY. 
 
 "People! your chains are severing link by link; 
 Soon shall the Rich be levelled down — the Poor 
 Meet them half way." Vain boast ! for These, the more 
 They thus would rise, must low and lower sink 
 Till, by repentance stung, they fear to think ; 
 While all lie prostrate, save the tyrant few 
 Bent in quick turns each other to undo, 
 And mix the poison, they themselves must drink. 
 Mistrust thyself, vain Country ! cease to cry, 
 "Knowledge will save me from the threatened woe." 
 For, if than other rash ones more thou know, 
 Yet on presumptuous wing as far would fly 
 Above thy knowledge as they dared to go, 
 Thou wilt provoke a heavier penalty. 
 
 IX. 
 
 EAGLES. 
 
 COMPOSED AT DUNOLLIE CASTLE IN THE BAY 
 OF OBAN. 
 
 DiSHONOCRED Rock and Ruin ! that, by law 
 Tyrannic, keep the Bird of Jove embarred 
 
 I Like a lone criminal whose life is spared. 
 
 j Vexed is he, and screams loud. The last I saw 
 Was on the wing ; stooping, he struck with awe 
 Man, bird, and beast ; then, with a Consort paired, 
 From a bold headland, their loved eiry's guard, 
 
 I Flew high above Atlantic waves, to draw 
 
 i, Light from the fountain of the setting sun. 
 Such was this Prisoner once ; and, when his plumes 
 The sea-blast ruffles as the storm comes on. 
 In spirit, for a moment, he resumes 
 
 I His rank 'mong freeborn creatures that live free, 
 
 i His power, his beauty, and his majesty. 
 
 X. 
 
 IN THE SOUND OF MULL. 
 Tradition, be thou mute ! Oblivion, throw 
 Thy veil, in mercy, o'er the records hung 
 Round strath and mountain, stamped by the ancient 
 
 tongue 
 On rock and ruin darkening as we go, — 
 Spots where a word, ghost-like, survives to show 
 What crimes from hate, or desperate love, have sprung ; 
 From honour misconceived, or fancied wrong, 
 What feuds, not quenched but fed by mutual woe : 
 Yet, though a wild vindictive Race, untamed 
 By civil arts and labours of the pen. 
 Could gentleness be scorned by these fierce Men, 
 Who, to spread wide the reverence that they claimed 
 For patriarchal occupations, named 
 Yon towering Peaks, " Shepherds of Etive Glen 1"* 
 
 * In Gaelic, Baachaill Eite. 
 
 XL 
 
 AT TYNDRUM. 
 Enough of garlands, of the Arcadian crook. 
 And all that Greece and Italy have sung 
 Of Swains reposing myrtle groves among ! 
 Ours couched on naked rocks, will cross a brook 
 Swoln with chill rains, nor ever cast a look 
 This way or that, or give it even a thought 
 More than by smoothest pathway may be brought 
 Into a vacant mind. Can written book 
 Teach what they learn '\ Up, hardy Mountaineer ! 
 And guide the Bard, ambitious to be One 
 Of Nature's privy council, as thou art, 
 On cloud-sequestered heights, that see and hear 
 To what dread Power He delegates his part 
 On earth, who works in the heaven of heavens, alone. 
 
 XH. 
 
 THE EARL OF BREADALBANE'S RUINED MANSION 
 AND FAMILY BURIAL-PLACE, NEAR KILLIN. 
 
 Well sang the Bard who called the Grave, in strains 
 Thoughtful and sad, the " Narrow House." No style 
 Of fond sepulchral flattery can beguile 
 Grief of her sting ; nor cheat, where he detains 
 The sleeping dust, stern Death : how reconcile 
 With truth, or with each other, decked Remains 
 Of a once warm Abode, and that new Pile, 
 For the departed, built with curious pains 
 And mausolean pomp ! Yet here they stand 
 Together, — 'mid trim walks and artful bowers, 
 To be looked down upon by ancient hills,- 
 That, for the living and the dead, demand 
 And prompt a harmony of genuine powers ; 
 Concord that elevates the mind, and stills. 
 
 XIIL 
 
 REST AND BE THANKFUL, AT THE HEAD OF 
 
 GLENCROE. 
 
 Doubling and doubling with laborious walk. 
 Who, that has gained at length the wished-for Height, 
 This brief this simple way-side call can slight. 
 And rests not thankful 1 Whether cheered by talk 
 With some loved Friend, or by the unseen Hawk 
 Whistling to clouds and sky-born streams, that shine 
 At the sun's outbreak, as with light divine, 
 Ere they descend to nourish root and stalk 
 Of valley flowers. Nor, while the limbs repose, 
 Will we forget that, as the Fowl can keep 
 Absolute stillness, poised aloft in air. 
 And Fishes front, unmoved, the torrent's sweep, — 
 So may the Soul, through powers that Faith bestows. 
 Win rest, and ease, and peace, with bliss that Angels 
 share. 
 
 li. 
 
256 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 HIGHLAND HUT. 
 
 See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built Cot, 
 
 Whose smoke, fortli-issuing whence and how it may, 
 
 Shines in the greeting of the Sun's first ray 
 
 Like wreaths of vapour without stain or blot. 
 
 The limpid mountain rill avoids it not; 
 
 And why shouldst thou 7 If rightly trained and bred. 
 
 Humanity is humble, — finds no spot 
 
 Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to tread. 
 
 The walls are cracked, sunk is tlie flowery roof. 
 
 Undressed the pathway leading to the door ; 
 
 But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor; 
 
 Search, for their worth, some gentle heart wrong-proof, 
 
 Meek, patient, kind, and, were its trials fewer. 
 
 Belike less happy. — Stand no more aloof!* 
 
 XV. 
 
 THE BROWNIE. 
 
 Upon a small island, not far from llie bead of Loch Lomond, 
 are some remains of an ancient building, which was for several 
 years the abode of a sohtary Individual, one of" the ha?t survivors 
 of the Clan of Macfi^rlaiic, once powerftd in that neij^hliourhood. 
 Passing along the shore opposite this island in the year 1814, the 
 Author learned these particulars, and that this person then living 
 there had acquired the appellation of " Tke Broirnie.'' (See 
 " The Brownie's Cell," p. 207, to which the following Sonnet is 
 a sequel. 
 
 " How disappeared he 1" Ask the newt and toad ; 
 
 Ask of his fellow-men, and they will tell 
 
 How he was found, cold as an icicle. 
 
 Under an arch of that forlorn abode ; 
 
 Where he, unpropp'd, and by the gathering flood 
 
 Of years hemm'd round, had dwelt, prepared to try 
 
 Privation's worst extremities, and die 
 
 With no one near save the omnipresent God. 
 
 Verily so to live was an awful clioice — 
 
 A choice that wears the aspect of a doom ; 
 
 But in the mould of mercy all is cast 
 
 For Souls familiar with the eternal Voice; 
 
 And this forgotten Taper to the last 
 
 Drove from itself, we trust, all frightful gloom. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 TO THE PLANET VENUS, AN EVENING STAR. 
 COMPOSED AT LOCH LOMOND. 
 
 Though joy attend thee orient at the birth 
 
 Of dawn, it cheers the lofty spirit most 
 
 To watch thy course when Day-light, fled from earth. 
 
 * See Note 10, p. 318. 
 
 In the gray sky hath lefl; his lingering Ghost, 
 
 Perplexed as if between a splendour lost 
 
 And splendour slowly mustering. Since the Sun, 
 
 The absolute, the world-absorbing One, 
 
 Relinquished half his empire to the Host 
 
 Emboldened by thy guidance, holy Star, 
 
 Holy as princely, who that looks on thee 
 
 Touching, as now, in thy humility 
 
 The mountain borders of tliis seat of care. 
 
 Can question that thy countenance is bright. 
 
 Celestial Power, as much with love as light ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 BOTHWELL CASTLE. 
 
 Immured in BothwelPs Towers, at times the Brave 
 
 (So beautiful is Clyde) forgot to mourn 
 
 The liberty they lost at Bannockbourn. 
 
 Once on those steeps / roamed at large, and have 
 
 In mind the landscape, as if still in sight;* 
 
 The river glides, the woods before me wave; 
 
 But, by occasion tempted, now I crave 
 
 Needless renewal of an old delight. 
 
 Better to tliank a dear and long-past day 
 
 For joy its sunny hours were free to give 
 
 Than blame the present, that our wish hath crost. 
 
 Memory, like Sleep, hath powers which dreams obey,' 
 
 Dreams, vivid dreams, that are not fugitive : 
 
 How little that she cherishes is lost ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 PICTURE OF DANIEL IN THE LIONS' DEN, AT 
 HAMILTON PALACE. 
 
 Amid a fertile region green with wood 
 And fresh with rivers, well doth it become 
 Tlie Ducal Owner, in his Palace-hotne 
 To naturalize this tawny Lion brood ; 
 Children of Art, that claim strange brotherhood, 
 Couched in their Den, with those that roam at large 
 Over the burning wilderness, and charge 
 The wind with terror while tliey roar for food. 
 But these are satiate, and a stillness drear 
 Calls into life a more enduring fear; 
 Yet is the Prophet calm, nor would the cave 
 Daunt him — if his Companions, now be-drowsed 
 Yawning and listless, were by hunger roused : 
 Man placed him here, and God, he knows, can save 
 
 •See Note 11, p. 319. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 257 
 
 XIX. 
 
 THE AVON (a feeder of the Annan.) 
 Avon — a precious, an immortal name! 
 Yet is it one that otiier Rivulets bear 
 Lilte this unheard-of, and their channels wear 
 Like this contented, though unknown to Fame : 
 For great and sacred is the modest claim 
 Of streams to Nature's love, vyhere'er they flow ; 
 And ne'er did genius slight them, as they go, 
 Tree, flower, and green herb, feeding without blame. 
 But Praise can waste her voice on work of tears. 
 Anguish, and death ; full oft where innocent blood 
 Has mixed its current with the limpid flood. 
 Her heaven-offending trophies Glory rears ; 
 Never for lilie distinction may the good 
 Shrink from thy name, pnre Rill, with unpleased ears ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A VIEW FROM AN EMINENCE IN 
 INGLEWOOD FOREST. 
 
 The forest huge of ancient Caledon 
 
 Is but a name, nor more is Inglewood, 
 
 That swept from hill to hill, from flood to flood : 
 
 On her last thorn the nightly Moon has shone ; 
 
 Vet still, though unappropriate Wild be none, 
 
 Fair parks spread wide where Adam Bell might deign 
 
 With Clym o' the Clough, were they alive again, 
 
 To kill for merry feast their venison. 
 
 Nor wants the holy Abbot's gliding Shade 
 
 His Church with monumental wreck bestrown; 
 
 The feudal Warrior-chief, a Ghost unlaid. 
 
 Hath still his Castle, though a Skeleton, 
 
 That he may watch by night, and lessons con 
 
 Of Power that perishes, and Rights that fade. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 I HART'S-HORN TREE, NEAR PENRITH. 
 
 i Herb stood an Oak, that long had borne affixed 
 To his huge trunk, or, with more subtle art. 
 Among its withering topmost branches mixed, 
 The palmy antlers of a hunted Hart, 
 Whom the dog Hercules pursued — his part 
 Each desperately sustaining, till at last 
 Both sank and died, the life-veins of the chased 
 
 I And chaser bursting here with one dire smart. 
 Mutual the Victory, mutual the Defeat! 
 High was the trophy hung with pitiless pride ; 
 
 i Say, rather, with that generous sympathy 
 
 \ That wants not, even in rudest breasts, a seat ; 
 And, for this feeling's sake, let no one chide 
 Verse that would guard thy memory, Hart's-horn 
 Tree .'* 
 
 *See Note 12, p. 320. 
 
 XXII. 
 COUNTESS'S PILLAR. 
 
 On the road-side between Penrilh and Appleby, there stands 
 a pillar with the following inscription : — 
 
 "This pillar was erected, in the year 1656, by Anne Countess 
 Dowager of Pembroke, &c. for a memorial of her last parting 
 with her pious mother, Margaret Countess Dowager of Cum- 
 berland, on the 2d of April, 1616; in memory whereof she hath 
 left an annuity of 4A to be distributed to the poor of the parish 
 of Brougliam, every 2d day of April for ever, upon the stone 
 table placed hard by. Laus Deo '." 
 
 While the Poor gather round, till the end of time 
 May this bright flower of Charity display 
 Its bloom, unfolding at the appointed day ; 
 Flower than the loveliest of the verntil prime 
 Lovelier — transplanted from heaven's purest clime! 
 "Charity never faileth:" on that creed, 
 More than on written testament or deed. 
 The pious Lady built with hope sublime. 
 Alms on this stone to be dealt out, /or ever! 
 "Laus Deo .'" Many a Stranger passing by 
 Has with that parting mixed a filial sigh. 
 Blest its humane Memorial's fond endeavour; 
 And, fastening on those lines an eye tear-glazed. 
 Has ended, though no Clerk, with " God be praised !" 
 
 2H 
 
 XXIIL 
 
 ROMAN ANTIQUITIES. 
 
 (FROM THE ROMAN STATION AT OLD PENRITH.) 
 
 How profitless the relics that we cull. 
 Troubling the last holds of ambitious Rome, 
 Unless they chasten fancies that presume 
 Too high, or idle agitations lull ! 
 Of the world's flatteries if the brain be full, 
 To have no seat for thought were better doom, 
 Like this old helmet, or the eyeless skull 
 Of him who gloried in its nodding plume. 
 Heaven out of view, our wishes what are they 1 
 Our fond regrets, insatiate in their grasp 1 
 The Sage's theory? the Poet's lay? 
 Mere Fibulae without a robe to clasp ; 
 Obsolete lamps, whose light no time recalls ; 
 Urns without ashes, tearless lacrymals ! 
 
 APOLOGY. 
 
 No more: the end is sudden and abrupt, 
 Abrupt — as without preconceived design 
 Was the beginning, yet the several Lays 
 Have moved in order, to each other bound 
 By a continuous and acknowledged tie 
 Though unapparent, like those Shapes distinct 
 That yet survive ensculptured on the walls 
 22* 
 
 i. 
 
258 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Of Palace, or of Temple, 'mid the wreck 
 
 Of famed Persepolis; each following each, 
 
 As might beseem a stately embassy, 
 
 In set array ; these bearing in their hands 
 
 Ensign of civil power, weapon of war, 
 
 Or gift, to be presented at the Throne 
 
 Of the Great Kinn- ; and others, as they go 
 
 In priestly vest, with holy offerings charged, 
 
 Or leading victims drest for sacrifice. 
 
 Nor will the Muse condemn, or treat with scorn 
 
 Our ministration, humble but sincere, 
 
 That from a threshold loved by every Muse 
 
 Its impulse toolj — that sorrow-stricken door, 
 
 Whence, as a current from its fountain-head. 
 
 Our thoughts have issued, and our feelings flowed, 
 
 Receiving, willingly or not, fresh strength 
 
 From kindred sources; while around us sighed 
 
 (Life's three first seasons having passed away) 
 
 Leaf-scattering winds, and hoar-frost sprinklings fell, 
 
 Foretaste of winter, on the moorland heights ; 
 
 And every day brought with it tidings new 
 
 Of rash change, ominous for the public weal. 
 
 Hence, if dejection have too oft encroached 
 
 Upon that sweet and tender melancholy 
 
 Which may itself be cherished and caressed 
 
 More than enough, a fault so natural, 
 
 Even with the young, the hopeful, or the gay. 
 
 For prompt forgiveness will not sue in vain. 
 
 THE HIGHLAND BROACH. 
 
 If to Tradition faith be due, 
 
 And echoes from old verse speak true. 
 
 Ere the meek Saint, Coluraba, bore 
 
 Glad tidings to lona's shore. 
 
 No common light of nature blessed 
 
 The mountain region of the west, 
 
 A land where gentle manners ruled 
 
 O'er men in dauntless virtues schooled, 
 
 That raised, for centuries, a bar 
 
 Impervious to the tide of war ; 
 
 Yet peaceful Arts did entrance gain 
 
 Where haughty Force had striven in vain; 
 
 And, 'mid the works of skilful hands. 
 
 By wanderers brought from foreign lands 
 
 And various climes, was not unknown 
 
 The clasp that fixed the Roman Gown; 
 
 The Fibula, whose shape, I ween. 
 
 Still in the Highland Broach is seen,* 
 
 *The exact resemblance which the old Broach (still in use, 
 thoiigh rarely met with, among the Highlanders) bears to the 
 Roman Fibula, must strike every one, and concurs with the 
 plaid and kilt to recall to mind the commnnioation which the 
 ancient Romans had with this remote eounlrj'. How much the 
 Broach is sometimes prized by persons in humble stations may 
 be gathered from an occurrence mentioned to me by a female 
 friend. She had had an opportunity of benefiting a poor old 
 
 The silver Broach of massy frame, 
 
 Worn at the breast of some grave Dame 
 
 On road or path, or at the door 
 
 Of fern-thatched Hut on heathy moor : 
 
 But delicate of yore its mould, 
 
 And the material finest gold ; 
 
 As might beseem the fairest Fair, 
 
 Whether she graced a royal chair, . 
 
 Or shed, within a vaulted Hall, 
 
 No fancied lustre on the wall 
 
 Where shields of mighty Heroes hung. 
 
 While Fingal heard what Ossian sung. 
 
 The heroic age expired — it slept 
 Deep in its tomb : — the bramble crept 
 O'er Fingal's hearth ; the grassy sod 
 Grew on the floors his Sons had trod: 
 Malvina! where art thoul Their state 
 The noblest-born must abdicate. 
 The fairest, while with fire and sword 
 Come spoilers — horde impelling horde, 
 Must walk the sorrowing mountains, drest 
 By ruder hands in homelier vest. 
 Yet still the female bosom lent, 
 And loved to borrow, ornament; 
 Still was its inner world a place 
 Reached by the dews of heavenly grace ; 
 Still Pity to this last retreat 
 Clove fondly ; to his favourite seat 
 Love wound his way by soft approach, 
 Beneath a massier Highland Broach. 
 
 When alternations came of rage 
 
 Yet fiercer, in a darker age ; 
 
 And feuds, where, clan encountering clan. 
 
 The weaker perished to a man ; 
 
 For maid and mother, when despair 
 
 Might else have triumphed, baffling prayer, 
 
 One small possession lacked not power, 
 
 Provided in a calmer hour. 
 
 To meet such need as might befall — 
 
 Roof, raiment, bread, or burial: 
 
 For woman, even of tears bereft. 
 
 The hidden silver Broach vi-as left. 
 
 As generations come and go, 
 Their arts, tlieir customs, ebb and flow ; 
 Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away. 
 And. feeble, of themselves, decay ; 
 What poor abodes the heir-loom hide, 
 In which the castle once took pride! 
 
 woman in her owti hut, who, wisliing to make a return, said to 
 her daughter, in F.rse. in a tone of plaintive earnestness, " I 
 would give any thing I have, but I hope she does not wish for 
 my Broach!" and, utiering these words, she put her hand upon 
 the Broach which fastened her kerchief and which, she ima- 
 gined, had attracted the eye of her benefactress. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 259 
 
 Tokens, once kept as boasted wealth, 
 If saved at all, are saved by stealth. 
 Lo! ships, from seas by nature barred, 
 Mount along ways by man prepared; 
 And in far-stretching vales, whose streams 
 Seek other seas, their canvas gleams. 
 Lo! busy towns spring up, on coasts 
 Thronged yesterday by airy ghosts; 
 Soon, like a lingering star forlorn 
 Among the novelties of morn. 
 While young delights on old encroach, 
 Will vanish the last Highland Broach. 
 
 But when, from out their viewless bed. 
 Like vapours, years have rolled and spread ; 
 And this poor verse, and worthier lays, 
 Shall yield no light of love or praise, 
 Then, by the spade, or cleaving plough. 
 Or torrent from the mountain's brow, 
 Or whirlwind, reckless what his might 
 Entombs, or forces into light. 
 Blind Chance, a volunteer ally. 
 That oft befriends Antiquity, 
 And clears Oblivion from reproach, 
 May render back the Highland Broach. 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 
 IN THE SUMMER OF 1833. 
 
 Having been prevented by the lateness of the season, in 1831, 
 from visiting Staffa and lona, the author made these the princi- 
 pal objects of a short tour in the summer of 1833, of which the 
 following series of sonnets is a Memorial. The course pursued 
 was down the Cumberland river Derwent, and to TOiitehaven ; 
 thence (by the Isle of Man, where a few days were past) up the 
 Frith of Clyde to Greenock, then to Oban, Staffa, lona; and 
 back towards England, by Loch Awe, Inverary, Loch Goil-head, 
 Greenock, and through parts of Renfrewshire, Ayrshire, and 
 Dumfries-shire to Carlisle, and thence up the river Eden, and 
 homewards by UUswaler. 
 
 I. 
 
 Adieu, Rydalian Laurels ! that have grown 
 And spread as if ye knew that days might come 
 When ye would shelter in a happy home. 
 On this fair Mount, a Poet of your own, 
 One who ne'er ventured for a Delphic crown 
 To sue the God ; but, haunting your green shade 
 All seasons through, is humbly pleased to braid 
 Ground-flowers, beneath your guardianship, self-sown. 
 Farewell ! no Minstrels now with Harp new-strung 
 For summer wandering quit their household bowers ; 
 Yet not for this wants Poesy a tongue 
 To cheer the Itinerant on whom she pours 
 Her spirit, while he crosses lonely moors. 
 Or musing sits forsaken halls among. 
 
 n. 
 
 I Why should the Enthusiast, journeying through this 
 Isle, 
 
 Repine as if his hour were come too late "! 
 
 Not unprotected in her mouldering state, 
 
 Antiquity salutes him with a smile, 
 I. 'Mid fruitful fields that ring with jocund toil. 
 
 And pleasure-grounds where Taste, refined Co-mate 
 
 Of Truth and Beauty, strives to imitate, 
 
 Far as she may, primeval Nature's style. 
 
 Fair land ! by Time's parental love made free. 
 
 By social Order's watchful arms embraced, 
 
 With unexampled union meet in thee. 
 
 For eye and mind, the present and the past ; 
 
 With golden prospect for futurity. 
 
 If what is rightly reverenced may last. 
 
 in. 
 
 They called Thee merry England, in old time ; 
 
 A happy people won for thee that name 
 
 With envy heard in many a distant clime ; 
 
 And, spite of change, for me thou keep'st the same 
 
 Endearing title, a responsive chime 
 
 To the heart's fond belief, though some there are 
 
 Whose sterner judgments deem that word a snare 
 
 For inattentive Fancy, like the lime 
 
 Which foolish birds are caught with. Can, I ask. 
 
 This face of rural beauty be a mask 
 
 For discontent, and poverty, and crime ; 
 
 These spreading towns a cloak for lawless will ; 
 
 Forbid it. Heaven ! — that " merry England" still 
 
 May be thy rightful name, in prose and rhyme ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 TO THE RIVER GRETA, NEAR KESWICK. 
 
 Greta, what fearful listening ! when huge stones 
 
 Rumble along thy bed, block after block : 
 
 Or, whirling with reiterated shock. 
 
 Combat, while darkness aggravates the groans : 
 
260 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 But if thou (like Cocytus* from the moans 
 
 Heard on liis rueful margin) thence wert named 
 
 The Mourner, thy true nature was defamed, 
 
 And the hahitual murmur that atones 
 
 For thy worst rage, forgotten. Oft as Spring 
 
 Decks, on thy sinuous banks, her thousand thrones. 
 
 Seats of glad instinct and love's carolling, 
 
 The concert, for the happy, then may vie 
 
 With liveliest peals of birth-day harmony : 
 
 To a grieved heart, the notes are benisons. 
 
 TO THE RIVER DERWENT.t 
 
 Amono the mountains were we nursed, loved stream! 
 
 Thou near the Eagle's nest — within brief sail, 
 
 I, of his bold wing floating on the gale, 
 
 Where thy deep voice could lull me ! Faint the beam 
 
 Of human life when first allowed to gleam 
 
 On mortal notice. — Glory of the Vale, 
 
 Such thy meek outset, with a crown, though frail, 
 
 Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam 
 
 Of thy soft breath l^Less vivid wreath entwined 
 
 Nemsean victor's brow ; less bright was worn, 
 
 Meed of some Roman chief — in triumph borne 
 
 With captives chained ; and shedding from his car 
 
 The sunset splendours of a finished war 
 
 Upon the proud enslavers of mankind ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 IN SIGHT OF THE TOWN OF COCKERMOUTH. 
 (where the adthor was born, and his father's remains 
 
 ARE LAID.) 
 
 A POINT of life between my Parents' dust, 
 And yours, my buried Little-ones! am I; 
 And to those graves looking habitually 
 In kindred quiet I repose my trust. 
 Death to the innocent is more than just, 
 And, to the sinner, mercifully bent ; 
 So may I hope, if truly I repent 
 And meekly bear the ills which bear I must: 
 And You, my Offspring ! that do still remain, 
 Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race. 
 If e'er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain 
 We breathed together for a moment's space. 
 The wrong, by love provoked, let love arraign. 
 And only love keep in your hearts a place. 
 
 • See Note 13, p. 320. 
 
 tThis sonnet has already appeared in several editions of the 
 author's poems; but he is lernpted to reprint it in this place, as 
 a natural introduction to the two that follow it. 
 
 VII. 
 
 ADDRESS FROM 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF COCKERMOUTH CASTLE. 
 
 Thou look'st upon me, and dost fondly think, 
 
 Poet! that, stricken as both are by years. 
 
 We, differing once so much, are now Compeers, 
 
 Prepared, when each has stood his time, to sink 
 
 Into the dust. Erewhile a sterner link 
 
 United us; when thou, in boyish play. 
 
 Entering my dungeon, didst become a prey 
 
 To soul-appalling darkness. Not a blink 
 
 Of light was there ; — and thus did I, thy Tutor, 
 
 Make thy young thoughts acquainted with the grave; 
 
 While thou wert chasing the wing'd butterfly 
 
 Through my green courts; or climbing, a bold suitor. 
 
 Up to the flowers whose golden progeny 
 
 Still round my shattered brow in beauty wave. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 NUN'S WELL, BRIGHAM. 
 
 The cattle crowding round this beverage clear 
 To slake their thirst, with reckless hoofs have trod 
 The encircling turf into a barren clod ; 
 Through which the waters creep, then disappear, 
 Born to be lost in Derwent flowing near; 
 Yet, o'er the brink, and round the limestone-cell 
 Of the pure spring (they call it the " Nun's well," 
 Name that first struck by chance my startled ear) 
 A tender Spirit broods — the pensive Shade 
 Of ritual honours to this Fountain paid 
 By hooded Votaries| with saintly cheer ; 
 Albeit oft the Virgin-mother mild 
 Looked down with pity upon eyes beguiled 
 Into the shedding of " too soft a tear." 
 
 IX. 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 (ON THE BANKS OF THE DERWENT.) 
 
 Pastor and Patriot ! at whose bidding rise 
 These modest Walls, amid a flock that need 
 For one who comes to watch them and to feed 
 A fi.xed Abode, keep down presageful sighs. 
 Threats which the unthinking only can despise, 
 Perple.K the Church; but be thou firm, — be true 
 To thy first hope, and this good work pursue. 
 Poor as thou art. A welcome sacrifice 
 Dost thou prepare, whose sign will be the smoke 
 
 } Attached to the church of Brigham was formerly a chantry, 
 wliich held a moiety of the manor; and in the decayed parson- 
 age some vestiges of monastic architecture are still to be seen. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 261 
 
 Of thy new hearth ; and sooner shall its wreaths, 
 Mounting while earth her morning incense breathes, 
 From wandering fiends of air receive a yoke, 
 And straightway cease to aspire, than God disdain 
 This humble tribute as ill-timed or vain. 
 
 X. 
 
 1 
 
 i MARY QOEEN OF SCOTS, 
 
 (LANDING AT THE MOUTH OP THE DERWENT, WOKKINGTON.*) 
 
 Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces vowed, 
 The Queen drew back the wimple that she wore; 
 i And to the throng how touchingly she bowed 
 • That hailed her landing on the Cumbrian shore ; 
 Bright as a Star (that, from a sombre cloud 
 Of pine-tree foliage poised in air, forth darts. 
 When a soft summer gale at evening parts 
 j The gloom that did its loveliness enshroud) 
 She smiled ; but Time, the old Saturnian Seer, 
 Siched on the wing as her foot pressed the strand, 
 With step prelusive to a long array 
 Of woes and degradations hand in hand. 
 Weeping captivity, and shuddering fear 
 Stilled by the ensanguined block of Fotheringay ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 IN THE CHANNEL, BETWEEN THE COAST OF CUM- 
 BERLAND AND THE ISLE OF MAN. 
 
 Ranging the Heights of Scawfell or Black-coom, 
 
 In his lone course the Shepherd oft will pause, 
 
 And strive to fathom the mysterious laws 
 
 By which the clouds, arrayed in light or gloom. 
 
 On Mona settle, and the shapes assume 
 
 Of all her peaks and ridges. What He draws 
 
 Prom sense, faith, reason, fancy, of the cause 
 
 He will take with him to the silent tomb: 
 
 Or, by his fire, a Child upon his knee. 
 
 Haply the untaught Philosopher may speak 
 
 Of the strange sight, nor hide his theory 
 
 That satisfies the simple and the meek. 
 
 Blest in their pious ignorance, though weak 
 
 To cope with Sages undevoutly free. 
 
 *"The fears and impatience of Mary were so great," says 
 Robertson, " that she got into a fisher-boat, and with about twenty 
 attendants landed at Workington, in Cumberland ; and thence 
 she was conducted with many marks of respect to Carhsle." 
 The apartment in which the Queen had slept at Workington 
 Hall (where she was received by Sir Henry Curvven as became 
 her rank and misfortunes) was long preserved, out of respect to 
 her memory, as she had left it ; and one cannot but regret that 
 some necessary alterations in the mansion could not be effected 
 ' without its destruction." 
 
 XII. 
 
 AT SEA, OFF THE ISLE OF MAN. 
 Bold words affirmed, in days wlien faith was strong, 
 That no adventurer's bark had power to gain 
 These shores if he approached them bent on wrong ; 
 For, suddenly up-conjured from the Main, 
 Mists rose to hide the Land — that search, though long 
 And eager, might be still pursued in vain. 
 O Fancy, what an age was that for song ! 
 That age, when not by laws inanimate. 
 As men believed, the waters were impelled. 
 The air controlled, the stars their courses held, 
 But element and orb on acts did wait 
 Of Powers endued with visible form, instinct 
 With will, and to their work by passion linked. 
 
 XIH. 
 Desire we past illusions to recall \ 
 To reinstate wild Fancy would we hide 
 Truths whose thick veil Science has drawn aside. 
 No, — let this Age, high as she may, install 
 In her esteem the thirst that wrought man's fall, 
 The universe is infinitely wide. 
 And conquering Reason, if self-glorified. 
 Can nowhere move uncrossed by some new wall 
 Or gulf of mystery, which thou alone. 
 Imaginative Faith ! canst overleap. 
 In progress toward the fount of Love, — the throne 
 Of Power, whose ministering Spirits records keep 
 Of periods fi.xed, and laws established, less 
 Flesh to exalt than prove its nothingness. 
 
 XIV. 
 ON ENTERING DOUGLAS BAY, ISLE OF MAN. 
 
 ' Dignum laude virum Musa vetat mori." 
 
 The feudal Keep, the bastions of Cohorn, 
 Even when they rose to check or to repel 
 Tides of aggressive war, oft served as well 
 Greedy ambition, armed to treat with scorn 
 Just limits ; but yon tower, whose smiles adorn 
 This perilous bay, stands clear of all offence ; 
 Blest work it is of love and innocence, 
 A Tower of refuge to the else forlorn. 
 Spare it, ye waves, and lift the mariner, 
 Struggling for life, into its saving arms ! 
 Spare, too, the human helpers ! Do they stir 
 'Mid your fierce shock like men afraid to die 1 
 No, their dread service nerves the heart it warms. 
 And they are led by noble HiLLARY.f 
 
 t The Tower of Refuge, an ornament to Douglas Bay, v\'as 
 erected chiefly through the humanity and zeal of Sir William 
 Hillary ; and he also was the founder of the life-boat establish- 
 ment, at that place ; by which, under his superintendence, and 
 often by his exertions at the imminent hazard of his own life, 
 many seamen and passengers have been saved. 
 
262 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 XV. 
 
 BY THE SEA-SHORE, ISLE OF MAN. 
 
 Why stand we gazing on the sparkling Brine 
 With wonder, smit by its transparency, 
 And all enraptured with its purity's 
 Because the unstained, the clear, the crystalline, 
 Have ever in them something of benign ; 
 Whether in gem, in water, or in sky, 
 A sleeping infant's brow, or wakeful eye 
 Of a young maiden, only not divine. 
 Scarcely the hand forbears to dip its palm 
 For beverage drawn as from a mountain well : 
 Temptation centres in the liquid Calm ; 
 Our daily raiment seems no obstacle 
 To instantaneous plunging in, deep Sea ! 
 And revelling in long embrace with Thee. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 ISLE OF MAN. 
 
 A YOUTH too certain of his power to wade 
 
 On the smooth bottom of this clear bright sea, 
 
 To sight so shallow, with a bather's glee 
 
 Leapt from this rock, and surely, had not aid 
 
 Been near, must soon have breathed out life, betrayed 
 
 By fondly trusting to an element 
 
 I air, and to others more than innocent; 
 
 Then had sea-nymphs sung dirges for him laid 
 
 In peaceful earth : for, doubtless, he was frank, 
 
 Utterly in himself devoid of guile ; 
 
 Knew not the double-dealing of a smile ; 
 
 Nor aught that makes men's promises a blank. 
 
 Or deadly snare : and He survives to bless 
 
 The Power that saved him in his strange distress. 
 
 xvn. 
 
 THE RETIRED MARINE OFFICER, ISLE OF MAN. 
 
 Not pangs of grief for lenient time too keen. 
 
 Grief that devouring waves had caused, nor guilt 
 
 Which they had witnessed, swayed the man who built 
 
 This homestead, placed where nothing could be seen. 
 
 Nought heard of ocean, troubled or serene. 
 
 A tired Ship-soldier on paternal land. 
 
 That o'er the channel holds august command, 
 
 The dwelling raised, — a veteran Marine; 
 
 Who, in disgust, turned from the neighbouring sea 
 
 To shun the memory of a listless life 
 
 That hung between two callings. May no strife 
 
 More hurtful here beset him, doomed, though free. 
 
 Self-doomed to worse inaction, till liis eye 
 
 Shrink from the daily sight of eartii and sky ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 BY A RETIRED MARINER. 
 (A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOIl.)* 
 
 From early youth I ploughed the restless Main, 
 My mind as restless and as apt to change ; 
 Through every clime and ocean did I range, 
 In hope at length a competence to gain ; 
 For poor to Sea I went, and poor I still remain. 
 Year after year I strove, but strove in vain. 
 And hardships manifold did I endure. 
 For Fortune on me never deigned to smile ; 
 Yet I at last a resting-place have found. 
 With just enough life's comforts to procure. 
 In a snug Cove on this our favoured Isle, 
 A peaceful spot where Nature's gifts abound ; 
 Then sure I have no reason to complain. 
 Though poor to Sea I went, and poor I still remain. 
 
 
 XIX. 
 
 AT BALA-SALA, ISLE OF MAN. 
 (surrosED to be written by a friend of the author.) 
 
 Broken in fortune, but in mind entire 
 
 And sound in principle, I seek repose 
 
 Whore ancient trees this convent-pile enclose,t 
 
 In ruin beautiful. When vain desire 
 
 Intrudes on peace, I pray the eternal Sire 
 
 To cast a soul-subduing shade on me, 
 
 A gray-haired, pensive, thankful Refugee, 
 
 A shade but with some sparks of heavenly fire 
 
 Once to these cells vouchsafed. And when I note 
 
 The old Tower's brow yellowed as with the beams 
 
 Of sunset ever there, albeit streams 
 
 Of stormy weather-stains that semblance wrought, 
 
 I thank the silent Monitor, and say, 
 
 " Shine so, my aged brow, at all hours of the day !" 
 
 XX. 
 
 TYNWALD HILL. 
 
 Once on the top of Tynwald's formal mound 
 (Still marked with green turf circles narrowing 
 Stage above stage) would sit this Island's King 
 The laws to promulgate, enrobed and crowned ; 
 While, compassing the little mount around. 
 Degrees and Orders stood, each under each : 
 Now, like to things within fate's easiest reach. 
 
 * This unpretending sonnet is by a gentleman nearly connect- 
 ed with the author, who hopes, as it falls so easily into its place 
 that both the writer and the reader will excuse its appearance 
 here. 
 
 t Rushen Abbey. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 263 
 
 The power is merged, the pomp a grave has found. 
 Off with yon cloud, old Snafell !* that thine eye 
 Over three Realms may take its widest range ; 
 And let, for them, thy fountains utter strange 
 Voices, thy winds break forth in prophecy, 
 If the whole State must suffer mortal change, 
 Like Mona's miniature of sovereignty. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 i Despond who will — I heard a voice exclaim, 
 j " Though fierce the assault, and shattered the defence, 
 I It cannot be that Britain's social frame. 
 The glorious work of time and providence, 
 Before a flying season's rash pretence, 
 Should fall ; that She, whose virtue put to shame, 
 ' When Europe prostrate lay, the Conqueror's aim, 
 i Should perish, self-subverted. Black and dense 
 The cloud is ; but brings that a day of doom 
 To Liberty's Her sun is up the while. 
 That orb whose beams round Saxon Alfred shone. 
 Then laugh, ye innocent Vales ! ye Streams, sweep on. 
 Nor let one billow of our heaven-blest Isle 
 Toss in the fanning wind a humbler plume." 
 
 xxn. 
 
 IN THE FRITH OF CLYDE, AILSA CRAG. 
 (JULY ]7, 1833.) 
 
 Since risen from ocean, ocean to defy, 
 Appeared the Crag of Ailsa : ne'er did morn 
 With gleaming lights more gracefully adorn 
 His sides, or wreathe with mist his forehead high : 
 Now, faintly darkening with the sun's eclipse. 
 Still is he seen, in lone sublimity. 
 Towering above the sea and little ships; 
 For dwarfs the tallest seem while sailing by 
 Each for her haven ; with her freight of Care, 
 Pleasure, or Grief, and Toil that seldom looks 
 Into the secret of to-morrow's fare ; 
 Though poor, yet rich, without the wealth of books. 
 Or aught that watchful Love to Nature owes 
 j For her mute Powers, fi.'ied Forms, and transient Shows. 
 
 ; *The summit of tliis mountain is well chosen by Cowley, as 
 the scene of the " Vision," in which the spectral angel discour- 
 ses with him concerning the- government of Oliver Cromwell. 
 
 ,"I found myself," says he, "on the top of that famous hill in the 
 Island Mona, which has the prospect of three great, and not long 
 
 .since most happy, kingdoms. As soon as ever I looked upon 
 them, they called forth the sad representation of all the sins and 
 all the miseries that had overwhelmed them these twenty years." 
 
 I It is not to be denied that the changes now in progress, and the 
 
 [passions, and the way in which they work, strikingly resemble 
 'hose which led to the disasters the philosophic writer so feel- 
 Jigly bewads. God grant that the resemblance may not become 
 iliU more striking as months and years advance ! 
 
 xxm. 
 
 ON THE FRITH OF CLYDE. 
 (IN A STEAM-BOAT.) 
 
 Arran! a single-crested Teneriffe, 
 
 A St. Helena next — in shape and hue. 
 
 Varying her crowded peaks and ridges blue ; 
 
 Who but must covet a cloud-seat or skiff 
 
 Built for the air, or winged Hippogriff, 
 
 That he might fly, where no one could pursue, 
 
 From this dull Monster and her sooty crew; 
 
 And, like a God, light on thy topmost cliff. 
 
 Impotent wisli ! which reason would despise 
 
 If the mind knew no union of extremes. 
 
 No natural bond between the boldest schemes 
 
 Ambition frames, and heart-humilities. 
 
 Beneath stern mountains many a soft vale lies. 
 
 And lofty springs give birth to lowly streams. 
 
 XXIV. 
 ON REVISITING DUNOLLY CASTLE.t 
 
 [See Sonnet IX. of former series, p. 255. 
 
 The captive Bird was gone; — to cliff or moor 
 Perchance had flown, delivered by the storm ; 
 Or he had pined, and sunk to feed the worm : 
 Hira found we not; but, climbing a tall tower. 
 There saw, impaved with rude fidelity 
 Of art mosaic, in a roofless floor. 
 An Eagle with stretched wings, but beamless eye - 
 An Eagle that could neither wail nor soar. 
 Effigies of the Vanished, (shall I dare 
 To call thee so X) or symbol of past times, 
 That towering courage, and the savage deeds 
 Those times were proud of, take Thou too a share. 
 Not undeserved, of the memorial rhymes 
 That animate my way where'er it leads! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 THE DUNOLLY EAGLE. 
 
 Not to the clouds, not to the cliff, he flew ; 
 But when a storm, on sea or mountain bred. 
 Came and delivered him, alone he sped 
 Into the Castle-dungeon's darkest mew. 
 Now, near his Master's house in open view 
 He dwells, and hears indignant tempests howl, 
 Kennelled and chained. Ye tame domestic Fowl, 
 Beware of hira ! Thou, saucy Cockatoo, 
 
 + This ingenious piece of workmanship, as the author after- 
 wards learned, had been executed for their ow'n amusement by 
 some labourers employed about the place. 
 
264 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Look to thy plumage and thy life ! — The Roe, 
 Fleet as the west wind, is for him no quarry ; 
 Balanced in ether, he will never tarry, 
 Eying the sea's blue depths. Poor Bird ! even so 
 Doth Man of Brother-man a creature make. 
 That clings to slavery for its own sad sake. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 CAVE OF STAFFA. 
 
 We saw, but surely, in the motley crowd. 
 
 Not One of us has felt, the far-famed sight ; 
 
 How could we feel if! each the other's blight, 
 
 Hurried and hurrying, volatile and loud. 
 
 O for those motions only that invite 
 
 The Ghost of Fingal to his tuneful Cave! 
 
 By the breeze entered, and wave after wave 
 
 Softly embosoming the timid light 
 
 And by one Votary who at will might stand 
 
 Gazing, and take into his mind and heart, 
 
 Willi undistracted reverence, the effect 
 
 Of those proportions where the almighty hand 
 
 That made the worlds, the sovereign Architect, 
 
 Has deigned to work as if with human Art ! 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 CAVE OF STAFFA* 
 
 THANKiS for the lessons of this Spot — fit school 
 For the presumptuous thoughts that would assign 
 Mechanic laws to agency divine ; 
 And, measuring heaven by earth, would overrule 
 Infinite Power. The pillared vestibule. 
 Expanding yet precise, the roof embowed. 
 Might seem designed to humble Man, when proud 
 Of his best workmanship by plan and tool. 
 Down-bearing with his whole Atlantic weight 
 Of tide and tempest on the Structure's base. 
 And flashing upwards to its topmost height, 
 Ocean has proved its strength, and of its grace 
 In calms is conscious, finding for his freight 
 Of softest music some responsive place. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 CAVE OF STAFFA. 
 Ye shadowy Beings, that have rights and claims 
 In every cell of Fingal's mystic Grot, 
 Where are ye ! Driven or venturing to the spot. 
 
 *The reader may be tempted to exclaim, "How came tiiisaad 
 the two following sonnets to be written, after tlie dissatisfaction 
 expressed in the preceding one ?" In fact, at the risk of incur- 
 ring the reasonable displeasure of the master of the steam-boat, 
 the author returned to the cave, and explored it under circum- 
 stances more favourable lo those imaginative impressions, which 
 it is so wonderfully fitted to make upon the mind. 
 
 Our Fathers glimpses caught of your thin Frames, 
 And, by your mien and bearing, knew your names; 
 And they could hear his ghostly song who trod 
 Earth, till the flesh lay on him like a load, 
 While he struck his desolate harp without hopes OJ 
 
 aims. 
 Vanished ye are, but subject to recall ; 
 Why keep we else the instincts whose dread law 
 Ruled here of yore, till what men felt they saw, 
 Not by black arts but magic natural ! 
 If eyes be still sworn vassals of belief. 
 Yon light shapes forth a Bard, that shade a Chief 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 FLOWERS ON THE TOP OF THE PILLARS AT THE ' 
 ENTRAACE OF THE CAVE. 
 
 Hope smiled when your nativity was cast. 
 Children of Summer !t Ye fresh flowers that brave 
 What Summer here escapes not, the fierce wave. 
 And whole artillery of the western blast. 
 Battering the Temple's front, its long-drawn nave 
 Smiting, as if each moment were their last. 
 But ye, briglit flowers, on frieze and architrave 
 Survive, and once again the Pile stands fast, 
 Calm as the Universe, from specular Towers 
 Of heaven contemplated by Spirits pure — 
 Suns and their systems, diverse yet sustained 
 In symmetry, and fashioned to endure. 
 Unhurt, the assault of Time with all his hours, 
 As the supreme Artificer ordained. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 On to lona ! — What can she afl^ord 
 
 To us save matter for a thoughtful sigh, 
 
 Heaved over ruin with stability 
 
 In urgent contrast ! To difluse the Word 
 
 (Thy Paramount, mighty Nature ! and Time's Lord) 
 
 Her Temples rose, 'mid pagan gloom ; but why. 
 
 Even for a moment, has our verse deplored 
 
 Their wrongs, since they fulfilled their destiny? 
 
 And when, subjected to a common doom 
 
 Of mutability, those far-famed Piles 
 
 Shall disappear from both the sister Isles, 
 
 lona's Saints, forgetting not past days, 
 
 Garlands shall wear of amaranthine bloom, 
 
 While heaven's vast sea of voices chants their praise. 
 
 t Upon the head of the columns which form the front of the 
 cave, rests a body of decomposed basaltic matter, which was 
 richly decorated with that large bright flower, the ox-eyed 
 daisy. The author had noticed the same flower growing with 
 profusion among the bold rocks on the western coast of the Isle 
 of .Man ; making a brilbant contrast with their black and gloomy 
 surfaces. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 2r^5 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 lONA. ' 
 
 (DPON LANDING. ) 
 
 With earnest look, to every voyager, 
 
 Some ragged child holds up for sale his store 
 
 Of wave-worn pebbles, pleading on the shore 
 
 Where once came monk and nun with gentle stir, 
 
 Blessings to give, news ask, or suit prefer. 
 
 But see yon neat trim church, a grateful speck 
 
 Of novelty amid this sacred wreck — 
 
 Nay, spare thy scorn, haughty Philosopher ! 
 
 Fallen though she be, this (xlory of the west, 
 
 Still on her sons the beams of mercy shine ; 
 
 And " hopes, perhaps more heavenly bright than thine, 
 
 A grace by thee unsought and unpossest, 
 
 A faith more fixed, a rapture more divine 
 
 Shall gild their passage to eternal rest."* 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 THE BLACK STONES OF lONA. 
 [See Martin's Voyage among the Western Isles.] 
 
 Here on their knees men svvore : the stones were 
 
 black, 
 Black in the People's minds and words, yet they 
 Were at that time, as now, in colour gray. 
 But what is colour, if upon the rack 
 Of conscience souls are placed by deeds that lack 
 Concord with oaths ■! What differ night and day 
 Then, when before the Perjured on his way 
 Hell opens, and the heavens in vengeance crack 
 Above his head uplifted in vain prayer 
 To Saint, or Fiend, or to the Godhead whom 
 He had insulted — Peasant, King, or Thane. 
 Fly where the culprit may, guilt meets a doom ; 
 And, from invisible worlds at need laid bare, 
 Come links for social order's awful chain. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Homeward we turn. Isle of Columba's Cell, 
 Where Christian piety's soul-cheering spark 
 (Kindled from Heaven between the light and dark 
 Of time) shone like the morning-star, farewell ! — 
 Remote St. Kilda, art thou visible ? 
 No — but farewell to thee, beloved sea-mark 
 For many a voyage made in Fancy's bark, 
 When, with more hues than in the rainbow dwell, 
 Thou a mysterious intercourse dost hold ; 
 Extracting frofn clear skies and air serene, 
 And out of sun-bright waves, a lucid veil, 
 
 * The four last lines of this ■ sonnet are adopted from a well- 
 known sonnet of Russel. as conveying the author's feeling bet- 
 ter than any words of liis own could do. 
 21 
 
 That thickens, spreads, and, mingling fold with fold, 
 Makes known, when thou no longer canst be seen, 
 Thy whereabout, to warn the approaching sail. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 GREENOCK. 
 
 Per me si va nella Citta dolente. 
 
 We have not passed into a doleful City, 
 We who were led to-day down a grim Dell, 
 By some too boldly named " the Jaws of Hell :" 
 Where be the wretched Ones, the sights for pity 1 
 These crowded streets resound no plaintive ditty : 
 As from the hive where bees in summer dwell. 
 Sorrow seems here excluded ; and tiiat knell, 
 It neither damps the gay, nor checks the witty. 
 Too busy Mart! thus fared it with old Tyre, 
 Whose Merchants Princes were, whose decks were 
 
 thrones : 
 Soon may the punctual sea in vain respire 
 To serve thy need, in union with that Clyde 
 Whose nursling current brawls o'er mossy stones, 
 The poor, the lonely Herdsman's joy and pride. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 " There !" said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride 
 Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed 
 " Is Mossgiel farm ; and that 's the very field 
 Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy." Far and wide 
 A plain below stretched sea-ward, while, descried 
 Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran rose; 
 And, by that simple notice, the repose 
 Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified. 
 Beneath " the random bield of clod or stone" 
 Myriads of Daisies have shone forth in flower 
 Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour 
 Have passed away, less happy than the One 
 That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove 
 The tender charm of Poetry and Love. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 FANCY AND TRADITION. 
 
 The Lovers took within this ancient grove 
 Their last embrace ; beside those crystal springs 
 The Hermit saw the Angel spread his wings 
 For instant flight; the Sage in yon alcove 
 Sate musing; on that hill the Bard would rove, 
 Not mute, where now the Linnet only sings: 
 Thus everywhere to truth Tra,dition clings, 
 23 
 
266 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Or Fancy localises Powers we love. 
 Were only History licensed to take note 
 Of things gone by, her meagre monuments 
 Would ill suffice for persons and events: 
 There is an ampler page for man to quote, 
 A readier book of manifold contents, 
 Studied alike in palace and in cot. 
 
 XXXVIL 
 
 THE RIVER EDEN, CUMBERLAND: 
 
 Eden ! till now thy beauty had I viewed 
 By glimpses only, and confess with shame 
 That verse of mine, whate'er its varying mood, 
 Repeats but once the sound of thy sweet name ; 
 Yet fetched from Paradise* that honour came. 
 Rightfully borne ; for Nature gives thee flowers 
 That have no rivals among British bowers ; 
 And thy bold rocks are worthy of their fame. 
 Measuring thy course, fair Stream ! at length I pay 
 To my life's neighbour dues of neighbourhood ; 
 But I have traced thee on thy winding way 
 With pleasure sometimes by the thought restrained 
 That things far off are toiled for, while a good 
 Not sought, because too near, is seldom gained. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 MONUMENT OF MRS. HOWARD, 
 
 (,By Nollekins,) 
 
 IN WETHERAL CHURCH, NEAR CORDY, ON THE BANKS 
 OF THE EDEN. 
 
 Stretched on the dying Mother's lap, lies dead 
 
 Her new-born Babe, dire issue of bright hope ! 
 
 But Sculpture here, with the divinest scope 
 
 Of luminous faith heavenward hath raised that head 
 
 So patiently; and through one hand has spread 
 
 A touch so tender for the insensate Child, 
 
 Earth's lingering love to parting reconciled ; 
 
 Brief parting — for the spirit is all but fled ; 
 
 That we, who contemplate the turns of life 
 
 Through this still medium, are consoled and cheered ; 
 
 Feel with the Mother, think the severed Wife 
 
 Is less to be lamented than revered ; 
 
 And own that Art, triumphant over strife 
 
 And pain, hath powers to Eternity endeared. 
 
 * It is to be feared that there is more of the poet than the 
 Bound etymologist in this derivation of Ihe name Eden. On the 
 western coast oi' Cumberland is a rivulet wliich enlers the sea 
 at Moresby, known also in the neighbourhood by the name of 
 Eden. May not tlie laUer syllable come fi-om the word Dean, 
 a vallei/ ? Langdale, near Ambleside, is by the inhabitants called 
 Langden. The former syllable occurs in the name Eamont, a 
 principal feeder of the Eden ; and the stream which flows 
 when the tide is out, over Cartmel Sands, is called the Ea. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 TRANQUiLLiTy ! the sovereign aim wert thou 
 
 In heathen schools of philosophic lore; .^ 
 
 Heart-stricken by stern destiny of yore 
 
 The Tragic Muse thee served with thoughtful vow; 
 
 And what of hope Elysium could allow 
 
 Was fondly seized by Sculpture, to restore 
 
 Peace to the Mourner's soul ; but He who wore 
 
 The crown of thorns around his bleeding brow 
 
 Warmed our sad being with his glorious light: 
 
 Then Arts, which still had drawn a softening grace 
 
 From shadowy fjuntains of the Infinite, 
 
 Communed with that Idea face to face; 
 
 And move around it now as planets run, 
 
 Each in its orbit, round the central Sun. 
 
 XL. 
 
 NUNNERY. 
 
 The floods are roused, and will not soon be weary; 
 Do%vn from the Pennine Alpsf how fiercely sweeps 
 Croglin, the stately Eden's tributary ! 
 He raves, or through some moody passage creeps 
 Plotting new mischief — out again he leaps 
 Into broad light, and sends, through regions airy, 
 That voice which soothed the Nuns while on 
 
 steeps 
 They knelt in prayer, or sang to blissful Mary. 
 That union ceased: then, cleaving easy walks 
 Through crags, and smoothing paths beset with danger. 
 Came studious Taste ; and many a pensive Stranger 
 Dreams on the banks, and to the river talks. 
 What change shall happen next to Nunnery Dell? 
 Canal, and Viaduct, and Railway, tell ij; 
 
 the 
 
 XLI. 
 
 STEAMBOATS, VIADUCTS, AND RAILWAYS. 
 
 Motions and Means, on land and sea at war 
 
 With old poetic feeling, not for this. 
 
 Shall ye, by Poets even, be judged amiss ! 
 
 Nor shall your presence, howsoe'er it mar 
 
 The loveliness of Nature, prove a bar 
 
 To the Mind's gaining that prophetic sense 
 
 Of future change, that point of vision whence 
 
 May be discovered what in soul ye are. 
 
 In spite of all that beauty may disown 
 
 In your harsh features, Nature doth embrace 
 
 + The chain of Crossfell, which parts Cumberland and West- 
 moreland from Northumberland and Durham. 
 
 t At Corby, a few miles belovi' Nunnery, the Eden is rrossed 
 by a magnificent viaduct ; and another of these works is thrown 
 over a deep glen or ravine at a very short distance from the 
 main stream. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 267 
 
 Her lawful offspring in Man's art ; and Time, 
 Pleased with your triumphs o'er his brother Space, 
 Accepts from your hold hands the proffered crown 
 Of hope, and smiles on you with cheer sublime. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 LowTHER ! in thy majestic pile are seen 
 
 Cathedral pomp and grace, in apt accord 
 
 With the baronial castle's sterner mien ; 
 
 Union significant of God adored. 
 
 And charters won and guarded by the sword 
 
 Of ancient honour; whence that goodly state 
 
 Of Polity which wise men venerate. 
 
 And will maintain, if God his help afford. 
 
 Hourly the democratic torrent swells ; 
 
 For airy promises and hopes suborned 
 
 The strength of backward-looking thoughts is scorned. 
 
 Fall if ye must, ye Towers and Pinnacles, 
 
 With what ye symbolise, authentic Story 
 
 Will say. Ye disappeared with England's Glory ! 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF LONSDALE.* 
 
 XLIV. 
 TO CORDELIA M- 
 
 "Magistratus indicat virum.' 
 
 Lonsdale ! it were unworthy of a Guest, 
 
 Whose heart with gratitude to thee inclines. 
 
 If he should speak, by fancy touched, of signs 
 
 On thy abode harmoniously imprest, 
 
 Yet be unmoved with wishes to attest 
 
 How in thy mind and moral frame agree 
 
 Fortitude and that christian Charity 
 
 Which, filling, consecrates the human breast. 
 
 And if the Motto on thy 'scutcheon teach 
 
 With truth, " The Magistracy shows the Man ;" 
 
 That searching test thy public course has stood ; 
 
 As will be owned alike by bad and good. 
 
 Soon as the measuring of life's little span 
 
 Shall place thy virtues out of Envy's reach. 
 
 •This sonnet was written immediately after certain trials 
 which took place at the Cumberland Assizes, when the Earl of 
 Lonsdale, in consequence of repeated and long continued attacks 
 upon his character, through the local press, had thought it 
 right to prosecute the conductors and proprietors of three several 
 journals. A verdict of libel was given in one case ; and in the 
 others, the prosecutions were v\'ithdrawn, upon the individuals 
 retracting and disavowing the charges, expressing regret that 
 they had been made, and promising to abstain from the like in 
 future. 
 
 HALLSTEADS, ULLSWATER. 
 
 Not in the mines beyond the western main. 
 You tell me, Delia ! was the metal sought. 
 Which a fine skill, of Indian growth, has wrought 
 Into this flexible yet faithful Chain ; 
 Nor is it silver of romantic Spain 
 You say, but from Helvellyn's depths was brought 
 Our own domestic mountain. Thing and thought 
 Mix strangely ; trifles light, and partly vain. 
 Can prop, as you have learnt, our nobler being : 
 Yes, Lady, while about your neck is wound 
 (Your casual glance oft meeting) this bright cord. 
 What witchery, for pure gifts of inward seeing, 
 Lurks in it, Memory's Helper, Fancy's Lord, 
 For precious tremblings in your bosom found ! 
 
 XLV. 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 
 
 To pace the ground, if path be there or none, 
 
 While a fair region round the Traveller lies, 
 
 Which he forbears again to look upon ; 
 
 Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, 
 
 The work of Fancy, or some happy tone 
 
 Of meditation, slipping in between 
 
 The beauty coming and the beauty gone. 
 
 If Thought and Love desert us, from that day 
 
 Let us break off all commerce with the Muse ; 
 
 With Thought and Love companions of our way, 
 
 Whate'er the senses take or may refuse. 
 
 The Mind's internal Heaven shall shed her dews 
 
 Of inspiration on the humblest lay. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 SUGGESTED 
 
 IN A STEAM-BOAT OFF ST. BEES' HEADS, 
 
 ON THE COAST OF CUMBERLAND. 
 
 St. Bees' Heads, anciently called the Cliff of Baruth, are a 
 conspicuous sea-mark for all vessels sailing in the N. E. parts 
 of the Irish Sea. In a Bay, one side of which is formed by the 
 southern headland, stands the village of St. Bees ; a place dis- 
 tinguished, from very early times, for its religious and scholastic 
 foundations. 
 
 "St. Bees," say Nicholson and Bums, "had its name from 
 Bega, an holy woman from Ireland, who is said to have founded 
 here, about the year of our Lord 650, a small monastery, where 
 afterwards a church was built in memory of her. 
 
 "The aforesaid religious house, being destroyed by the Danes, 
 was restored by William de Meschiens, son of Ranulph, and 
 brother of Ranulph de Meschiens, first Earl of Cumberland 
 after the Conquest; and made a cell of a prior and six Bene- 
 dictine monlis to the Abbey of St Mary at York," 
 
268 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Several traditions of miracles, connected with the foundation 
 of the first of these religious houses, survive amung the people 
 of the neighbourhood ; one of which is alluded to in the follow- 
 ing Stanzas ; and another, of a somewhat bolder and more pe- 
 culiar character, has furnished the subject of a spirited, poem 
 by the Rev. R, Parkinson, M. A., late Divinity- Lecturer of 
 St. Bees' College, and now Fellow of the Collegiate Church 
 of Manchester. 
 
 After the dissolution of the monasteries. Archbishop CJrindal 
 founded a free school at St. Bees, from which the counties of 
 Cumberland and Westmoreland have derived great benefit; 
 and recently, under the patronage of the Karl of Lonsdale, a 
 college has been established there for the education of ministers 
 for the Knglish Church. The old Conventual Church has been 
 repaired under the superintendence of the Uev. Dr. Ainger, the 
 Head of the College ; and is well worthy of being visited by 
 any strangers who might be led to the neigh boiu-hood of this 
 celebrated spot. 
 
 The form of stanza in the following Piece, and something in 
 the style of versification, are adopted from the " St. Monica," 
 a poem of much beauty upon a monastic subject, hy Charlotte 
 Smith ; a lady to whom English verse is under greater obliga- 
 tions than are likely to be either acknowledged or remembered. 
 She wrote little, and that little unambitiuiisly, but with true 
 feeling for nature. 
 
 If Life were slumber on a bed of down, 
 Toil unimposed, vicissitude unknown, 
 Sad were our lot: no Hunter of the Hare 
 Exults like him whose javelin from the lair 
 Has rou.'sed the Lion ; no one plucks the Rose, 
 Whose proffered beauty in safe shelter blows 
 'Mid a trim garden's summer lu.xuries. 
 With joy like his who climbs on hands and knees, 
 For some rare Plant, yon Headland of St. Bees. 
 
 This independence upon oar and sail. 
 This new indifferetice to breeze or gale. 
 This straight-lined progress, furrowing a flat lea, 
 And regular as if locked in certainty, 
 Depre.'S the hours. Up, Spirit of the Storm ! 
 That Courage may find something to perform ; 
 That Fortitude, whose blood disdains to freeze 
 At Danger's bidding, may confront the seas, 
 Firm as the towering Headlands of St. Bees. 
 
 3. 
 
 Dread Cliff of Baruth! that wild wish may sleep. 
 Bold as if Men and Creatures of the Deep 
 Breathed the same element : too many wrecks 
 Have struck thy sides, too many ghastly decks 
 Hast thou looked down upon, that such a thought 
 Should here be welcome, and in verse enwrought : 
 With thy stern aspect better far agrees 
 Utterance of thanks that wo have past with ease. 
 As millions thus shall do, the Headlands of St. Bees. 
 
 Yet, wliile each useful Art augments her store, 
 What boots the gain if Nature should lose more 1 
 And Wisdom, that once held a Christian place 
 In Man's intelligence sublimed by grace? 
 When Bega sought of yore the Cumbrian Coast, 
 Tempestuous winds her holy errand crossed ; 
 As high and higher heaved the billows, faith 
 Grew with them, mightier than the powers of death. 
 She knelt in prayer — the waves their wrath appease; 
 And, from her vow well weighed in Heaven's decrees. 
 Rose, where she touched the strand, the Chauntry of 
 St. Bees. 
 
 5. 
 
 " Cruel of heart were they, bloody of hand," 
 Who in these Wilds then struggled for command: 
 The strong were merciless, without hope the weak; 
 Till this bright Stranger came, fair as Day-break, 
 And as a Cresset true that darts its length 
 Of beamy lustre from a tower of strength ; 
 Guiding the Mariner through troubled seas, 
 And cheering ofl his peaceful reveries. 
 Like the fixed Light that crowns yon headland of ■ 
 St. Bees. 
 
 To aid the Votaries, miracles believed 
 
 Wrought in men's minds, like miracles achieved ; 
 
 So piety took root; and Song might tell 
 
 What humanizing Virtues round her Cell 
 
 Sprang up, and spread their fragrance wide around; 
 
 How savage bosoms melted at the sound 
 
 Of gospel-truth enchained in harmonics 
 
 Wafted o'er waves, or creeping through close trees, 
 
 From her religious Mansion of St. Bees. 
 
 When her sweet Voice, that instrument of love. 
 
 Was glorified, and took its place, above 
 
 The silent stars, among the angelic Quire, 
 
 Her Chauntry blazed with sacrilegious fire, 
 
 And perished utterly ; but her good deeds 
 
 Had sown the spot that witnessed them with seeds 
 
 Which lay in earth expectant, till a breeze 
 
 With quickening impulse answered their mute pleas, 
 
 And lo ! a statelier Pile, the Abbey of St. Bees. 
 
 There were the naked clothed, the hungry fed ; 
 And Charity, extended to the Dead, 
 Her intercessions made for the soul's rest 
 Of tardy Penitents : or for the best 
 Among the good (when love might else have slept. 
 Sickened, or died) in pious memory kept. 
 Thanks to the austere and simple Devotees, 
 Who, to that service bound by venial fees, 
 Kept watch before the Altars of St. Bees. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 269 
 
 9. 
 
 Were not, in sooth, their Requiems sacred ties* 
 Woven out of passion's sharpest agonies, 
 Subdued, composed, and formalized by art, 
 To fix a wiser sorrow in the heart? 
 The prayer for them whose hour was past ajvay 
 Said to the Living, profit while ye may! 
 A little part, and that the worst, he sees 
 I Who thinks that priestly cunning holds the keys 
 That best unlock the secrets of St. Bees. 
 
 10. 
 
 Conscience, the timid being's inmost light, 
 Hope of the dawn and solace of the night, 
 Cheers these Recluses with a steady ray 
 [In many an hour when judgment goes astray. 
 jAh! scorn not hastily their rule who try 
 lEarth to despise, and flesh to mortify; 
 'Consume with zeal, in winged ecstasies 
 .Of prayer and praise forget their rosaries, 
 I Nor hear the loudest surges of St. Bees, 
 
 11- 
 
 Yet none so prompt to succour and protect 
 The forlorn Traveller, or Sailor wrecked 
 On the bare coast; nor do they grudge the boon 
 Which staff and cockle hat and sandal shoon 
 Claim for the Pilgrim : and, though chidings sharp 
 May sometimes greet the strolling Minstrel's harp. 
 It is not then when, swept with sportive ease, 
 It charms a feast-day throng of all degrees. 
 Brightening the archway of revered St. Bees. 
 
 12. 
 
 How did the Cliffs and echoing Hills rejoice 
 What time the Benedictine Brethren's voice, 
 Imploring, or commanding with meet pride, 
 Summoned the Chiefs to lay their feuds aside, 
 And under one blest ensign serve the Lord 
 In Palestine. Advance, indignant Sword 
 Flaming till thou from Paynim hands release 
 That Tomb, dread centre of all sanctities 
 Xursed in the quiet Abbey of St. Bees. 
 
 *See Note 14, p. 320. 
 
 13. 
 
 On, Champions, on ! — But mark ! the passing Day 
 Submits her intercourse to milder sway. 
 With high and low whose busy thoughts from far 
 Follow the fortunes which they may not share. 
 While in Judea Fancy loves to roam, 
 She helps to make a Holy-land at home : 
 The Star of Bethlehem from its sphere invites 
 To sound the crystal depth of maiden rights; 
 And wedded life, through scriptural mysteries. 
 Heavenward ascends with all her charities. 
 Taught by the hooded Celibates of St. Bees. 
 
 14. 
 
 Who with the ploughshare clove the barren moors. 
 And to green meadows changed the swampy shores ! 
 Thinned the rank woods ; and for the cheerful Grange 
 Made room where Wolf and Boar were used to range "! 
 Who taught, and showed by deeds, that gentler chains 
 Should bind the Vassal to his Lord's domains'! 
 The thoughtful Monks, intent their God to please. 
 For Christ's dear sake, by human sympathies 
 Poured from the bosom of thy Church, St. Bees ! 
 
 15. 
 
 But all availed not ; by a mandate given 
 
 Through lawless will the Brotherhood was driven 
 
 Forth from their cells ; — their ancient House laid low 
 
 In Reformation's sweeping overthrow. 
 
 But now once more the local. Heart revives, 
 
 The inextinguishable Spirit strives. 
 
 Oh may that Power who hushed the stormy seas. 
 
 And cleared a way for the first Votaries, 
 
 Prosper the new-born College of St. Bees ! 
 
 16. 
 
 Alas ! the Genius of our age from Schools 
 Less humble draws her lessons, aims, and rules. 
 To Prowess guided by her insight keen, 
 Matter and Spirit are as one Machine ; 
 Boastful Idolatress of formal skill. 
 She in her own would merge the eternal will : 
 Expert to move in paths that Newton trod, 
 From Newton's Universe would banish God. 
 Better, if Reason's triumphs match with these. 
 Her flight before the bold credulities 
 That furthered the first teaching of St. Bees. 
 23* 
 
270 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE; 
 
 THE FATE OF THE NORTONS. 
 
 "They that deny a God, deslroy Man's nobility : for certainly Man is of kinn to the Beasts by his Body ; and if he 
 be not of kinn to God by his Spirit, he is a base ignoble Creature. It destroys likewise Magnanimity, and the raising 
 of humane Nature : for take an example of a Dogg, and mark what a generosity and courage he will put on, when he 
 finds himself maintained by a Man, who to him is instead of a God, or Melior Natura. Which courage is manifestly 
 such, as that Creature without that confidence of a better Nature than his ov\-n could never attain. So Man. when 
 he restcth and assurelh himself upon Divine protection and favour, galherelh a force and faith which human Nature 
 in itself could not obtain." Lord Bacon. 
 
 During the Summer of 1807, the Author visited, 
 for the first time, the beautiful scenery that surrounds 
 Bolton Priory, in Yorkshire ; and the Poem of the 
 White Doe, founded upon a Tradition connected with 
 the place, was composed at the close of the same year.* 
 
 In trellised shed with clustering roses gay, 
 And, Mary ! oft beside our blazing fire. 
 When years of wedded life were as a day 
 Whose current answers to the heart's desire, 
 Did we together read in Spenser's Lay 
 How Una, sad of soul — in sid attire, 
 The gentle Una, born of heavenly birth. 
 To seek her Knight went wandering o'er the earth. 
 
 Ah, then, Beloved ! pleasing was the smart. 
 And the tear precious in compassion shed 
 For Her, who, pierced by sorrow's thrilling dart, 
 Did meekly bear the pang unmerited ; 
 Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart 
 The milk-white Lamb which in a line she led, — 
 And faithful, loyal in her innocence. 
 Like the brave Lion slain in her defence. 
 
 Notes could we hear as of a faery shell 
 Attuned to words with sacred wisdom fraught ; 
 Free Fancy prized each specious miracle, 
 And all its finer inspiration caught ; 
 Till in the bosom of our rustic Cell, 
 We by a lamentable change were taught 
 That "bliss with mortal Man may not abide ;" — 
 How nearly joy and sorrow are allied ! 
 
 For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow, 
 For us the voice of melody was mute. 
 — But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow, 
 And give the timid herbage leave to shoot. 
 Heaven's breathing influence failed not to bestow 
 A timely promise of unlooked-for fruit, 
 
 See Note 15, p. 320. 
 
 Fair fruit of pleasure and serene content 
 From blossoms wild of fancies innocent. 
 
 It soothed us — it beguiled us — then, to hear, 
 Once more, of troubles wrought by magic spell ; 
 And griefs whose aery motion coraes not near 
 The pangs that tempt the Spirit to rebel ; 
 Then, with mild Una in her sober cheer, 
 High over hill and low adown the dell 
 Again we wandered, willing to partake 
 All that she suffered for her dear Lord's sake. 
 
 Then, too, this Song of mine once more could please, 
 
 Where anguish, strange as dreams of restless sleep, 
 
 Is tempered and allayed by sympathies 
 
 Alofl; ascending, and descending deep, 
 
 Even to the inferior Kinds ; whom forest trees 
 
 Protect from beating sunbeams, and the sweep 
 
 Of the sharp winds; — fair Creatures! — to whom 
 
 Heaven 
 A calm and sinless life, with love, hath given. 
 
 This tragic Story cheered us ; for it speaks 
 
 Of female patience winning firm repose; 
 
 And of the recompense which conscience seeks 
 
 A bright, encouraging example shows ; 
 
 Needful when o'er wide realms the tempest breaks, 
 
 Needful amid life's ordinary woes; — 
 
 Hence, not for them unfitted who would bless 
 
 A happy hour with holier happiness. ', 
 
 He serves the Muses erringly and ill. 
 
 Whose aim is pleasure light and fugitive: 
 
 O, that my mind were equal to fulfil 
 
 The comprehensive mandate which they give — 
 
 Vain aspiration of an earnest will ! 
 
 Yet in this moral Strain a power may live, 
 
 Beloved Wife ! such solace to impart 
 
 As it hath yielded to thy tender heart. 
 
 RvDAL Mount, Westmoreland. 
 April 20, 1815. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 271 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 From Bolton's old monastic tower* 
 The bells ring loud with gladsome power ; 
 The sun is bright; the fields are gay 
 With people in their best array 
 Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf, 
 Along the banks of crystal Wharf, 
 Through the Vale retired and lowly, 
 Trooping to that summons holy. 
 And, up among the moorlands, see 
 What sprinklings of blithe company ! 
 Of lassos and of shepherd grooms. 
 That down the steep hills force their way. 
 Like cattle through the budded brooms; 
 Path, or no path, what care they ? 
 And thus in joyous mood they hie 
 ' To Bolton's mouldering Priory. 
 
 What would they there 1 — Full fifty years 
 , That sumptuous Pile, with all its peers, 
 1 Too harshly hath been doomed to taste 
 
 The bitterness of wrong and waste : 
 
 Its courts are ravaged ; but the tower 
 
 Is standing with a voice of power, 
 I That ancient voice which wont to call 
 (To mass or some high festival; 
 , And in the shattered fabric's heart 
 
 Remaineth one protected part; 
 !: A rural Chapel, neatly drest,f 
 
 In covert like a little nest ; 
 
 And thither young and old repair, 
 
 This Sabbath-day, for praise and prayer. 
 
 I Fast the church-yard fills ; — anon 
 
 Look again, and they all are gone ; 
 
 The cluster round the porch, and the folk 
 
 Who sate in the shade of the Prior's Oak Ij 
 
 And scarcely have they disappeared 
 
 Ere the prelusive hymn is heard : — 
 I With one consent the people rejoice, 
 I Filling the church with a lofty voice ! 
 
 ' It is to be regretted that at the present day Bolton Abbey 
 I wants this ornament; but the Poem, according to the. imagina- 
 i lion of the Poet, is composed in Queen Elizabeth's time. " For- 
 merly," says Dr. Whitaker, "over the Transept was a tower. 
 Tiiis is proved not only from the mention of bells at the Disso- 
 lution, when they could have had no other place, but from the 
 . pointed roof of tfte choir, which must have terminated west- 
 i ward, in some building of superior height to the ridge." 
 
 + " The Nave of the Church having been reserved at the Dis- 
 solution, for the use of the Saxon Cure, is still a parochial 
 Chapel ; and, at this day, is as well kept as the neatest English 
 I Cathedral." 
 
 t" At a small distance from the great gateway stood the Pri- 
 or's Oak, which was felled about the year 1720, and sold {or 101. 
 According to the price of wood at that time, it could scarcely 
 have contained less than 1400 feet of timber." 
 
 They sing a service which they feel; 
 For 'tis the sunrise now of zeal. 
 And faith and hope are in their prime 
 In great Eliza's golden time. 
 
 A moment ends the fervent din, 
 
 And all is hushed, without and within; 
 
 For though the priest, more tranquilly, 
 
 Recites the holy liturgy, 
 
 The only voice which you can hear 
 
 Is the river murmuring near. 
 
 — When soft! — the dusky trees between. 
 And down the path through the open green. 
 Where is no living thing to be seen; 
 
 And through yon gateway, where is found, 
 Beneath the arch with ivy bound. 
 Free entrance to the church-yard ground; 
 And right across the verdant sod 
 Towards the very house of God; 
 
 — Comes gliding in with lovely gleam, 
 Comes gliding in serene and slow, 
 Soft and silent as a dream, 
 
 A solitary Doe! 
 
 White she is as lily of June, 
 
 And beauteous as the silver moon 
 
 When out of sight the clouds are driven 
 
 And she is left alone in heaven ; 
 
 Or like a ship some gentle day 
 
 In sunshine sailing far away, 
 
 A glittering ship, that hath the plain 
 
 Of ocean for her own domain. 
 
 Lie silent in your graves, ye dead ! 
 Lie quiet in your church-yard bed ! 
 Ye living, tend your holy cares ; 
 Ye multitude, pursue your prayers ; 
 And blame not me if my heart and sight 
 Are occupied with one delight! 
 'T is a work for sabbath hours 
 If I with this bright Creature go : 
 Whether she be of forest bowers. 
 From the bovvers of earth below; 
 Or a Spirit, for one day given, 
 A gift of grace from purest heaven. 
 
 What harmonious pensive changes 
 Wait upon her as she ranges 
 Round and through this Pile of state, 
 Overthrown and desolate ! 
 Now a step or two her way 
 Is through space of open day. 
 Where the enamoured sunny light 
 Brightens her that was so bright; 
 Now doth a delicate shadow fall, 
 Falls upon her like, a breath. 
 From some lofty arch or wall, 
 As she passes underneath: 
 
272 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Now some gloomy nook partakes 
 
 Of the glory that she makes, — 
 
 High-ribbed vault of stone, or cell 
 
 With perfect cunning framed as well 
 
 Of stone, and ivy, and the spread 
 
 Of the elder's bushy head ; 
 
 Some jealous and forbidding cell, 
 
 That doth the living stars repel, ' 
 
 And where no flower hath leave to dwell. 
 
 The presence of this wandering Doe 
 Fills many a damp obscure recess 
 With lustre of a saintly show ; 
 And, re-appearing, she no less 
 To the open day gives blessedness. 
 But say, among these holy places, 
 Which tlms assiduously she paces, 
 Comes she with a votary's task. 
 Rite to perform, or boon to ask 1 
 Fair Pilgrim ! harbours she a sense 
 Of sorrow, or of reverenced 
 Can she be grieved for quire or shrine, 
 Crushed as if by wrath divine 1 
 For what survives of house where God 
 Was worshipped, or where Man abode; 
 For old magnificence undone; 
 Or for the gentler work begun 
 By Nature, softening and concealing. 
 And busy with a hand of healing, — 
 For altar, whence the cross was rent, 
 Now rich with mossy ornament, — 
 Or dormitory's length laid bare, 
 Where the wild rose blossoms fair; 
 And sapling ash, whose place of birth 
 Is that lordly chamber's hearth 1 
 
 — She sees a warrior carved in stone. 
 Among the thick weeds, stretched alone 
 A warrior, with his shield of pride 
 Cleaving humbly to his side, 
 
 And hands in resignation prest. 
 Palm to palm, on his tranquil breast: 
 Methinks she passeth by the sight. 
 As a common creature might : 
 If she be doomed to inward care. 
 Or service, it must lie elsewhere. 
 
 — But hers are eyes serenely bright. 
 
 And on she moves — with pace how light! 
 Nor spares to stoop her head, and taste 
 The dewy turf with flowers bestrown ; 
 And thus she fares, until at last 
 Beside the ridge of a grassy grave 
 In quietness she lays her down ; 
 Gently as a weary wave 
 Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died, 
 Against an anchored vessel's side ; 
 Even so, without distress, doth she 
 Lie down in peace, and lovingly. 
 
 The day is placid in its going. 
 To a lingering motion bound. 
 Like the river in its flowing — 
 Can there be a softer sound t 
 So the balmy minutes pass, 
 While this radiant Creature lies 
 Couched upon the dewy grass, 
 Pensively with downcast eyes. 
 — When now again the people rear 
 A voice of praise, with awful cheer ! 
 It is the last, the parting song ; 
 And from the temple forth they throng — 
 And quickly spread themselves abroad — 
 While each pursues his several road. 
 But some, a variegated band, 
 Of middle-aged, and old, and young, 
 And little children by the hand 
 Upon their leading mothers hung. 
 Turn, with obeisance gladly paid, 
 Towards the spot, where, full in view, 
 The lovely Doe, of whitest hue. 
 Her sabbath couch has made. 
 
 It was a solitary mound ; 
 
 Which two spears'-length of level ground 
 
 Did from all other graves divide: 
 
 As if in some respect of pride ; 
 
 Or melancholy's sickly mood, 
 
 Still shy of human neighbourhood ; 
 
 Or guilt, that humbly would express 
 
 A penitential loneliness. 
 
 " Look, there she is, my Child ! draw near ; 
 She fears not, wherefore should we fear? 
 She means no harm;" — but still the Boy 
 To whom the words were softly said. 
 Hung back, and smiled, and blushed for joy, 
 A shame-faced blush of glowing red ! 
 Again the Mother whispered low, 
 " Now you have seen the famous Doe ; 
 From Rylstone she hath found her way 
 Over the hills this sabbath-day ; 
 Her work, whate'er it be, is done, 
 And she will depart when we are gone ; 
 Thus doth she keep, from year to year, 
 Her sabbath morning, foul or fair." 
 
 This whisper soft repeats what he 
 Had known from early infancy. • 
 Bright is the Creature — as in dreams 
 The Boy had seen her — yea, more bright; 
 But is she truly what she seems 1 
 He asks with insecure delight. 
 Asks of himself — and doubts — and still 
 The doubt returns against his will : 
 Though he, and all the standers-by, 
 Could tell a tragic history 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 273 
 
 Of facts divulged, wherein appear 
 Substantial motive, reason clear, 
 Why thus the milk-white Doe is found 
 Couchant beside that lonely mound 
 And why she duly loves to pace 
 The circuit of this hallowed place. 
 Nor to the Child's inquiring mind 
 Is such perplexity confined : 
 For, spite of sober truth, that sees 
 A world of fixed remembrances 
 Which to this mystery belong. 
 If, undeceived, my skill can trace 
 The characters of every face. 
 There lack not strange delusion here, 
 Conjecture vague, and idle fear, 
 And superstitious fancies strong. 
 Which do the gentle Creature wrong. 
 
 That bearded, staff-supported Sire, 
 
 (Who in his youth hath often fed 
 
 Full cheerily on convent bread. 
 
 And heard old tales by the convent-fire. 
 
 And lately hath brought home the scars 
 
 Gathered in long and distant wars) 
 
 That Old Man — studious to expound 
 
 The spectacle — hath mounted high 
 
 To days of dim antiquity ; 
 
 When Lady Aaliza mourned* 
 
 Her Son, and felt in her despair. 
 
 The pang of unavailing prayer ; 
 
 Her Son in Wharf's abysses drowned. 
 
 The noble Boy of Egremound. 
 
 From which affliction, when God's grace 
 
 At length had in her heart found place, 
 
 A pious structure, fair to see, 
 
 Rose up — this stately Priory ! 
 
 The Lady's work, — but now laid low; 
 
 To the grief of her soul that doth come and go, 
 
 In the beautiful form of this innocent Doe : 
 
 Which, though seemingly doomed in its breast to 
 
 sustain 
 A softened remembrance of sorrow and pain, 
 Is spotless, and holy, and gentle, and bright ; 
 And glides o'er the earth like an angel of light. 
 
 Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door ;f 
 And, through the chink in the fractured floor, 
 
 * The doiall of this tradition may be ibund in Dr. Whitaker's 
 book, and in a Poem at page 356, of this edition, entitled 
 "The Force of Prayer," &c. 
 
 t " At the East end of the North aisle of Bolton Priory 
 Church, is a chantry belonging to Belhmesly Hall, and a vault, 
 where, according to tradition, the Claphams" (who inherited 
 this estate, by the female line, from the Mauleverers) "were in- 
 terred upright." John de Clapham, of whom this ferocions act 
 is recorded, was a man of great note in this time : " he was a 
 vehement partisan of the house of Lancaster, in whom the spirit 
 of its chieftains, the Cliffords, seemed to survive." 
 2K 
 
 Look down, and see a grisly sight; 
 
 A vault where the bodies are buried upright! 
 
 There, face by face, and hand by hand. 
 
 The Claphams and Mauleverers stand ; 
 
 And, in his place, among son and sire. 
 
 Is John de Clapham, that fierce Esquire, 
 
 A valiant man, and a name of dread. 
 
 In the ruthless wars of the White and Red ; 
 
 Who dragged Earl Pembroke from Banbury church, 
 
 And smote off his head on the stones of the porch ! 
 
 Look down among them, if you dare 
 
 Oft does tlie White Doe loiter there, 
 
 Prying into the darksome rent; 
 
 Nor can it be with good intent: — 
 
 So thinks that Dame of haughty air, 
 
 Who hath a Page her book to hold. 
 
 And wears a frontlet edged with gold. 
 
 Well may her thoughts be harsh ; for she 
 
 Numbers among her ancestry 
 
 Earl Pembroke, slain so impiously ! 
 
 That slender Youth, a scholar pale. 
 
 From O.xford come to his native vale. 
 
 He also hath his own conceit: 
 
 It is, thinks he, the gracious Fairy, 
 
 Who loved the Shepherd Lord to meetj 
 
 In his wanderings solitary: 
 
 Wild notes she in his hearing sang, 
 
 A song of Nature's hidden powers; 
 
 That whistled like the wind, and rang 
 
 Among the rocks and holly bowers. 
 
 'T was said that she all shapes could wear; 
 
 And oftentimes before him stood, 
 
 Amid the trees of some thick wood, 
 
 In setnblance of a lady fair; 
 
 And taught him signs, and showed him sights. 
 
 In Craven's dens, on Cumbrian heights; 
 
 When under cloud of fear he lay, 
 
 A Shepherd clad in homely gray, 
 
 Nor left him at his later day. 
 
 And hence, when he, with spear and shield. 
 
 Rode full of years to Flodden field. 
 
 His eye could see the hidden spring, 
 
 And how the current was to flow; 
 
 The fatal end of Scotland's King, 
 
 And all that hopeless overthrow. 
 
 But not in wars did he delight. 
 
 This Clifford wished for worthier might; 
 
 Nor in broad pomp, or courtly state ; 
 
 Him his own thoughts did elevate, — 
 
 ]\Iost happy in the shy recess 
 
 Of Barden's humble quietness. 
 
 And choice of studious friends had he 
 
 Of Bolton's dear fraternity ; 
 
 Who, standing on this old church tower, 
 
 In many a calm propitious hour. 
 
 } See Note 16, p. 321. 
 
274 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Perused, with him, the starry sky ; 
 Or, in their cells, with him did pry 
 For other lore, — through strong desire 
 Searching the earth with chemic fire : 
 But they and their good vvorlis are fled- 
 And all is now disquieted — 
 And peace is none, for living or dead ! 
 
 Ah, pensive Scholar, think not so, 
 But look again at the radiant Doe ! 
 What quiet watch she seems to keep, 
 Alone, beside that grassy heap! 
 
 Why mention other thoughts unmeet 
 For vision so composed and sweet 1 
 While stand the people in a ring. 
 Gazing, doubting, questioning ; 
 Yea, many overcome in spite 
 Of recollections clear and bright ; 
 Which yet do unto some impart 
 An undisturbed repose of heart. 
 And all the assembly own a law 
 Of orderly respect and awe; 
 But see — they vanish one by one, 
 And last, the Doe herself is gone. 
 
 Harp! we have been full long beguiled 
 
 By busy dreams, and fancies wild ; 
 
 To which, with no reluctant strings. 
 
 Thou hast attuned thy murmurings; 
 
 And now before this Pile we stand 
 
 In solitude, and utter peace : 
 
 But, harp! thy murmurs may not cease - 
 
 Thou hast breeze-like visitings; 
 
 For a Spirit with angel-wings 
 
 Hath touched thee, and a Spirit's hand : 
 
 A voice is with us — a command 
 
 To chant, in strains of heavenly glory, 
 
 A tale of tears, a mortal story ! 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 The Harp in lowliness obeyed ; 
 
 And first we sang of the green-wood shade 
 
 And a solitary Maid ; 
 
 Beginning, where the song must end. 
 
 With her, and with her sylvan Friend ; 
 
 The Friend who stood before her sight. 
 
 Her only unextinguished light; 
 
 Her last companion in a dearth 
 
 Of love, upon a hopeless earth. 
 
 For she it was — this Maid, who wrought 
 
 Meekly, with foreboding thought. 
 
 In vermeil colours and in gold. 
 
 An unblest work ; which, standing by. 
 
 Her Father did with joy beliold, — 
 
 Exulting in the imagery; 
 
 A Banner, one that did fulfil 
 Too perfectly his headstrong will: 
 For on this Banner had her hand 
 Embroidered (such was the command) 
 The Sacred Cross; and figured there 
 The five dear wounds our Lord did bear; 
 Full soon to be uplifted high. 
 And float in rueful company ! 
 
 It was the time when England's Queen 
 
 Twelve years had reigned, a Sovereign dread; 
 
 Nor yet the restless crown had been 
 
 Disturbed upon her virgin head ; 
 
 But now the inly-working North 
 
 Was ripe to send its thousands forth, 
 
 A potent vassalage, to fight 
 
 In Percy's and in Neville's right. 
 
 Two Earls fast leagued in discontent. 
 
 Who gave their wishes open vent; 
 
 And boldly urged a general plea. 
 
 The rites of ancient piety 
 
 To be triumphantly restored. 
 
 By the dread justice of the sword ! 
 
 And that same Banner, on whose breast 
 
 The blameless Lady had exprest 
 
 Memorials chosen to give life 
 
 And sunshine to a dangerous strife ; 
 
 That Banner, waiting for the call. 
 
 Stood quietly in Rylstone Hall. 
 
 It came, — and Francis Norton said, 
 
 " O Father ! rise not in this fray — 
 
 The hairs are white upon your head; 
 
 Dear Father, hear me when I say 
 
 It is for you too late a day ! 
 
 Bethink you of your own good name : 
 
 A just and gracious Queen have we, 
 
 A pure religion, and the claim 
 
 Of peace on our humanity. 
 
 'T is meet that I endure your scorn, — 
 
 I am your son, your eldest born ; 
 
 But not for lordship or for land. 
 
 My Father, do I clasp your knees — 
 
 The Banner touch not, stay your hand, — 
 
 This multitude of men disband. 
 
 And live at home in blameless ease ; 
 
 For these my brethren's sake, for me; 
 
 And, most of all, for Emily !" 
 
 Loud noise was in the crowded hall. 
 And scarcely could the Father hear 
 That name — which had a dying fall, 
 The name of his only Daughter dear, — 
 And on the banner which stood near 
 He glanced a look of holy pride, 
 And his moist eyes were glorified; 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 275 
 
 Then seized the staiF, and thus did sa}': 
 "Thou, Richard, bear'st thy father's name. 
 Keep thou this ensign till the day 
 When I of thee require the same: 
 Thy place be on my better hand ; — 
 And seven as true as thou, I see. 
 Will cleave to this good cause and me." 
 He spake, and eight brave sons straightway 
 All followed him, a gallant band! 
 
 Forth when Sire and Soiis appeared 
 
 A gratulating shout was reared, 
 
 With din of arms and minstrelsy. 
 
 From all his warlike tenantry. 
 
 All horsed and harnessed with him to ride; 
 
 — A shout to which the hills replied! 
 
 But Francis, in the vacant hall, 
 
 Stood silent under dreary weight, — 
 
 A phantasm, in which roof and wall 
 
 Shook — tottered — swam before his sight; 
 
 A phantasm like a dream of night! 
 
 Thus overwhelmed, and desolate, 
 
 He found his way to a postern-gate; 
 
 And, when he waked at length, his eye 
 
 Was on the calm and silent sky ; 
 
 With air about him breathing sweet, 
 
 And earth's green grass beneath his feet; 
 
 Nor did he fail ere long to hear 
 
 A sound of military cheer. 
 
 Faint — but it reached that sheltered spot ; 
 
 He heard, and it disturbed him not. 
 
 There stood he, leaning on a lance 
 
 Which he had grasped unknowingly, — 
 
 Had blindly grasped in that strong trance, 
 
 That dimness of heart agony ; 
 
 There stood he, cleansed from the despair 
 
 And sorrow of his fruitless prayer. 
 
 The past he calmly hath reviewed : 
 
 But where will be the fortitude 
 
 Of this brave Man, when he shall see 
 
 That Form beneath the spreading tree, 
 
 ■And know that it is Emily 1 
 
 Oh! hide them from each other, hide, 
 
 iKind Heaven, this pair severely tried ! 
 
 i 
 
 [He saw her where in open view 
 
 She sate beneath the spreading yew, — 
 ,Her head upon her lap, concealing 
 |ln solitude her bitter feeling; 
 'How could he choose but shrink or sigh? 
 He shrunk, and muttered inwardly, 
 "Might ever son command a sire, 
 The act were justified to-day." 
 This to himself — and to the Maid, 
 Whom now he had approached, he said, 
 —"Gone are they, — they have their desire; 
 And I with thee one hour will stay, 
 To give thee comfort if I may." 
 
 He paused, her silence to partake. 
 
 And long it was before he spake: 
 
 Then, all at once, his thoughts turned round. 
 
 And fervent words a passage found. 
 
 " Gone are they, bravely, though misled ; 
 
 With a dear Father at their head ! 
 
 The Sons obey a natural lord; 
 
 The Father had given solemn word 
 
 To noble Percy, — and a force 
 
 Still stronger, bends him to his course. 
 
 This said, our tears to-day may fall 
 
 As at an innocent funeral. 
 
 In deep and awful channel runs 
 
 This sympathy of Sire and Sons ; 
 
 Untried our Brothers were beloved, 
 
 And now their faithfulness is proved: 
 
 For faithful we must call them, bearing 
 
 That soul of conscientious daring. 
 
 — There were they all in circle — there 
 
 Stood Richard, Ambrose, Christopher, 
 
 John with a sword that will not fail, 
 
 And Marmaduke in fearless mail. 
 
 And those bright Twins were side by side ; 
 
 And there, by fresh hopes beautified. 
 
 Stood He, whose arm yet lacks the power 
 
 Of man, our youngest, fairest flower! 
 
 I, by the right of eldest born. 
 
 And in a second father's place. 
 
 Presumed to grapple with their scorn, 
 
 And meet their pity face to face ; 
 
 Yea, trusting in God's holy aid, 
 
 I to my Father knelt and prayed, 
 
 And one, the pensive Marmaduke, 
 
 Methought, was yielding inwardly, 
 
 And would have laid his purpose by, 
 
 But for a glance of his Father's eye, 
 
 Which I myself could scarcely brook. 
 
 Then he we, each, and all, forgiven! 
 
 Thee, chiefly thee, my Sister dear, 
 
 Whose pangs are registered in heaven 
 
 The stifled sigh, the hidden tear. 
 
 And smiles, that dared to take their place, 
 
 Bleek filial smiles, upon thy face, 
 
 As that unhallowed Banner grew 
 
 Beneath a loving old man's view. 
 
 Thy part is done — thy painful part ; 
 
 Be thou then satisfied in heart ! 
 
 A further, though far easier, task 
 
 Than thine hath been, my duties ask; 
 
 With theirs my eflibrts cannot blend, 
 
 I cannot for such cause contend ; 
 
 Their aims I utterly forswear; 
 
 But I in body will be there. 
 
 Unarmed and naked will I go. 
 
 Be at their side, come weal or woe : 
 
276 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 On kind occasions I may wait, 
 See, hear, obstruct, or niitijfate. 
 Bare breast I tal<e and an empty hand."* — 
 Therewith he threw away the lance, 
 Which he had grasped in that strong trance. 
 Spurned it — like something that would stand 
 Between him and the pure intent 
 Of love on which his soul was bent. 
 
 "For thee, for thee, is lefl the sense 
 
 Of trial past without offence 
 
 To God or Man ; — such innocence, 
 
 Such consolation, and the excess 
 
 Of an unmerited distress; 
 
 In that thy very strength must lie. 
 
 — O Sister, I could prophesy ! 
 
 The time is come that rings the knell 
 
 Of all we loved, and loved so well ; — 
 
 Hope nothing, if I thus may speak 
 
 To thee a woman, and thence weak ; 
 
 Hope nothing, I repeat; for we 
 
 Are doomed to perish utterly : 
 
 'Tis meet that thou with me divide 
 
 The thought while I am by thy side, 
 
 Acknowledging a grace in this, 
 
 A comfort in the dark abyss: 
 
 But look not for me when I am gone. 
 
 And be no farther wrought upon. 
 
 Farewell all wishes, all debate. 
 
 All prayers for this cause, or for that! 
 
 Weep, if that aid thee ; but depend 
 
 Upon no help of outward friend ; 
 
 Espouse thy doom at once, and cleave 
 
 To fortitude without reprieve. 
 
 For we must fall, both we and ours, — 
 
 This Mansion and these pleasant bowers. 
 
 Walks, pools, and arbours, homestead, hall, 
 
 Our fate is theirs, will reach them all ; 
 
 The young Horse must forsake his manger. 
 
 And learn to glory in a Stranger ; 
 
 The Hawk forget his perch — the Hound 
 
 Be parted from his ancient ground : 
 
 The blast will sweep us all away. 
 
 One desolation, one decay ! 
 
 And even this Creature !" which words saying. 
 
 He pointed to a lovely Doe, 
 
 A few steps distant, feeding, straying; 
 
 Fair Creature, and more white than snow! 
 
 "Even she will to her peaceful woods 
 
 Return, and to her murmuring floods, 
 
 And be in heart and soul the same 
 
 She was before she hither came, — 
 
 Ere she had learned to love us all. 
 
 Herself beloved in Rylstone Hall. 
 
 — But thou, my Sister, doomed to be 
 The last leaf which by Heaven's decree 
 Must hang upon a blasted tree; 
 
 •See the Old Ballad, — 'The Rising of llie North.' 
 
 
 If not in vain we breathed the breath 
 Together of a purer faith — 
 If hand in hand we have been led, 
 And thou, (O happy thought this day !) 
 Not seldom foremost in the way — 
 If on one thought our minds have fed. 
 And we have in one meaning read^ 
 If, when at home our private weal 
 Hath suffered from the shock of zeal, 
 Together we have learned to prize 
 Forbearance and self-sacrifice — 
 If we like combatants have fared. 
 And for this issue been prepared — 
 If thou art beautiful, and youth 
 And thought endue thee with all truth — 
 Be strong; — be worthy of the grace 
 Of God, and fill thy destined place ; 
 A Soul, by force of sorrows high, 
 Uplifted to the purest sky 
 Of undisturbed humanity !" 
 
 He ended, — or she heard no more ; 
 He led her from the Yew-tree shade, ^ 
 And at the Mansion's silent door, ^ 
 He kissed the consecrated Maid ; ,.jf 
 And down the Valley he pursued, ,,<• 
 Alone, the armed Multitude. ■^' 
 it 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 
 Now joy for you and sudden cheer. 
 
 Ye Watchmen upon Brancepeth Towers ;t 
 
 Looking forth in doubt and fear, 
 
 Telling melancholy hours ! 
 
 Proclaim it, let your masters hear 
 
 That Norton with his Band is near ! 
 
 The Watchmen from their station high 
 
 Pronounced the word, — and the Earls descry 
 
 Forthwith the armed Company 
 
 Marching down the banks of Were. 
 
 Said fearless Norton to the Pair 
 
 Gone forth to hail him on the Plain — 
 
 "This meeting, noble Lords! looks fair, 
 
 I bring with me a goodly train; 
 
 Their hearts are with you: — hill and dale 
 
 Have helped us: — Ure we crossed, and Swale, 
 
 And Horse and Harness followed — see 
 
 The best part of their yeomanry ! 
 
 — Stand forth, my Sons! — these eight are mine, 
 
 Whom to this service I commend ; 
 
 Which way soe'er our fate incline, 
 
 These will be faithful to the end ; 
 
 They are my all" — voice failed him here, 
 
 " My all save one, a Daughter dear ! 
 
 t Brancepeth Castle stands near the river Were, a few miles 
 from tlie rily of Durhani. It formerly belonged to the Nevilles, 
 Earls of Westmoreland. See Dr. Percy's account 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 277 
 
 I Whom I have left, the mildest birth, 
 
 |i The meekest Cliild on this blessed earth. 
 
 I I had — but these are by my side, 
 
 j These Eight, and this is a day of pride ! 
 The time is ripe — with festive din 
 Lo ! how the people are flocking in, — 
 Like hungry Fowl to the Feeder's hand 
 When snow lies heavy upon the land." 
 
 He spake bare truth ; for far and near 
 
 From every side came noisy swarms 
 
 Of Peasants in their homely gear ; 
 
 And, mixed with these, to Brancepeth came 
 
 Grave Gentry of estate and name, 
 
 And Captains known for worth in arms; 
 
 And prayed the Earls in self-defence 
 
 To rise, and prove their innocence. — 
 
 "Rise, noble Earls, put forth your might 
 
 For holy Church, and the People's right !" 
 
 The Norton fixed, at this demand, 
 I His eye upon Northumberland, 
 ! And said, " The Minds of Men will own 
 
 No loyal rest while England's Crown 
 [ Remains without an Heir, the bait 
 , Of strife and factions desperate ; 
 
 Who, paying deadly hate in kind 
 
 Through all things else, in this can find 
 
 A mutual hope, a common mind ; 
 
 And plot, and pant to overwhelm 
 
 All ancient honour in the realm. 
 
 — Brave Earls! to whose heroic veins 
 Our noblest blood is given in trust. 
 To you a suftering State complains. 
 And ye must raise her from the du.st. 
 With wishes of still bolder scope 
 
 On you we look, with dearest hope, 
 
 Even for our Altars, — for the prize 
 
 In Heaven, of life that never dies ; 
 
 For the old and holy Church we mourn, 
 
 And must in joy to her return. 
 
 Behold !" — and from his Son whose stand 
 
 Was on his right, from that guardian hand 
 
 He took the Banner, and unfurled 
 
 The precious folds — "behold," said he, 
 
 " The ransom of a sinful world ; 
 
 Let this your preservation be, — 
 
 The wounds of hands and feet and side. 
 
 And the sacred Cross on which Jesus died 
 
 — This bring I from an ancient hearth, 
 These Records wrought in pledge of love 
 By hands of no ignoble birth, 
 
 A Maid o'er whom the blessed Dove 
 Vouchsafed in gentleness to brood 
 While she the holy work pursued." 
 "Uplift the Standard!" was the cry 
 From all the Listeners that stood round, 
 
 "Plant it, — by this we live or die" — 
 The Norton ceased not for that sound. 
 But said, " The prayer which ye have heard, 
 Much injured Earls ! by these preferred. 
 Is oifered to the Saints, the sigh 
 Of tens of thousands, secretly." 
 " Uplift it !" cried once more the Band, 
 And then a thoughtful pause ensued. 
 " Uplift it !" said Northumberland — 
 Whereat, from all the multitude. 
 Who saw the Banner reared on high 
 In all its dread emblazonry, 
 With tumult and indignant rout 
 A voice of uttermost joy brake out : 
 The transport was rolled down the river of Were, 
 And Durham, the time-honoured Durham, did hear. 
 And the Towers of Saint Cuthbert were stirred by 
 tlie shout ! 
 
 Now was the North in arms : — they shine 
 
 In warlike trim from Tweed to Tyne, 
 
 At Percy's voice : and Neville sees 
 
 His Followers gathering in from Tees, 
 
 From Were, and all the little Rills 
 
 Concealed among the forked Hills — 
 
 Seven Hundred Knights, Retainers all 
 
 Of Neville, at their Master's call 
 
 Had sate together in Raby Hall ! 
 
 Such strength that Earldom held of yore ; 
 
 Nor wanted at this time rich store 
 
 Of well-appointed Chivalry. 
 
 — Not loth the sleepy lance to wield. 
 
 And greet thee old paternal shield. 
 
 They heard the summons; — and, furthermore. 
 
 Horsemen and Foot of each degree. 
 
 Unbound by pledge of fealty. 
 
 Appeared, with free and open hate, 
 
 Of novelties in Church and State ; 
 
 Knight, Burgher, Yeoman, and Esquire; 
 
 And Romish Priest, in Priest's attire. 
 
 Aind thus, in arms, a zealous Band 
 
 Proceeding under joint command. 
 
 To Durham first their course they bear; 
 
 And in Saint Cuthbert's ancient seat 
 
 Sang Mass, — and tore the book of Prayer, — 
 
 And trod the Bible beneath their feet. 
 
 Thence marching southward smooth and free, 
 " They mustered their Host at Wetherby, 
 Full sixteen thousand fair to see ;"* 
 The choicest Warriors of the North ! 
 But none for beauty and for worth 
 Like those Eight Sons — embosoming 
 Determined thoughts — who, in a ring. 
 Each with a lance, erect and tall, 
 A falchion, and a buckler small, 
 
 *From Ihe old Ballad. 
 24 
 
278 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Stood by their Sire, on Clifford-moor, 
 To guard the Standard which he bore. 
 
 — With feet that firmly pressed the ground 
 They stood, and girt tlieir Father round ; 
 Such was his choice, — no Steed will he 
 Henceforth bestride ; — triumphantly 
 
 He stood upon the grassy sod. 
 Trusting himself to the earth, and God. 
 Rare sight to embolden and inspire ! 
 Proud was the field of Sons and Sire, 
 Of him the most ; and, sooth to say, 
 No shape of Man in all the array 
 So graced the sunshine of that day. 
 The monumental pomp of age 
 Was with this goodly Personage ; 
 A stature undepressed in size, 
 Unbent, which rather seemed to rise, 
 In open victory o'er the weight 
 Of seventy years, to higher height ; 
 Magnific limbs of withered state, — 
 A face to fear and venerate, — 
 Eyes dark and strong, and on his head 
 Bright locks of silver hair, thick-spread, 
 Which a brown morion half-concealed, 
 Light as a hunter's of the field ; 
 And thus, with girdle round his waist, 
 Whereon the Banner-staff might rest 
 At need, he stood, advancing high 
 The glittering, floating Pageantry. 
 
 Who sees him 7 — many see, and One 
 
 With unparticipated gaze ; 
 
 Who 'mong these thousands Friend hath none, 
 
 And treads in solitary ways. 
 
 He, following wheresoe'cr he might. 
 
 Hath watched the Banner from afar, 
 
 As Shepherds watch a lonely star, 
 
 Or Mariners the distant light 
 
 That guides them on a stormy night. 
 
 And now, upon a cho|pn plot 
 
 Of rising ground, yon heathy spot ! 
 
 He takes, this day, his far-off stand. 
 
 With breast unmailed, unweaponed hand. 
 
 — Bold is his aspect; but his eye 
 Is pregnant with anxiety, 
 While, like a tutelary Power, 
 
 He there stands fixed, from hour to hour : 
 Yet sometimes, in more humble guise, 
 Stretched out upon the ground he lies; 
 As if it were his only task 
 Like Herdsman in the sun to bask. 
 Or by his mantle's help to find 
 A shelter from the nipping wind : 
 And thus, with short oblivion blest. 
 His weary spirits gather rest. 
 Again he lifts his eyes ; and lo ! 
 The pageant glancing to and fro; 
 And hope is wakened by the sight. 
 
 He thence may learn, ere fall of night. 
 Which way the tide is doomed to flow. 
 
 To London were the Chieftains bent ; 
 
 But what avails the bold intent 1 
 
 A Royal Army is gone forth 
 
 To quell the Rising of the North; 
 
 They march with Dudley at their head, 
 
 And, in seven days' space, will to York be led ! 
 
 Can such a mighty Host be raised 
 
 Thus suddenly, and brought so near? 
 
 The Earls upon each other gazed ; 
 
 And Neville was opprest with fear; 
 
 For, though he bore a valiant name, 
 
 His heart was of a timid frame. 
 
 And bold if both had been, yet they 
 
 "Against so many may not stay."* 
 
 And therefore will retreat to seize 
 
 A strong hold on the banks of Tees; 
 
 There wait a favourable hour. 
 
 Until Lord Dacre with his power 
 
 From Naworth comes; and Howard's aid 
 
 Be with them, openly displayed. 
 
 While through the Host, from man to man, 
 
 A rumour of this purpose ran. 
 
 The Standard giving to the care 
 
 Of him who heretofore did bear 
 
 That charge, impatient Norton sought 
 
 The Chieftains to unfold his thought, 
 
 And thus abruptly spake, — " We yield 
 
 (And can it be 1) an unfought field ! 
 
 — How often hath the strength of heaven 
 
 To few triumphantly been given ! 
 
 Still do our very children boast 
 
 Of mitred Thurston, what a Host 
 
 He conquered !f — Saw we not the Plain, 
 
 (And flying shall behold again) 
 
 Where faith was proved 'i — while to battle moved 
 
 The Standard on the Sacred Wain 
 
 On which the gray-haired Barons stood. 
 
 And the infant Heir of Mowbray's blood. 
 
 Beneath the saintly ensigns three. 
 
 Stood confident of victory ! 
 
 Shall Percy blush, then, for his Namel 
 
 Must Westmoreland be asked with shame 
 
 Whose were the numbers, where the loss. 
 
 In that other day of Neville's Cross ! J 
 
 When, as the Vision gave command. 
 
 The Prior of Durliam with holy hand 
 
 Saint Cuthbert's Relic did uprear 
 
 Upon the point of a lofty spear. 
 
 •From the old Ballad. 
 tSee the Historians for the account of this memorable batUe 
 usually denominated the Battle of the Standard. 
 
 }See Note 17, p 322. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 279 
 
 And God descended in his power, 
 
 While the Monks prayed in Maiden's Bower. 
 j Less would not at our need be due 
 
 To us, who war against the Untrue ; — 
 
 The delegates of Heaven we rise, 
 ! Convoked the impious to chastise; 
 
 We, we, the sanctities of old 
 
 Would re-establish and uphold." — 
 
 — The Chiefs were by his zeal confounded, 
 But word was given — and the trumpet sounded; 
 Back through the melancholy Host 
 
 Went Norton, and resumed his post. 
 
 Alas! thought he, and have I borne 
 
 This Banner raised so joyfully, 
 
 This hope of all posterity, 
 
 Thus to become at once the scorn 
 
 Of babbling winds as they go by, 
 
 A spot of shame to the sun's bright eye. 
 
 To the frail clouds a mockery ! 
 
 — "Even these poor eight of mine would stem;" 
 Half to himself, and half to them 
 
 He spake, "would stem, or quell a force 
 Ten times their number, man and horse; 
 This by their own unaided might, 
 Without their father in their sight. 
 Without the cause for which they fight; 
 A Cause, which on a needful day 
 Would breed us thousands brave as they." 
 
 — So speaking, he his reverend head 
 Raised towards tliat imagery once more: 
 But the familiar prospect shed 
 Despondency unfelt beftre : 
 
 A shock of intimations vain. 
 
 Dismay, and superstitious pain, 
 
 Fell on him, with the sudden thought 
 
 Of her by whom the work was wrought : — 
 
 Oh wherefore was her countenance bright 
 
 With love divine and gentle light? 
 
 She did in passiveness obey, 
 
 But her Faith leaned another way. 
 
 Ill tears she, wept, — I saw them fall, 
 
 I overheard her as she spake 
 
 Sad words to that mute Animal, 
 
 The White Doe, in the hawthorn brake; 
 
 She steeped, but not for Jesu's sake. 
 
 This cross in tears : — by her, and One 
 
 Unworthier far, we are undone — 
 
 Her Brother was it who assailed 
 
 Her tender spirii and prevailed. 
 
 Her other Parent, too, whose head 
 
 In the cold grave hath long been laid, 
 
 From reason's earliest dawn beguiled 
 
 The docile, unsuspecting Child: 
 
 Far back — far back my mind must go 
 
 To reach the well-spring of this woe ! — 
 
 While thus he brooded, music sweet 
 
 Was played to cheer them in retreat; 
 
 But Norton lingered in the rear: 
 
 Thought followed thought — and ere the last 
 Of that unhappy train was past. 
 Before him Francis did appear. 
 
 "Now when 'tis not your aim to oppose," 
 
 Said he, "in open field your Foes; 
 
 Now that from this decisive day 
 
 Your multitude must melt away. 
 
 An unarmed Man may come unblamed : — 
 
 To ask a grace, that was not claimed 
 
 Long as your hopes were high, he now 
 
 ]\Iay hither bring a fearless brow : 
 
 When his discountenance can do 
 
 No injury — may come to you. 
 
 Though in your cause no part I bear, 
 
 Your indignation I can share; 
 
 Am grieved this backward march to see. 
 
 How careless and disorderly ! 
 
 I scorn your Chieftains, men who lead, 
 
 And yet want courage at their need; 
 
 Then look at them with open eyes ! 
 
 Deserve they further sacrifice's 
 
 My Father! I would help to find 
 
 A place of shelter, till the rago 
 
 Of cruel men do like the wind 
 
 Exhaust itself and sink to rest : 
 
 Be Brother now to Brother joined! 
 
 Admit me in the equipage 
 
 Of your misfortunes, that at least, 
 
 Whatever fate remains behind, 
 
 I may bear witness in my breast 
 
 To your nobility of mind !" 
 
 " Thou Enemy, my bane and blight ! 
 Oh ! bold to fight the Coward's fight 
 Against all good" — but why declare. 
 At length, the issue of this prayer 1 
 Or how, from his depression raised. 
 The Father on his Son had gazed ; 
 Suffice it that the Son gave way. 
 Nor strove that passion to allay. 
 Nor did he turn aside to prove 
 His Brothers' wisdom or their love — 
 But calmly from the spot withdrew ; 
 The like endeavours to renew. 
 Should e'er a kindlier time ensue. 
 
 CANTO FOURTH. 
 
 From cloudless ether looking down. 
 The Moon, this tranquil evening, sees 
 A Camp, and a beleaguered Town, 
 And Castle like a stately crown 
 On the steep rocks of winding Tees; — 
 And southward far, with moors between, 
 Hill-tops, and floods, and forests green. 
 
280 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 The bright Moon sees that valley small 
 Where Rylstone's old sequestered Hall 
 A venerable ima^e yields 
 Of quiet to the neio-hbouring fields; 
 While from one pillared chimney breathes 
 The smoke, and mounts in silver wreaths. 
 
 — The courts are hushed; — for timely sleep 
 The Grey-hounds to their kennel creep; 
 The Peacock in the broad ash-tree 
 
 Aloft is roosted for the night, 
 He who in proud prosperity 
 Of colours manifold and bright 
 Walked round, affronting the daylight ; 
 And higher still above the bower, 
 Where he is perched, from yon lone Tower 
 The Hall-clock in the clear moonshine 
 With glittering finger points at nine. 
 
 — Ah ! who could think that sadness here 
 Hath any sway? or pain, or fear) 
 
 A soft and lulling sound is heard 
 
 Of streams inaudible by day; 
 
 The garden pool's dark surface, stirred 
 
 By the night insects in their play, 
 
 Breaks into dimples small and bright; 
 
 A thousand, thousand rings of light 
 
 That shape themselves and disappear 
 
 Almost as soon as seen: — and lo ! 
 
 Not distant far, the milk-white Doe : 
 
 The same fair Creature who was nigh 
 
 Feeding in tranquillity, 
 
 When Francis uttered to the Maid 
 
 His last words in the yew-tree shade; — 
 
 The same fair Creature, who hath found 
 
 Her way into forbidden ground ; 
 
 Where now, within this spacious plot 
 
 For pleasure made, a goodly spot. 
 
 With lawns and beds of flowers, and shades 
 
 Of trellis-work in long arcades. 
 
 And cirqne and crescent framed by wall 
 
 Of close-clipt foliage green and tall, 
 
 Converging walks, and fountains gay, 
 
 And terraces in trim array, — 
 
 Beneath yon cypress spiring high. 
 
 With pine and cedar spreading wide, 
 
 Their darksome boughs on either side, 
 
 In open moonlight doth she lie ; 
 
 Happy as others of her kind, 
 
 That, far from human neighbourhood, 
 
 Range unrestricted as the wind. 
 
 Through park, or chase, or savage wood. 
 
 But where at this still hour is she. 
 The consecrated Emily ? 
 Even while I speak, behold the Maid 
 Emerging from the cedar shade 
 To open moonshine, where the Doe 
 Beneath the cypress-spire is laid; 
 Like a patch of April snow, 
 
 Upon a bed of herbage green, 
 Lingering in a woody glade, 
 Or behind a rocky screen ; 
 Lonely relic ! which, if seen 
 By the Shepherd, is passed by 
 With an inattentive eye. 
 
 — Nor more regard doth she bestow 
 Upon the uncomplaining Doe ! 
 
 Yet the meek Creature was not free, 
 
 Erewhile, from some perplexity : 
 
 For thrice hath she approached, this day. 
 
 The thought-bewildered Emily ; 
 
 Endeavouring, in her gentle way. 
 
 Some smile or look of love to gain, — 
 
 Encouragement to sport or play ; 
 
 Attempts which by the unhappy Maid 
 
 Have all been slighted or gainsaid. 
 
 Yet is she soothed : the viewless breeze 
 
 Comes fraught with kindlier sympathies: 
 
 Ere she had reached yon rustic Shed 
 
 Hung with late-flowering woodbine, spread 
 
 Along the walls and overhead ; 
 
 The fragrance of the breathing flowers 
 
 Revives a memory of those hours 
 
 When here, in this remote Alcove, 
 
 (While from the pendent woodbine came 
 
 Like odours, sweet as if the same) 
 
 A fondly-anxious Mother strove 
 
 To teach her salutary fears 
 
 And mysteries above her years. 
 
 — Yes, she is soothed: — an image faint — 
 And yet not faint — a presence bright 
 Returns to her; — 'tis that blest Saint 
 Who with mild looks and language mild 
 Instructed here her darling Child, 
 
 While yet a prattler on the knee. 
 To worship in simplicity 
 The invisible God, and take for guide 
 The faith reformed and purified. 
 
 'Tis flown — the vision, and the sense 
 
 Of that beguiling influence ! 
 
 " But oh ! thou Angel from above. 
 
 Thou Spirit of maternal love, 
 
 Tliat slood'st before my eyes, more clear 
 
 Than Ghosts are fabled to appear 
 
 Sent upon embassies of fear; 
 
 As thou thy presence hast to me 
 
 Vouchsafed, in radiant ministry 
 
 Descend on Francis : — through the air 
 
 Of this sad earth to him repair. 
 
 Speak to him with a voice, and say, 
 
 ' That he must cast despair away !' " 
 
 Then from within the embowered retreat 
 Where she had found a grateful seat. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 281 
 
 Perturbed she issues. — She will go ; 
 
 Herself will follow to the war, 
 
 And clasp her father's knees; — ah, no! 
 
 She meets the insuperable bai', 
 
 The injunction by her Brother laid ; 
 
 His parting charge — but ill obeyed! 
 
 That interdicted all debate, 
 
 All prayer for this cause or for that ; 
 
 All efforts that would turn aside 
 
 The headstrong current of their fate : 
 
 Her duly is to stand and ivait ; 
 
 In resignation to abide 
 
 TRe shock, and finally secure 
 
 O'er pain and grief a triumph pure. 
 
 — She knows, she feels it, and is cheered; 
 At least her present pangs are checked. 
 
 — But now an ancient Man appeared, 
 Approaching her with grave respect. 
 
 Down the smooth walk which then she trod 
 
 He paced along the silent sod, 
 
 And greeting her thus gently spake, 
 
 " An old Man's privilege I take ; 
 
 Dark is the time — a woeful day ! ' 
 
 Dear daughter of affliction, say 
 
 How can I serve you 1 point the way." 
 
 " Rights have you, and may well be bold : 
 
 You with my Father have grown old 
 
 In friendship; — go — from him — from me — 
 
 Strive to avert this misery 
 
 This would I beg; but on my mind 
 
 A passive stillness is enjoined. 
 
 — If prudence offer help or aid. 
 On you is no restriction laid ; 
 You not forbidden to recline 
 With hope upon the Will divine." 
 
 "Hope," said the Sufferer's zealous Friend, 
 "Must not forsake us till the end. — 
 In Craven's wilds is many a den, 
 To shelter persecuted men : 
 Par under ground is many a cave. 
 Where they might lie as in the grave. 
 Until this storm hath ceased to rave ; 
 Or let them cross the River Tweed, 
 And be at once from peril freed !" 
 
 — "Ah tempt me not !" she faintly sighed; 
 "I will not counsel nor e.xhort, — 
 
 With my condition satisfied ; 
 But you, at least, may make report 
 Of what befalls; — be this your task — 
 This may be done; — 'tis all I ask!" 
 
 j She spake — and from the Lady's sight 
 The Sire, unconscious of his age, 
 2L 
 
 Departed promptly as a Page 
 Bound on some errand of delight. 
 
 — The noble Francis — wise as brave. 
 Thought he, may have the skill to save: 
 With hopes in tenderness concealed. 
 Unarmed he followed to the field. 
 
 Him will I seek: the insurgent Powers 
 Are now besieging Barnard's Towers, — 
 " Grant that the Moon which shines this night 
 May guide them in a prudent flight 1" 
 
 But quick the turns of chance and change. 
 And knowledge has a narrow range; 
 Whence idle fears, and needless pain. 
 And wishes blind, and efforts vain. — 
 Their flight the fair Moon may not see; 
 For, from mid-lieaven, already she 
 Hath witnessed their captivity. 
 She saw the desperate assault 
 Upon that hostile castle made; — 
 But dark and dismal is the Vault 
 Where Norton and his sons are laid ! 
 Disastrous issue! — he had said, 
 " This night yon haughty Towers must yield, 
 Or we for ever quit the field. 
 
 — Neville is utterly dismayed, 
 For promise fails of Howard's aid; 
 And Dacre to our call replies 
 That he is unprepared to rise. 
 
 My heart is sick; — this weary pause 
 
 Blust needs be fatal to the cause. 
 
 The breach is open — on the Wall, 
 
 This night, the Banner shall be planted !" 
 
 — 'T was done — his Sons were with him — all; 
 
 They belt him round with hearts undaunted 
 
 And others follow ; — Sire and Son 
 
 Leap down into the court — "'Tis won" 
 
 They shout aloud — but Heaven decreed 
 
 Another close 
 
 To that brave deed 
 Which struck with terror friends and foes! 
 The friend shrinks back — the foe recoils 
 From Norton and his filial band ; 
 But they, now caught within the toils. 
 Against a thousand cannot stand : — 
 The foe from numbers courage drew, 
 And overpowered that gallant few. 
 " A rescue for the Standard !" cried 
 The Father from within the walls: 
 But, see, the sacred Standard falls! — 
 Confusion through the Camp spread wide; 
 Some fled — and some their fears detained; 
 But ere the Moon had sunk to rest 
 In her pale chambers of the West, 
 Of that rash levy nought remained. 
 
 24* 
 
282 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 CANTO FIFTH. 
 
 High on a point of rugged ground 
 Among the wastes of Rylstone Fell, 
 Above the loftiest ridge or mound 
 Where Foresters or Shepherds dwell, 
 An Edifice of warlike frame 
 Stands single (Norton Tower its name) ;* 
 It fronts all quarters, and looks round 
 O'er path and road, and plain and dell. 
 Dark moor, and gleam of pool and stream, 
 Upon a prospect without bound. 
 
 Tlie summit of this bold ascent. 
 Though bleak and bare, and seldom free 
 As Pendle-hill or Pennygent 
 From wind, or frost, or vapours wet, 
 Had often heard the sound of glee 
 When there the youthful Nortons met. 
 To practise games and archery : 
 How proud and happy they ! the crowd 
 Of Lookers-on how pleased and proud ! 
 And from the scorching noon-tide sun. 
 From showers, or when the prize was won, 
 They to the Watch-tower did repair. 
 Commodious Pleasure-house ! and there 
 Would mirth run round, with generous fare ; 
 And the stern old Lord of Rylstone-hall, 
 He was the proudest of them all ! 
 
 But now, his Child, with anguish pale. 
 Upon tlie height walks to and fro; 
 'T is well that she hath heard the tale. 
 Received the bitterness of woe : 
 For she had hoped, had hoped and feared, 
 Such rights did feeble nature claim; 
 And oft her steps had hither steered, 
 Though not unconscious of self-blame ; 
 For she her brother's charge revered. 
 His farewell words; and by the same, 
 Yea, by her brother's very name. 
 Had, in her solitude, been cheered. 
 
 • It is 80 called to this day, and is thus described by Dr. Whit- 
 aUer : — " Rylslone Fell yet exhibits a monument of the old 
 warfare between the Nortons and Cliffords. On a point of 
 very high ground, commanding an immense prospect, and pro- 
 tected by two deep ravines, are Itie remains of a square tower, 
 expressly said by Dodsworth to have been built by Richard 
 Norton. The walls are of strong grout-work, about four feet 
 thick. It seems to have been three stories high. Breaches have 
 been industriously made in all the sides, almost to the ground, 
 to render it untenable. 
 
 " But Norton Tower was probably a sort of pleasure-house 
 in summer, as there are, adjoining to it, several large mounds, 
 (two of them are pretty entire.) of which no other account 
 can be given than that they were butts lor large companies of 
 archers. 
 
 *' The place is savagely wild, and admirably adapted to tlie 
 uses of a watch-tower." 
 
 She turned to him, 'w\\o with his eye 
 Was watching her while on the height 
 She sate, or wandered restlessly, 
 O'erburthened by her sorrow's weight; 
 To him who this dire news had told. 
 And now beside the Mourner stood ; 
 (That gray-haired Man of gentle blood. 
 Who with her Father had grown old 
 In friendship, rival Hunters they, 
 And fellow Warriors in their day) 
 To Rylstone he the tidings brought; 
 Then on this place the Maid had sought : 
 And told, as gently as could be, 
 The end of that sad Tragedy, 
 Which it had been his lot to see. 
 
 To him the Lady turned ; " You said 
 That Francis lives, he is not deadl" 
 
 " Your noble Brother hath been spared, 
 To take his life they have not dared; 
 On him and on his high endeavour 
 The light of praise shall shine for ever! 
 Nor did he (such Heaven's will) in vain 
 His solitary course maintain ; 
 Not vainly struggled in the might 
 Of duty, seeing with clear sight; 
 He was their comfort to the last, 
 Their joy till every pang was past, 
 
 "I witnessed when to York they came — 
 
 What, Lady, if their feet were tied ; 
 
 They might deserve a good Man's blame ; 
 
 But, marks of infamy and shame. 
 
 These were their triumph, these their pride, 
 
 Nor wanted 'mid the pressing crowd 
 
 Deep feeling, that found utterance loud, 
 
 ' Lo, Francis comes,' there were who cried, 
 
 ' A Prisoner once, but now set free ! 
 
 'T is well, for he the worst defied 
 
 For sake of natural Piety ; 
 
 He rose not in this quarrel, he 
 
 His Father and his Brothers wooed. 
 
 Both for their own and Country's good, 
 
 To rest in peace — he did divide. 
 
 He parted from them ; but at their side 
 
 Now walks in unanimity — 
 
 Then peace to cruelty and scorn, 
 
 While to the prison they are borne. 
 
 Peace, peace to all indignity !' 
 
 " And so in Prison were they laid — 
 
 Oh hear me, hear me, gentle Maid, 
 
 For I am come with power to bless. 
 
 By scattering gleams, through your distress, 
 
 Of a redeeming happiness. 
 
 Me did a reverent pity move 
 
 And privilege of ancient love; 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 283 
 
 And, in your service, I made bold — 
 And entrance gained to that strong-hold. 
 
 " Your Father gave me cordial greeting ; 
 
 But to his purposes, that burned 
 
 Within him, instantly returned — 
 
 He was commanding and entreating. 
 
 And said, ' We need not stop, my Son ! 
 
 But I will end what is begun; 
 
 'Tis matter which I do not fear 
 
 To entrust to any living ear.' 
 
 And so to Francis he renewed 
 
 His words, more calmly thus pursued. 
 
 "'Might this our enterprise have sped, 
 
 Change wide and deep the Land had seen, 
 
 A renovation from the dead, 
 
 A spring-tide of immortal green : 
 
 The darksome Altars would have blazed 
 
 Like stars when clouds are rolled away ; 
 
 Salvation to all eyes that gazed. 
 
 Once more the Rood had been upraised 
 
 To spread its arms, and stand for aye. 
 
 Then, then, had I survived to see 
 
 New life in Bolton Priory; 
 
 The voice restored, the eye of Truth 
 
 Re-opened that inspired my youth ; 
 
 To see her in her pomp arrayed; 
 
 This Banner (for such vow I made) 
 
 Should on the consecrated breast 
 
 Of that same Temple have found rest : 
 
 I would myself have hung it high. 
 
 Glad offering of glad victory ! 
 
 "'A shadow of such thought remains 
 To cheer this sad and pensive Time ; 
 A solemn fancy yet sustains 
 One feeble Being — bids me climb 
 Even to the last — one effort more 
 To attest my Faith, if not restore. 
 
 "'Hear then," said he, 'while I impart, 
 j My Son, the last wish of my heart. 
 — The Banner strive thou to regain ; 
 And, if the endeavour be not vain. 
 Bear it — ■ to whom if not to thee 
 Shall I this lonely thought consign 1 — 
 Bear it to Bolton Priory, 
 And lay it on Saint Mary's shrine, — 
 To wither in the sun and breeze 
 ;'Mid those decaying Sanctities. 
 I There let at least the gift be laid. 
 The testimony there displayed ; 
 Bold proof that with no selfish aim. 
 But for lost Faith and Christ's dear name, 
 I helmeted a brow though white, 
 And took a place in all men's sight; 
 Yea offered up this beauteous Brood 
 This fair unrivalled Brotherhood, 
 
 And turned away from thee, my Son ! 
 And left — but be the rest unsaid, 
 The name untouched, the tear unshed, — • 
 My wish is known, and I have done: 
 Now promise, grant this one request. 
 This dying prayer, and be thou blest !" 
 
 " Then Francis answered fervently, 
 ' If God so wUl, the same shall be.' 
 
 "Immediately, this solemn word 
 
 Thus scarcely given, a noise was heard, 
 
 And Officers appeared in state 
 
 To lead the Prisoners to their fate. 
 
 They rose, oh ! wherefore should I fear 
 
 To tell, or, Lady, you to hear? 
 
 They rose — embraces none were given — 
 
 They stood like trees when earth and heaven 
 
 Are calm ; they knew each otlier's worth. 
 
 And reverently the Band went forth ; 
 
 They met, when they had reached the door, 
 
 The Banner, which a Soldier bore. 
 
 One marshalled thus with base intent 
 
 That he in scorn might go before, 
 
 And, holding up this monument. 
 
 Conduct them to their punishment ; 
 
 So cruel Sussex, unrestrained 
 
 By human feeling, had ordained. 
 
 The unhappy Banner Francis saw. 
 
 And, with a look of calm command 
 
 Inspiring universal awe 
 
 He took it from the Soldier's hand ; 
 
 And all the people that were round 
 
 Confirmed the deed in peace profound. 
 
 — High transport did the Father shed 
 
 Upon his Son — and they were led, 
 
 Led on, and yielded up their breath. 
 
 Together died, a happy death ! 
 
 But Francis, soon as he had braved 
 
 This insult, and the Banner saved. 
 
 That moment, from among the tide 
 
 Of the spectators occupied 
 
 In admiration or dismay, 
 
 Bore unobserved his Charge away." 
 
 These things, which thus had in the siglit 
 
 And hearing passed of him who stood 
 
 With Emily, on the Watch-tower height, 
 
 In Rylstone's woeful neighbourhood. 
 
 He told ; and oftentimes with voice 
 
 Of power to comfort or rejoice ; 
 
 For deepest sorrows that aspire. 
 
 Go high, no transport ever higher. 
 
 " Yet, yet in this affliction," said 
 
 The old Man to the silent Maid, 
 
 " Yet, Lady ! heaven is good — the night 
 
 Shows yet a Star which is most bright ; 
 
 Your Brother lives — he lives — is come 
 
 Perhaps already to his home ; 
 
284 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Then let us leave this dreary place. 
 She yielded, and with gentle pace, 
 Though without one uplifted look. 
 To Rylstone-hall her way she took. — 
 
 CANTO SIXTH. 
 
 Wiiy comes not Francis 1 — Joyful cheer 
 
 In that parental gratulation, 
 
 And glow of righteous indignation, 
 
 Went with him from the doleful City: 
 
 lie fled — yet in his flight could hear 
 
 Tlio death-sound of the Jlinster-bell ; 
 
 That sullen stroke pronounced farewell 
 
 To Marmaduke, cut off" from pity ! 
 
 To Ambrose that! and then a knell 
 
 For him, the sweet half-opened Flower! 
 
 For all — all dying in one hour ! 
 
 — Why comes not Francis! Thoughts of love 
 
 Should bear him to his Sister dear 
 
 With motion fleet as winged Dove ; 
 
 Yea, like a heavenly Messenger, 
 
 An Angel-guest, should he appear. 
 
 Why comes he not ? — for westward fast 
 
 Along the plain of York he past ; 
 
 The Banner-staff" was in his hand. 
 
 The Imagery concealed from sight. 
 
 And cross the expanse, in open flight, 
 
 Reckless of what impels or leads. 
 
 Unchecked he liurries on ; — nor heeds 
 
 The sorrow through the Villages, 
 
 Spread by triumphant cruelties 
 
 Of vengeful military force, 
 
 And punishment without remorse. 
 
 He marked not, heard not as he fled ; 
 
 All but the suflfering heart was dead, 
 
 For him abandoned to blank awe, 
 
 To vacancy, and horror strong : 
 
 And the first object which he saw. 
 
 With conscious sight, as he swept along, — 
 
 It was the banner in his hand ! 
 
 He felt, and made a sudden stand. 
 
 He looked about like one betrayed : 
 
 What hath he done 3 what promise made 1 
 
 Oh weak, weak moment ! to what end 
 
 Can .=uch a vain oblation tend, 
 
 And he the Bearer 1 — Can he go 
 
 Carrying this instrument of woe, 
 
 And find, find any where, a right 
 
 To e.xcuse him in his Country's sight? 
 
 No, will not all Men deem the change 
 
 A downward course, perverse and strange! 
 
 Here is it, — but how, when! must she, 
 
 The unoffending Emily, 
 
 Again this piteous object see ! 
 
 Such conflict long did he maintain 
 
 Within himself, and found no rest; 
 
 Calm liberty he could not gain ; 
 
 And yet the service was unblest. 
 
 His own life into danger brought 
 
 By this sad burden — even that thought. 
 
 Exciting self-suspicion strong. 
 
 Swayed the brave man to his wrong. 
 
 And how, unless it were the sense 
 
 Of all-disposing Providence, 
 
 Its will intelligibly shown. 
 
 Finds he the banner in his hand, 
 
 Without a thought to such intent, 
 
 Or conscious efl!brt of his own ; 
 
 And no obstruction to prevent. 
 
 His Father's wish, and last command ! 
 
 And, thus beset, he heaved a sigh; 
 
 Remembering his own prophecy 
 
 Of utter desolation, made 
 
 To Emily in the yew-tree shade : 
 
 He sighed, submitting to the power, 
 
 The might of that prophetic hour. 
 
 "No choice is left, the deed is mine — 
 
 Dead are they, dead ! — And I will go. 
 
 And, for their sakes, come weal or woe. 
 
 Will lay the Relic on the shrine." 
 
 So forward with a steady will 
 
 He went, and traversed plain and hill ; 
 
 And up the vale of Wharf his way 
 
 Pursued; — and, on the second day. 
 
 He reached a summit whence his eyes 
 
 Could see the Tower of Bolton rise. 
 
 There Francis for a moment's space 
 
 Made halt — but hark! a noise behind 
 
 Of horsemen at an eager pace ! 
 
 He heard, and with misgiving mind. 
 
 — 'Tis Sir George Bowes who leads the Band: 
 
 They come, by cruel Sussex sent; 
 
 Who, when the Nortons from the hand 
 
 Of Death had drunk their punishment. 
 
 Bethought him, angry and ashamed. 
 
 How Francis had the Banner claimed, 
 
 And with that charge had disappeared; 
 
 By all the standers-by revered. 
 
 His whole bold carriage (which had quelled 
 
 Thus far the Opposer, and repelled 
 
 All censure, enterprise so bright 
 
 That even bad men had vainly striven 
 
 Against that overcoming liglit) 
 
 Was then reviewed, and prompt word given, 
 
 That to what place soever fled 
 
 He should be seized, alive or dead. 
 
 The troop of horse have gained the height 
 Where Francis stood in open siglit. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 285 
 
 They hem him round — "Behold the proof, 
 
 Behold the Ensign in his hand ! 
 
 He did not arm, he walked aloof! 
 
 For why 1 — to save his Father's Land ; — 
 
 Worst Traitor of them all is he, 
 
 A Traitor dark and cowardly !" — 
 
 "I am no Traitor," Francis said, 
 
 "Though this unhappy freight I bear; 
 
 It weakens me, my heart hath bled 
 
 Till it is weak — but you, beware, 
 
 Nor do a sufrering Spirit wrong-, 
 
 Whose self-reproaches are too strong!" 
 
 At this he from the beaten road 
 
 Retreated tow'rds a brake of thorn. 
 
 Which like a place of 'vantage showed; 
 
 And there stood bravely, though forlorn. 
 
 In self-defence with warlike brow 
 
 He stood, — nor weaponless was now ; 
 
 He from a Soldier's hand had snatched 
 
 A spear, — and with his eyes he watched 
 
 Their motions, turning round and round: — 
 
 His weaker hand the Banner held ; 
 
 And straight, by savage zeal impelled. 
 
 Forth rushed a Pikeman, as if he. 
 
 Not without harsh indignity. 
 
 Would seize the same : — instinctively — 
 
 To smite the Offender — with his lance 
 
 Did Francis from the brake advance; 
 
 But, from behind, a treacherous wound 
 
 Unfeeling, brought him to the ground, 
 
 A mortal stroke : — oh grief to tell ! 
 
 Thus, thus, the noble Francis fell : 
 
 TKere did he lie of breath forsaken ; 
 
 The Banner from his grasp was taken. 
 
 And borne exultingly away ; 
 
 And the Body was left on the ground where it lay. 
 
 Two days, as many nights, he slept 
 
 Alone, unnoticed, and unwept; 
 
 For at that time distress and fear 
 
 Possessed the Country far and near ; 
 
 The third day. One, who chanced to pass, 
 
 Beheld him stretched upon the grass. 
 
 A gentle Forester was he, 
 
 And of the Norton Tenantry ; 
 
 And he had heard that by a Train 
 
 Of Horsemen Francis had been slain. 
 
 Much was he troubled — for the Man 
 
 Hath recognized his pallid face ; 
 
 And to the nearest Huts he ran, 
 
 And called the People to the place. 
 
 — How desolate is Rylstone-hall ! 
 
 Such was the instant thought of all ; 
 
 And if the lonely Lady there 
 
 Should be, this siglit she cannot bear ! 
 
 Such thought the Forester expressed ; 
 
 And all were swayed, and deemed it best 
 
 That, if the Priest should yield assent 
 And join himself to their intent. 
 Then, they, for Christian pity's sake. 
 In holy ground a grave would make ; 
 That straightway buried he should be 
 In the Church-yard of the Priory. 
 
 Apart, some little space, was made 
 
 The grave where Francis must be laid. 
 
 In no confusion or neglect 
 
 This did they, — but in pure respect 
 
 That he was born of gentle Blood ; 
 
 And that there was no neighbourhood 
 
 Of kindred for him in that ground : 
 
 So to the Churchyard they are bound. 
 
 Bearing the Body on a bier 
 
 In decency and humble cheer 
 
 And psalms are sung with holy sound. 
 
 But Emily hath raised her head, 
 
 And is again disquieted ; 
 
 She must behold ! — so many gone. 
 
 Where is the solitary One 1 
 
 And forth from Rylstone-hall stepped she, — 
 
 To seek her Brother forth she went. 
 
 And tremblingly her course she bent 
 
 Tow'rd Bolton's ruined Priory. 
 
 She comes, and in the Vale hath heard 
 
 The Funeral dirge; — she sees the knot 
 
 Of people, sees them in one spot — 
 
 And darting like a wounded Bird 
 
 She reached the grave, and with her breast 
 
 Upon the ground received the rest, — 
 
 The consummation, the whole ruth 
 
 And sorrow of this final trutli ! 
 
 CANTO SEVENTH. 
 
 Thou Spirit, whose angelic hand 
 Was to' the Harp a strong command, 
 Called the submissive strings to wake 
 In glory for this Maiden's sake. 
 Say, Spirit! whither hath she fled 
 To hide her poor afflicted headl 
 What mighty forest in its gloom 
 Enfolds her ] — is a rifted tomb 
 Within the Wilderness her seat? 
 Some island whicli the viiild waves beat 
 Is that the Suflerer's last retreat? 
 Or some aspiring rock, that shrouds 
 Its perilous front in mists and clouds? 
 High-climbing rock — low sunless dale — 
 Sea — desert — what do these avail? 
 Oh take her anguish and her fears 
 Into a deep recess of years ! 
 
286 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 'Tis done; — despoil and desolation 
 
 O'er Rylstone's fair domain have blown *; 
 
 The walks and pools neglect hath sown 
 
 With weeds ; the bowers are overthrown, 
 
 Or have given way to slow mutation, 
 
 While, in their ancient habitation 
 
 The Norton name hath been unknown. 
 
 The lordly Mansion of its pride 
 
 Is stripped ; the ravage hath spread wide 
 
 Through park and field, a perishing 
 
 That mocks the gladness of the Spring ! 
 
 And with this silent gloom agreeing 
 
 There is a joyless human Being, 
 
 Of aspect such as if the waste 
 
 Were under her dominion placed: 
 
 Upon a primrose bank, her throne 
 
 Of quietness, she sits alone ; 
 
 There seated, may this Maid be seen, 
 
 Among the ruins of a wood, 
 
 Erewhile a covert bright and green. 
 
 And wliere full many a brave Tree stood. 
 
 That used to spread its boughs, and ring 
 
 With the sweet Bird's carolling. 
 
 Behold her, like a Virgin Queen, 
 
 Neglecting in imperial state 
 
 These outward images of fate. 
 
 And carrying inward a serene 
 
 And perfect sway, through many a thought 
 
 Of chance and change, that hath been brought 
 
 To the subjection of a holy. 
 
 Though stern and rigorous, melancholy ! 
 
 The like authority, with grace 
 
 Of awfulness, is in her face, — 
 
 There hath she fixed it; yet it seems 
 
 To o'ershadow by no native right 
 
 That face, which cannot lose the gleams, 
 
 Lose utterly the tender gleams 
 
 Of gentleness and meek delight. 
 
 And loving-kindness ever bright : 
 
 * After the attainder of Richard Norton, his estates were for- 
 feited to the crown, where they remained till the 2d or 3d of 
 James ; they were then granted to Francis, Earl of Cumber- 
 land." From an accurate survey made at that time, several 
 particulars have been extracted by Dr. W. It appears that the 
 mansion-house was then in decay. Immediately adjoining is a 
 close, called tlie Vivery, so called, undoubtedly, from the 
 French Vivier, or modern Latin Vivarium ; for there are near 
 the house large remains of a pleasure-ground, such as were 
 introduced in the earher part of Elizabeth's time, with topiary 
 works, fish-ponds, an island, &c. The whole township was 
 ranged by an hundred and thirty red deer, the properly of the 
 Lord, which, together with the wood, had, after the attainder 
 of Mr. Norton, been committed to Sir Stephen Tempest. The 
 wood, it seems, had been abandoned to depredations, before 
 which time it appears that the neighbourhood must have exhi- 
 bited a forest-like and sylvan scene. In this survey, among the 
 old tenants, is mentioned one Richard Kitchen, butler to Mr. 
 Norton, who rose in rebellion with his master, and was executed 
 at llipon. 
 
 Such is her sovereign mien : — her dress 
 (A vest with woollen cincture tied, 
 A hood of mountain-wool undyed) 
 Is homely, — fashioned to e.xpress 
 A wandering Pilgrim's liumbleness. 
 
 And she hath wandered, long and far. 
 Beneath the light of sun and star ; 
 Hath roamed in troiible and in griefj 
 Driven forward like a withered leaf, 
 Yea like a Ship at random blown 
 To distant places and unknown. 
 But now she dares to seek a haven 
 Among her native wilds of Craven ; 
 Hath seen again her Father's Roof, 
 And put her fortitude to proof; 
 The mighty sorrow liatli been borne. 
 And she is thoroughly forlorn : 
 Her soul doth in itself stand fast. 
 Sustained by memory of the past 
 And strength of Reason ; held above 
 The infirmities of mortal love ; 
 Undaunted, lofty, calm, and stable. 
 And awfully impenetrable. 
 
 And so — beneath a mouldered tree, 
 
 A self-surviving leafless Oak, 
 
 By unregarded age from stroke 
 
 Of ravage saved — sate Emily. 
 
 There did she rest, with head reclined. 
 
 Herself most like a stately Flower, 
 
 (Such have I seen) whom chance of birth 
 
 Hath separated from its kind. 
 
 To live and die in a shady bower, 
 
 Single on the gladsome earth. 
 
 When, with a noise like distant thunder, 
 
 A troop of Deer came sweeping by ; 
 
 And, suddenly, behold a wonder ! 
 
 For, of tliat band of rushing Deer, 
 
 A single One in mid career 
 
 Hath stopped, and fixed his large full eye 
 
 Upon the Lady Emily, 
 
 A Doe most beautiful, clear-white, 
 
 A radiant Creature, silver-bright ! 
 
 Thus checked, a little while it stayed; 
 A little thoughtful pause it made; 
 And then advanced with stealth-like pace, 
 Drew softly near her — and more near 
 Stopped once again ; — but, as no trace 
 Was found of anything to fear. 
 Even to her feet the Creature came, 
 And laid its head upon her knee. 
 And looked into the Lady's face, 
 A look of pure benignity, 
 And fond unclouded memory ; 
 It is, thought Etnily, the same. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 267 
 
 1 The very Doe of other years ! 
 i; The pleading look the Lady viewed, 
 I And, by her gushing thoughts subdued, 
 ! She melted into tears — 
 > A flood of tears, that flowed apace, 
 Upon the happy Creature's face. 
 
 Oh, moment ever blest ! O Pair ! 
 
 Beloved of Heaven, Heaven's choicest care. 
 
 This was for you a precious greeting. 
 
 For both a bounteous, fruitful meeting. 
 
 Joined are they, and the sylvan Doe 
 
 Can she depart? can she forego, 
 
 The Lady, once her playful Peer, 
 
 And now her sainted Mistress dear '! 
 
 And will not Emily receive 
 
 This lovely Chronicler of things 
 
 Long past, delights and sorrowings? 
 
 Lone Sufferer ! will not she believe 
 
 The promise in that speaking face. 
 
 And take this gift of Heaven with grace ? 
 
 That day, the first of a re-union 
 i Which was to teem with high communion. 
 
 That day of balmy April weather. 
 
 They tarried in the wood together. 
 I And when, ere fall of evening dew, 
 I She from this sylvan haunt withdrew. 
 
 The White Doe tracked with faithful pace 
 
 The Lady to her Dwelling-place ; 
 
 That nook where, on paternal ground, 
 iA habitation she had found. 
 
 The Master of whose humble hoard 
 
 Once owned her Father for his Lord; 
 
 A Hut, by tufted Trees defended, 
 j Where Rylstone Brook with Wharf is blended. 
 
 I When Emily by morning light 
 
 Went forth, the Doe was there in sight. 
 
 She shrunk : — with one frail shock of pain, 
 I Received and followed by a prayer. 
 
 Did she behold — saw once again; 
 
 Shun will she not, she feels, will bear ; — 
 
 But, wheresoever she looked round. 
 
 All now was trouble-haunted ground. 
 
 So doth the Sufferer deem it good 
 
 Even once again this neighbourhood 
 
 To leave. — Unwooed, yet unforbidden. 
 
 The White Doe followed up the Vale, 
 
 Up to another Cottage — hidden 
 
 In the deep fork of Amerdale ;* 
 
 And there may Emily restore 
 j Herself, in spots unseen before. 
 
 j * "At the extremity of the parish of Bumsal, the valley of 
 I Wfiarf forks off into two great branches, one of which retains 
 ; the name of Wharfdale, to the source of the river ; the other is 
 ! usually called Littondale, but more anciently and properly, 
 Amerdale. Dern-brook, which runs along an obscure valley 
 from the N. W., is derived from a Teutonic word, signifying 
 j concealment." — Dr. Whitakeiu 
 
 Why tell of mossy rock, or tree. 
 
 By lurking Dernbrook's pathless side, 
 
 Haunts of a strengthening amity 
 
 That calmed her, cheered, and fortified? 
 
 For she hath ventured now to read 
 
 Of time, and place, and thought, and deed, 
 
 Endless history that lies 
 
 In her silent Follower's eyes! 
 
 Who with a power like human Reason 
 
 Discerns the favourable season, 
 
 Skilled to approach or to retire, — 
 
 From looks conceiving her desire. 
 
 From look, deportment, voice, or mien. 
 
 That vary to the heart within. 
 
 If she too passionately wreathed 
 
 Her arms, or over-deeply breathed. 
 
 Walked quick or slowly, every mood 
 
 In its degree was understood ; 
 
 Then well may their accord be true. 
 
 And kindly intercourse ensue. 
 
 — Oh ! surely 't was a gentle rousing 
 When she by sudden glimpse espied 
 
 The White Doe on the mountain browsing. 
 
 Or in the meadow wandered wide ! 
 
 How pleased, when down the Straggler sank 
 
 Beside her, on some sunny bank ! 
 
 How soothed, when in thick bower enclosed. 
 
 They like a nested Pair reposed ! 
 
 Fair Vision! when it crossed the Maid 
 
 Within some rocky cavern laid. 
 
 The dark cave's portal gliding by, 
 
 White as whitest cloud on high, 
 
 Floating through an azure sky. 
 
 — What now is left for pain or fear ? 
 That Presence, dearer and more dear. 
 Did now a very gladness yield 
 
 At morning to the dewy field. 
 While they, side by side, were straying. 
 And the Shepherd's pipe was playing; 
 And with a deeper peace endued 
 The hour of moonlight solitude. 
 
 With her Companion, in such frame 
 
 Of mind, to Rylstone back she came ; 
 
 And, wandering through the wasted groves, 
 
 Received the memory of old Loves, 
 
 Undisturbed and undistrest. 
 
 Into a soul which now was blest 
 
 With a soft spring-day of holy. 
 
 Mild, delicious, melancholy ; 
 
 Not sunless gloom or unenlightened. 
 
 But by tender fancies brightened. 
 
 When the Bells of Rylstone played 
 Their Sabbath music — " @cb ug atjbe !* 
 
 *0n one of the bells of Rylstone church, W'hich seems coeval 
 with the building of the tower, is this cypher, 3. 91. for John 
 Norton, and the motto, " ©06 ui aifit." 
 
288 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 That was the sound they seemed to speak; 
 Inscriptive legend which I ween 
 May on those holy Bells be seen, 
 That legend and her Grandsire's name; 
 And oftentimes the Lady meeli 
 Had in her Childhood read the same, 
 Words which she slighted at that day; 
 But now, when such sad change was wrought 
 And of that lonely name she thought. 
 The Bells of Rylstone seemed to say, 
 While she sate listening in the shade, 
 With vocal music, " ®(6 uS aiiti: ;" 
 And all the Hills were glad to bear 
 Their part in this effectual prayer. 
 
 Nor lacked She Reason's firmest power ; 
 But with the White Doe at her side 
 Up doth she climb to Norton Tower, 
 And thence looks round her far and wide; 
 Her fate there measures, — all is stilled, — 
 The Feeble hath subdued her heart; 
 Behold the prophecy fulfilled, 
 Fulfilled, and she sustains her part ! 
 But here her Brother's words have failed ; 
 Here hath a milder doom prevailed; 
 That she, of him and all bereft. 
 Hath yet this faithful Partner left; 
 This single Creature that disproves 
 His words, remains for her, and loves. 
 If tears are shed, they do not fall 
 For loss of him — for one, or all ; 
 Yet, sometimes, sometimes doth she weep, 
 Moved gently in her soul's soft sleep ; 
 A few tears down her cheek descend 
 For this her last and living Friend. 
 
 Bless, tender Hearts, their mutual lot, 
 And bless for both this savage spot! 
 Which Emily doth sacred hold 
 For reasons dear and manifold — 
 Here hath she, here before her sight. 
 Close to the summit of this height. 
 The grassy rock-encircled Pound* 
 In which the Creature first was found. 
 
 * Which is thus described by Dr. Whitaker: — "On Ihe plain 
 summit of the hill are the foundations of a strong wall 
 stretcliing from the S. W. to the N. E. corner of the tower, 
 and to the edge of a very deep glen. From this glen, a ditch, 
 several hundred yards long, runs soiuh to another deep and 
 rugeed ravine. On the IN. and \V. where the banks are very 
 steep, no wall or mound is discoverable, paling being the only 
 fence that could stand on such ground. 
 
 "From the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, it appears 
 that such pounds for deer, sheep, &c. were far from being un- 
 common in the south of Scotland. The principle of them was 
 something like that of a wire mouse-trap. On the declivity of 
 a steep hill, the bottom and sides of which were fenced so as to 
 be impassable, a wall was constructed nearly level with the 
 surface on the outside, yet so high within, that without wings 
 it was impossible to escape in the opposite direction. Care was 
 
 So beautiful the spotless Thrall 
 
 (A lovely youngling white as foam) 
 
 That it was brought to Rylstone-hall ; 
 
 Her youngest Brother led it home, 
 
 The youngest, then a lusty Boy, 
 
 Brought home the prize — and with what joy ! 
 
 But most to Bolton's sacred Pile, 
 
 On favouring nights, she loved to go: 
 
 There ranged through cloister, court, and aisle, 
 
 Attended by the soft-paced Doe ; 
 
 Nor feared she in the still moonshine 
 
 To look upon Saint Mary's shrine; 
 
 Nor on the lonely turf that showed 
 
 Where Francis slept in his last abode. 
 
 For that she came; there oft and long 
 
 She sate in meditation strong : 
 
 And, when she from the abyss returned 
 
 Of thought, she neither shrunk nor mourned; 
 
 Was happy that she lived to greet 
 
 Her mute Companion as it lay 
 
 In love and pity at her feet; 
 
 How happy in its turn to meet 
 
 That recognition ! the mild glance 
 
 Beamed from that gracious countenance; 
 
 Communication, like the ray 
 
 Of a new morning, to the nature 
 
 And prospects of the inferior Creature ! 
 
 A mortal Song we frame, by dower 
 
 Encouraged of celestial power ; 
 
 Power which the viewless Spirit shed 
 
 By whom we were first visited ; 
 
 Whose voice we heard, whose hand and wings 
 
 Swept like a breeze the conscious strings. 
 
 When, left in solitude, erewhile 
 
 We stood before this ruined Pile, 
 
 And, quitting unsubstantial dreams, 
 
 Sang in this presence kindred themes; 
 
 Distress and desolation spread 
 
 Through human hearts, and pleasure dead, — 
 
 Dead — but to live again on Earth, 
 
 A second and yet nobler birth ; 
 
 Dire overthrow, and yet how high 
 
 The re-ascent in sanctity ! 
 
 From fair to fairer ; day by day 
 
 A more divine and loftier way ! 
 
 Even such this blessed Pilgrim trod, 
 
 By sorrow lifted tovv'rds her God ; 
 
 Uplifted to the purest sky 
 
 Of undisturbed mortality. 
 
 Her own thoughts loved she ; and could bend 
 
 A dear look to her lowly Friend, — 
 
 probably taken that these enclosures should contain better fee 
 llian the neighbouring parks or forests ; and w hoever i 
 acquainted with Ihe habits of these sequacious animals, vvil 1 
 ea-^ily conceive, that if the leader was once tempted to desccn' ) 
 into the snare, an herd would follow." 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 2S9 
 
 There stopped ; — her thirst was satisfied 
 
 With what this innocent spring supplied — 
 
 Her sanction inwardly she bore, 
 
 And stood apart from human cares: 
 
 But to the world returned no more, 
 
 Although with no unwilling- mind 
 
 Help did she give at need, and joined 
 
 The Wharfdale Peasants in their prayers. 
 
 At length, thus faintly, faintly tied 
 
 To earth, she was set free, and died. 
 
 Thy soul, exalted Emily, 
 
 Maid of the blasted family, 
 
 Rose to the God from whom it came ! 
 
 — In Rylstone Church her mortal frame 
 
 Was buried by her Mother's side. 
 
 Most glorious sunset ! and a ray 
 Survives — the twilight of this day — 
 In that fair Creature whom the fields 
 Support, and whom the forest shields; 
 Who, having filled a holy place. 
 Partakes, in her degree. Heaven's grace; 
 And bears a memory and a mind 
 Raised far above the law of kind ; 
 Haunting the spots with lonely cheer 
 Which her dear Mistress once held dear: 
 Loves most what Emily loved most — 
 The enclosure of this Church-yard ground ; 
 
 Here wanders like a gliding Ghost, 
 
 And every Sabbath here is found ; 
 
 Comes with the People when the Bells 
 
 Are heard among the moorland dells. 
 
 Finds entrance through yon arch, where way 
 
 Lies open on the Sabbath-day ; 
 
 Here walks amid the mournful waste 
 
 Of prostrate altars, shrines defaced, 
 
 And floors encumbered with rich show 
 
 Of fret-work imagery laid low ; 
 
 Paces softly, or makes halt, 
 
 By fractured cell, or tomb, or vault. 
 
 By plate of monumental brass 
 
 Dim-gleaming among weeds and grass, 
 
 And sculptured Forms of Warriors brave; 
 
 But chiefly by that single grave. 
 
 That one sequestered hillock green, 
 
 The pensive Visitant is seen. 
 
 There doth the gentle Creature lie 
 
 With those adversities unmoved ; 
 
 Calm Spectacle, by earth and sky 
 
 In their benignity approved ! 
 
 And aye, methinks, this hoary Pile, 
 
 Subdued by outrage and decay. 
 
 Looks down upon her with a smile, 
 
 A gracious smile, that seems to say, 
 
 " Thou, thou art not a Child of Time, 
 
 But Daughter of the Eternal Prime !"* 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES, 
 
 IN A SERIES OF SONNETS. 
 
 • A verse may catch a -wandering Soul, that flies 
 Profounder Tracts, and by a blest surprise 
 Convert delight into a Sacrifice." 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 DnRiNO the month of December, 1820, I accompa- 
 nied a miicli-loved and honoured Friend in a walk 
 through different parts of his Estate, with a view to fix 
 upon the Site of a New Church which he intended to 
 erect. It was one of the most beautiful mornings of a 
 mild season, — our feelings were in harmony with the 
 cherishing influences of the scene ; and, such being 
 I our purpose, we were naturally led to look back upon 
 j past events with wonder and gratitude, and on the 
 i future with hope. Not long afterwards, some of the 
 : Sonnets which will be found towards the close of this 
 2M 
 
 Series, were produced as a private memorial of that 
 morning's occupation. 
 
 The Catholic Question, which was agitated in Par- 
 liament about that time, kept my thoughts in the same 
 course ; and it struck me that certain points in the 
 Ecclesiastical History of our Country might advan- 
 tageously be presented to view in Verse. Accordingly, 
 
 * I cannot conclude without recomtnending to the notice of all 
 lovers of beautiful scenery — Bolton Abbey and ils neighbour- 
 hood. This enchanting spot belongs to the Duke of Devon- 
 shire ; and the superintendence of it has for some years been 
 entrusted to the Rev. William Carr, who has most skilfully 
 opened out its features; and, in whatever he has added, has 
 done justice to the place, by working witli an invisible hand of 
 art in the very spirit of nature. 
 
 25 
 
290 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 I took up the subject, and what I now offer to the 
 Reader was the result.* 
 
 When this work was far advanced, I was agreeably 
 surprised to find that my Friend, Mr. Southey, was 
 engaged, with similar views, in writing a concise 
 History of the Church in England. If our Produc- 
 tions, thus unintentionally coinciding, shall be found 
 to illustrate each other, it will prove a high gratifica- 
 tion to me, which I am sure my Friend will participate. 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 
 Rydal Mount, January 24, 1822. 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 FKOM THE INTRODUCTION OF CHRISTLiNITT INTO 
 BRITAIN, TO THE CONSUMMATION OF THE PA- 
 PAL DOMINION. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 I, WHO accompanied with faithful pace 
 
 Cerulean Duddon from his cloud-fed spring. 
 
 And loved with Spirit ruled by his losing 
 
 Of mountain quiet and boon nature's grace ; 
 
 I, who essayed the nobler Stream to trace 
 
 Of Liberty, and smote the plausive string 
 
 Till the checked Torrent, proudly triumphing, 
 
 Won for herself a lasting resting-place; 
 
 Now seek upon the heights of Time the source 
 
 Of a Holy River, on whose banks are found 
 
 Sweet pastoral flowers, and laurels that have crowned 
 
 Full oft the unworthy brow of lawless force ; 
 
 Where, for delight of him who tracks its course. 
 
 Immortal amaranth and palms abound. 
 
 11. 
 
 CONJECTURES. 
 
 If there be prophets on whose spirits rest 
 
 Past things, revealed like future, they can tell 
 
 What Powers, presiding o'er the sacred Well 
 
 Of Christian Faith, this savage Island blessed 
 
 With its first bounty. Wandering through the West, 
 
 * For the convenience of passing frnm one point of the subject 
 to another wiliiout sliocks of abruptnes.^, this work has taken 
 the shape of a Series of Sonnets: but llie Header, it is hoped, 
 will find that the pictures are often so closely connected as to 
 have jointly the effect of passages of a poem in a form of stanza 
 10 v.liich there is no objection but one that bears upon the Poet 
 ori'y — its difTiculty. 
 
 Did holy Paulf a while in Britain dwell, 
 
 And call the Fountain forth by miracle, 
 
 And with dread signs the nascent Stream invest? 
 
 Or He, whose bonds dropped off, whose prison doors 
 
 Flew open, by an Angel's voice unbarred 1 
 
 Or some of humbler name, to these wild shores 
 
 Storm-driven, who having seen the cup of woe 
 
 Pass from their Master, sojourned here to guard 
 
 The precious Current they had taught to flow) 
 
 III. 
 
 TREPIDATION OF THE DRUIDS. 
 
 Screams round the Arch-druid's brow the Seamewf — 
 
 white 
 As Menai's foam ; and tow'rd the mystic ring 
 Whore Augurs stand, the future questioning, 
 Slowly the Cormorant aims her heavy flight, 
 Portending ruin to each baleful rite. 
 That, in the lapse of ages, hath crept o'er 
 Diluvian truths, and patriarchal lore. 
 Haughty the Bard ; — can these meek doctrines blight 
 His transports] wither his heroic strains] 
 But all shall be fulfilled ; — the Julian spear 
 A way first opened ; and, with Roman chains, 
 The tidings come of Jesus crucified ; 
 They come — they spread — the weak, the suffering, 
 
 hear; 
 Receive the faith, and in the hope abide. 
 
 IV. 
 
 DRUIDICAL EXCOMMUNICATION. 
 
 Mercy and Love have met thee on thy road. 
 Thou wretched Outcast, from the gift of fire 
 And food cut off by sacerdotal ire. 
 From every sympathy that Man bestowed ! 
 Yet shall it claim our reverence, that to God, 
 Ancient of Days! that to the eternal Sire 
 These jealous Ministers of Law aspire. 
 As to the one sole fount whence Wisdom flowed, 
 Justice, and Order. Tremblingly escaped. 
 As if with prescience of the coming storm. 
 That intimation when the stars were shaped ; 
 And still, 'mid yon thick woods, the primal truth 
 Glimmers through many a superstitious form 
 That fills the Soul with unavailingr ruth. 
 
 tStillingflcet adduces many arguments in support of this 
 opinion, but they are unconvincing. The latter part of this 
 Sonnet refers to a favourite notion of Catholic Writers, that 
 Joseph of ,\rimathea and his companions brought Christianity 
 into Britain, and built a rude Church at Glastonbury; alluded 
 to hereafter, in a passage upon the dissolution of Monasteries. 
 
 J This water-fowl was, among the Druids, an emblem of those 
 traditions connected with tlie deluge that made an imjiorlant 
 part of their mysteries. The Cormorant was a bird of bad omen. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 291 
 
 UNCERTAINTY. 
 
 Darkness surrounds us ; seeking, we are lost 
 
 On Snowdon's wilds, amid Brigantian coves. 
 
 Or where the solitary Shepherd roves 
 
 Along the Plain of Sarum, by the Ghost 
 
 Of Time and Shadows of Tradition, crost ; 
 
 And where the boatman of the Western Isles 
 
 Slackens his course — to mark those holy piles 
 
 Which yet survive on bleak lona's coast. 
 
 Nor these, nor monuments of eldest fame, 
 
 Nor Taliesin's unforgotten lays, 
 
 Nor characters of Greek or Roman fame. 
 
 To an unquestionable Source have led ; 
 
 Enough — if eyes that sought the fountain-head, 
 
 In vain, upon the growing Rill may gaze. 
 
 To celebrate their great deliverance ; 
 
 Most feelingly instructed 'mid their fear, 
 
 That persecution, blind with rage extreme, 
 
 May not the less, through Heaven's mild countenance 
 
 Even in her own despite, both feed and cheer ; 
 
 For all things are less dreadful than they seem. 
 
 VI. 
 
 PERSECUTION. 
 
 Lament ! for Dioclesian's fiery sword 
 Works busy as the lightning: but instinct 
 With malice ne'er to deadliest weapon linked, 
 Which God's ethereal store-houses afibrd : 
 Against the Followers of the incarnate Lord 
 It rages ; — some are smitten in the field — 
 Some pierced beneath the ineflfectual shield 
 Of sacred home ; — with pomp are others gored 
 And dreadful respite. Thus was Alban tried, 
 England's first Martyr, whom no threats could shake ; 
 Self-oflered "Victim, for his friend he died. 
 And for the faith — nor shall his name forsake 
 That Hill*, whose flowery platform seems to rise 
 By Nature decked for holiest sacrifice. 
 
 VII. 
 
 RECOVERY. 
 
 As, when a storm hath ceased, the birds regain 
 Their cheerfulness, and busily retrim 
 Their nests, or chant a gratulating hymn 
 To the blue ether and bespangled plain ; 
 Even so, in many a re-constructed fane. 
 Have the Survivors of this storm renewed 
 Their holy rites with vocal gratitude : 
 And solemn ceremonials they ordain 
 
 *This hill at St. Alban's must have been an object of great 
 interest to the imagination of the venerable Bede, who thus de- 
 scribes it, with a delicate feeling, delightful to meet with in that 
 rude age, traces of which are frequent in his works : — " Variis 
 herbarum floribus depictus imo usquequaque vestitiis, in quo 
 nihil repente arduuni, nihil pricceps, nihil abruptum, quern 
 lateribus longe lafeque deductum in modum aequoris natura 
 complanat, dignum videlicet eum pro insita sibi specie venus- 
 tatis jam olim reddens, qui beati martyris cruore dicaretur." 
 
 vm. 
 
 TEMPTATIONS FROM ROMAN REFINEMENTS. 
 
 Watch, and be firm ! for soul-subduing vice. 
 
 Heart-killing luxury, on your steps await. 
 
 Fair houses, baths, and banquets delicate, 
 
 And temples fiashing, bright as polar ice. 
 
 Their radiance through the woods, may yet suflice 
 
 To sap your hardy virtue, and abate 
 
 Your love of Him upon whose forehead sate 
 
 The crown of thorns ; whose life-blood flowed, the 
 
 price 
 Of your redemption. Shun the insidious arts 
 That Rome provides, less dreading from her frown 
 Than from her wily praise, her peaceful gown. 
 Language, and letters ; — these, though fondly viewed 
 As humanizing graces, are but parts 
 And instruments of deadliest servitude ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 DISSENSIONS. 
 
 That heresies should strike (if truth be scanned 
 Presumptuously) their roots both wide and deep. 
 Is natural as dreams to feverish sleep. 
 Lo ! Discord at the Altar dares to stand 
 Uplifting tow'rd high Heaven her fiery brand, 
 A cherished Priestess of the new-baptized ! 
 But chastisement shall follow peace despised. 
 The Pictish cloud darkens the enervate land 
 By Rome abandoned ; vain are suppliant cries. 
 And prayers that would undo her forced farewell, 
 For she returns not. — Awed by her own knell, 
 She cast the Britons upon strange Allies, 
 Soon to become more dreaded enemies 
 Than heartless misery called them to repel. 
 
 X. 
 
 STRUGGLE OF THE BRITONS AGAINST THE BAR- 
 BARIANS. 
 
 Rise ! — they have risen : of brave Aneurin ask 
 How they have scourged old foes, perfidious friends : 
 The spirit of Caractacus defends 
 The Patriots, animates their glorious task ; — 
 Amazement runs before the towering casque 
 Of Arthur, bearing through the stormy field 
 The Virgin sculptured on his Christian shield: — 
 Stretched in the sunny light of victory, bask 
 
292 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 The Host that followed Urien as he strode 
 
 O'er heaps of slain ; — from Cambrian wood and moss 
 
 Druids descend, auxiliars of the Cross ; 
 
 Bards, nursed on blue Plinlimmon's still abode 
 
 Rush on the fight, to harps preferring swords, 
 
 And everlasting deeds to burning words ! 
 
 XL 
 
 SAXON CONQUEST. 
 
 Nor wants the cause the panic-striking aid 
 Of hallelujahs* tost from bill to hill — 
 For instant victory. But Heaven's high will 
 Permits a second and a darker shade 
 Of Pagan night. Afflicted and dismayed. 
 The Relics of the sword flee to the mountains: 
 O wretched Land ! whose tears have flowed like foun- 
 tains ; 
 Whose arts and honours in the dust are laid, 
 By men yet scarcely conscious of a care 
 For other monuments than those of Earth ;t 
 Who, as the fields and woods have given them birth. 
 Will build their savage fortunes only there ; 
 Content, if foss, and barrow, and the girth 
 Of long-drawn rampart, witness what they were. 
 
 XIL 
 
 MON.\STERY OF OLD BANGOR, t 
 
 The oppression of the tumult — wrath and scorn — 
 The tribulation — and the gleamin/r blades — 
 Such is the impetuous spirit that pervades 
 
 * Alluding to the victory gained under Germanus. — See 
 Ecde. 
 
 + The last six lines of this Sonnet r.re chiefly from the prose 
 of Daniel; and here I will stale (though to the Readers whom 
 this Poem will chiefly interest it is unnecessnrv') that my obliga- 
 tions to other Prose Writers are frequent, — ohligations which, 
 even if I had not a pleasure in courting, it would have been 
 presumptuous to shun, in treating an historical subject. I must, 
 however, particularise Fuller, to whom I am indebted in the 
 Sonnet upon WiclifPe and in other instances. And upon the 
 acquittal of the Seven Bishops I have done little more than 
 versify a lively description of that event in the Memoirs of the 
 first Lord Lonsdale. 
 
 J " Ethelforth reached the convent of Bangor, he perceived 
 the Monks, twelve hundred in number, offering prayers for the 
 success of their countrymen : ' if they are praying against us,' 
 he exclaimed, ' they are fighting against us ,•' and he ordered 
 them to be first attacked : they were destroyed ; and, appalled 
 by their fate, the courage of Brocmail wavered, and he fled 
 from the field in dismay. Thus abandoned by their leader, 
 his army soon gave way, and Ethelforlh obtained a decisive 
 conquest. .Ancient Bancor itself soon fell into his hands, and 
 was demolished ; the noble monastery was levelled to the 
 ground; its library, which is mentioned as a large one, the 
 collection of ages, the repository of the most precious monu- 
 ments of the ancient Britons, was consumed ; half-ruined walls, 
 
 The song of TaliesinJ ; — Ours shall mourn 
 
 The unarmed Host who by their prayers would turn 
 
 The sword from Bangor's walls, and guard the store 
 
 Of Aboriginal and Roman lore. 
 
 And Christian monuments, that now must burn 
 
 To senseless ashes. Mark ! how all things swerve 
 
 From their known course, or vanish like a dream ; 
 
 Another language spreads from coast to coast ; 
 
 Only perchance some melancholy Stream 
 
 And some indignant Hills old names preserve. 
 
 When laws, and creeds, and people all are lost 
 
 xm. 
 
 CASUAL INCITEMENT. 
 
 A BRIGHT-HAIRED company of youthful Slaves, 
 
 Beautiful Strangers, stand within the Pale 
 
 Of a sad market, ranged for public sale. 
 
 Where Tiber's stream the immortal City laves : 
 
 Angli by name ; and not an Angel waves 
 
 His wing who seemeth lovelier in Heaven's eye 
 
 Than they appear to holy Gregory ; 
 
 Who, having learnt that name, salvation craves 
 
 For Them, and for their Land. The earnest Sire, 
 
 His questions urging, feels in slender ties 
 
 Of chiming sound commanding sympathies ; 
 
 De-irians — he would save them from God's Ire; 
 
 Subjects of Saxon jElla — they shall sing 
 
 Glad HALLElujahs to the eternal King ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 GLAD TIDINGS 
 
 For ever hallowed be this morning fair, 
 
 Blest be the unconscious shore on which ye tread, 
 
 And blest the silver Cross, which ye, instead 
 
 Of martial banner, in procession hear ; 
 
 The Cross preceding Him who floats in air, 
 
 The pictured Saviour! — By Augustin led. 
 
 They come — and onward travel without dread. 
 
 Chanting in barbarous ears a tuneful prayer. 
 
 Sung for themselves, and those whom they would free! 
 
 Rich conquest waits them : — the tempestuous sea 
 
 Of Ignorance, that ran so rough and high. 
 
 And heeded not the voice of clashing swords 
 
 These good men humble by a few bare words, 
 
 And calm with fear of God's divinity. 
 
 gates, and rubbish, were all that remained of the maguiiii-cnt 
 edifice." —See Turner's valuable History of the Anglo-Saxons. 
 
 The account Bede gives of this remarkable event, suggests 
 a most striking warning against National and Religious pre- 
 judices. 
 
 5 Taliesin w.as present at the battle which preceded this 
 desolation. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 293 
 
 XV. 
 
 PAULINUS.* 
 
 Bbt, to remote Northumbria's royal Hall, 
 Where thoughtful Edwin, tutored in the school 
 Of Sorrow, still maintains a heathen rule, 
 Who comes with functions apostolical 1 
 Mark him, of shoulders curved, and stature tall, 
 Black hair, and vivid eye, and meagre cheek, 
 His prominent feature like an eagle's beak ; 
 A Man whose aspect doth at once appal 
 And strike with reverence. The Monarch leans 
 Tow'rd the pure truths this Delegate propounds, 
 I Repeatedly his own deep mind he sounds 
 i With careful hesitation, — then convenes 
 A synod of his Counsellors : — give ear. 
 And what a pensive Sage doth utter, hear : 
 
 XVI. 
 
 PERSUASION. 
 
 'Man's life is like a Sparrowf, mighty King ! 
 
 ' That, stealing in while by the fire you sit 
 
 ' Housed with rejoicing Friends, is seen to flit 
 
 ' Safe from the storm, in comfort tarrying. 
 
 ' Here did it enter — there, on hasty wing, 
 
 ' Flies out, and passes on from cold to cold ; 
 
 ' But whence it came we know not, nor behold 
 
 ' Whither it goes. Even such that transient Thing, 
 
 ' The human Soul ; not utterly unknown 
 
 ' Whib in the Body lodged, her warm abode ; 
 
 ' But from what world She came, what woe or weal 
 
 'On her departure waits, no tongue hath shown; 
 
 ' This mystery if the Stranger can reveal, 
 
 'His be a welcome cordially bestowed !" 
 
 XVII. 
 
 CONVERSION. 
 
 Prompt transformation works the novel Lore ; 
 The Council closed, the Priest in full career 
 Rides forth, an armed man, and hurls a spear 
 To desecrate the Fane which heretofore 
 He served in folly. — Woden falls — and Thor 
 ,Is overturned ; the mace, in battle heaved 
 j(So might they dream) till victory was achieved, 
 Drops, and the God himself is seen no more. 
 Temple and Altar sink, to hide their shame 
 Amid oblivious weeds. " O come to me. 
 
 ■ * The person of Paulinus is thus described by Bede, from the 
 inemoiy of an eye-mitness ; — "LoBgas staturse, paululura in- 
 curvus, nigro capillo, facie macilenta, naso adiuico, pertenui, 
 venerabilis simul et terribilis aspectu." 
 tSee Note 18, p, 322. 
 
 " Ye heavy laden .'" such the inviting voice 
 Heard near fresh streamsf, — and thousands, who re- 
 joice 
 In the new Rite — the pledge of sanctity. 
 Shall, by regenerate life, the promise claim. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 APOLOGY. 
 
 Nor scorn the aid which Fancy oft doth lend 
 
 The Soul's eternal interests to promote : 
 
 Death, darkness, danger, are our natural lot ; 
 
 And evil Spirits may our walk attend 
 
 For aught the wisest know or comprehend ; 
 
 Then be good Spirits free to breathe a note 
 
 Of elevation ; let their odours float 
 
 Around these Converts ; and their glories blend, 
 
 Outshining nightly tapers, or the blaze 
 
 Of the noon-day. Nor doubt that golden cords 
 
 Of good works, mingling with the visions, raise 
 
 The soul to purer worlds : and who the line 
 
 Shall draw, the limits of the power define. 
 
 That even imperfect faith to Man aflbrds? 
 
 XIX. 
 
 PRIMITIVE SAXON CLERGY.? 
 
 How beautiful your presence, how benign, 
 Servants of God ! who not a thought will share 
 With the vain world ; who, outwardly as bare 
 As winter trees, yield no fallacious sign 
 That the firm soul is clothed with fruit divine ! 
 Such Priest, when service worthy of his care 
 Has called him forth to breathe the common air, 
 Blight seem a saintly Image from its shrine 
 Descended : — happy are the eyes that meet 
 The Apparition ; evil thoughts are stayed 
 At his approach, and low-bowed necks entreat 
 A benediciion from his voice or hand ; 
 Whence grace, through which the heart can under- 
 stand ; 
 And vows, that bind the will, in silence made. 
 
 t The early propagators of Christianity were accustomed to 
 preach near rivers, for the convenience of baptism. 
 
 ? Having spoken of tlie zeal, disintei-estedness, and temper- 
 ance of the clergy of those tdmes, Bede thus proceeds: — " Undo 
 et in magna erat veneralione tempore illo religionis habitus, ita 
 ut ubicunque clericus aUquis, aut monachus adveniret, gauden- 
 ler ah omnibus lanquam Dei famulus exciperetur. Etiam si in 
 itinere pergens inveniretur, accurrebant, et flexa cervice, vel 
 manu signari, vel ore illius se henedici, gaudebant. Verbis 
 quoque horum exhortatoriis diligenter auditura pnebebant." 
 Lib. iii. cap. 26. 
 
 25* 
 
294 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 XX. 
 
 OTHER INFLUENCES. 
 
 Ah, when the Frame, round which in love we clung. 
 
 Is chilled by death, does mutual service faill 
 
 Is tender pity then of no avail ! 
 
 Are intercessions of the fervent tongue 
 
 A waste of hope 1 — From this sad source have sprung 
 
 Rites that console the spirit, under grief 
 
 Which ill can brook more rational relief: 
 
 Hence, prayers are shaped amiss, and dirges sung 
 
 For souls whose doom is fi.\'ed ! The way is smooth 
 
 For Power that travels with the human heart: 
 
 Confession ministers, the pang to soothe 
 
 In him who at the ghost of guilt doth start. 
 
 Ye holy Men, so earnest in your care. 
 
 Of your own mighty instruments beware ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 SECLUSION. 
 
 Lance, shield, and sword relinquished — at his side 
 
 A Beed-roll, in his hand a clasped Book, 
 
 Or staff more harmless than a Shepherd's crook. 
 
 The war-worn Chieftain quits the world — to hide 
 
 His thin autumnal locks where monks abide 
 
 In cloistered privacy. But not to dwell 
 
 In soft repose he comes. Within his cell. 
 
 Round the decaying trunk of human pride. 
 
 At morn, and eve, and midnight's silent hour, 
 
 Do penitential cogitations cling: 
 
 Like ivy, round some ancient elm, they twine 
 
 In grisly folds and strictures serpentine ; 
 
 Yet, while they strangle without mercy, bring 
 
 For recompense their own perennial bower. 
 
 XXIL 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 Methinks that to some vacant Hermitage 
 3Iy feet would rather turn — to some dry nook 
 Scooped out of living rock, and near a brook 
 Hurled down a mountain-cove from stage to stage, 
 Yet tempering, for my sight, its bustling rage 
 In the soft heaven of a translucent pool ; 
 Thence creeping under forest arches cool. 
 Fit haunt of shapes whose glorious equipage 
 Would elevate my dreams. A beechen bowl, 
 A maple dish, my furniture should be ; 
 Crisp, yellow leaves my bed ; the hooting Owl 
 My night-watch : nor should e'er tlie crested Fowl 
 From thorp or vill his matins sound for me. 
 Tired of the world and all its industry. 
 
 XXIII. 
 REPROOF. 
 
 But what if One, through grove or flowery mead, 
 
 Indulging thus at will the creeping feet 
 
 Of a voluptuous indolence, should meet 
 
 Thy hovering shade, O venerable Bede ! 
 
 The saint, the scholar, from a circle freed 
 
 Of toil stupendous, in a hallowed seat 
 
 Of learning, where thou heard'st the billows beat 
 
 On a wild coast, rough monitors to feed 
 
 Perpetual industry. Sublime Recluse ! 
 
 The recreant soul, that dares to shun the debt 
 
 Imposed on human kind, must first forget 
 
 Thy diligence, thy unrelaxing use 
 
 Of a long life; and, in the hour of death, 
 
 The last dear service of thy passing breath!* 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 SAXON MONASTERIES, AND LIGHTS AND SHADES'! 
 OF THE RELIGION. 
 
 By such examples moved to unbought pains, 
 The people work like congregated bees*; 
 Eager to build the quiet Fortresses 
 Where Piety, as they believe, obtains 
 From Heaven a general blessing ; timely rains 
 Or needful sunshine ; prosperous enterprise, 
 Justice and peace : — bold faith ! yet also rise 
 The sacred Structures for less doubtful gains. 
 The Sensual think with reverence of the palms 
 Which the chaste Votaries seek, beyond the grave j 
 If penance be redeemablef, thence alms 
 Flow to the Poor, and freedom to the Slave ; 
 And if full oft the sanctuary save 
 Lives black with guilt, ferocity it calms. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 MISSIONS AND TRAVELS. 
 
 Not sedentary all : there are who roam 
 
 To scatter seeds of Life on barbarous shores ; 
 
 Or quit with zealous step their knee-worn floors 
 
 To seek the general Mart of Christendom ; 
 
 Whence they, like richly-laden Merchants, come 
 
 To their beloved Cells: — or shall we say 
 
 That, like the Red-cross Knight, they urge their way, 
 
 To lead in memorable triumph home 
 
 Trutli — their immortal Una ? Babylon, 
 
 Learned and wise, hath perished utterly. 
 
 • He expired dictating the last words of a Iranslalion of St 
 John's Gospel- 
 
 t See, in Turner's History, vol. iii. p. 528., the account of the 
 erection of Ramsey Monastery. 
 
 } Penances were removable by the performance of acts of 
 charity and benevolence. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 295 
 
 for leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh 
 I'hat would lament her ; — Memphis, Tyre, are gone 
 Vith all their Arts, — but classic Lore glides on, 
 iy these Religious saved for all posterity. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 ALFRED. 
 
 !ehoid a Pupil of the Monkish gown, 
 
 "he pious Alfred, King to Justice dear ! 
 
 ,ord of the harp and liberating spear ; 
 
 llirror of Princes ! Indigent Reno^vn 
 
 llight range the starry ether for a crown 
 
 Iqual to his deserts, who, lilce the year, 
 
 'ours forth his bounty, lilie the day doth cheer, 
 
 ^nd awes like night with mercy-tempered frown. 
 
 jiase from this noble Miser of his time 
 
 [Fo moment steals ; pain narrows not his cares.* 
 
 i'hough small his kingdom as a spark or gem, 
 
 if Alfred boasts remote Jerusalem, 
 
 .nd Christian India, through her wide-spread clime, 
 
 1 sacred converse gifts with Alfred shares. 
 
 XXVII. 
 HIS DESCENDANTS. 
 AN aught survive to linger in the veins 
 f kindred bodies — an essential power 
 hat may not vanish in one fatal hour, 
 jud wholly cast away terrestrial chains ? 
 he race of Alfred covet glorious pains 
 l/hen dangers threaten, dangers ever new ! 
 lack tempests bursting, blacker still in view ' 
 jUt manly sovereignty its hold retains; 
 he root sincere, the branches bold to strive 
 /ith the fierce tempest, while, within the round 
 f their protection, gentle virtues thrive ; 
 |s oft, 'mid some green plot of open ground, 
 /^ide as the oak extends its dewy gloom, 
 he fostered hyacinths spread their purple bloom. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 INFLUENCE ABUSED. 
 |rged by Ambition, who with subtlest skill 
 jhanges her means, the Enthusiast as a dupe 
 jiiall soar, and as a hypocrite can stoop, 
 ind turn the instruments of good to ill, 
 
 oulding the credulous People to his will, 
 j Jch DuNSTAN : — from its Benedictine coop 
 
 sues the master Mind, at whose fell swoop 
 
 he chaste affections tremble to ftilfil 
 
 heir purposes. Behold, pre-signified, 
 
 ' he Might of spiritual sway ! his thoughts, his dreams, 
 
 • Through the whole of his life, Alfred was subject to 
 evouB maladies. 
 
 Do in the supernatural world abide : 
 So vaunt a throng of Followers, filled with pride 
 In shows of virtue pushed to its extremes. 
 And sorceries of talent misapplied. 
 
 XXIX. 
 DANISH CONQUESTS. 
 
 Woe to the Crown that doth the Cowl obey If 
 Dissension checks the arms that would restrain 
 The incessant Rovers of the Northern Main ; 
 And widely spreads once more a Pagan sway : 
 But Gospel-truth is potent to allay 
 Fierceness and rage : and soon the cruel Dane 
 Feels, through the influence of her gentle reign, 
 His native superstitions melt away. 
 Thus, often, when thick gloom the east o'ershrouds, 
 The full-orbed Moon, slow-climbing, doth appear 
 Silently to consume the heavy clouds ; 
 How no one can resolve ; but every eye 
 Around her sees, while air is hushed, a clear 
 And widening circuit of ethereal sky. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 A PLEASANT music floats along the Mere, 
 From Monks in Ely chanting service high, 
 Whileas Canute the King is rowing by : 
 " My Oarsmen," quoth the mighty King, " draw near, 
 " That we the sweet song of the Monks may hear !" 
 He listens (all past conquests and all schemes 
 Of future vanishing like empty dreams) 
 Heart-touched, and haply not without a tear. 
 The Royal Minstrel, ere the choir is still, 
 While his free Barge skims the smooth flood along, 
 Gives to that rapture an accordant Rhyme.J: 
 O suffering Earth ! be thankful ; sternest clime 
 And rudest age are subject to the thrill 
 Of heaven-descended Piety and Song. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 THE NORMAN CONQUEST. 
 The woman-hearted Confessor prepares 
 The evanescence of the Saxon line. 
 Hark ! 'tis the tolling Curfew ! the stars shine, 
 But of the lights that cherish household cares 
 And festive gladness, burns not one that dares 
 
 t The violent measures carried on under the influence of 
 Dtmstan, for strengthening the Benedictine Order, were a lead- 
 ing cause of the second series of Danish Invasions. — See 
 Turner. 
 
 \ Which is still extant 
 
296 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 To twinkle after that dull stroke of thine, 
 Emblem and instrument, from Thames to Tyne, 
 Of force that daunts, and cunning- that ensnares! 
 Yet as the terrors of the lordly bell. 
 That quench, from hut to palace, lamps and fires, 
 Touch not the tapers of the sacred quires, 
 Even so a thraldom studious to expel 
 Old laws and ancient customs to derange. 
 Brings to Religion no injurious change. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 THE COUNCIL OF CLERMONT. 
 
 " And shall," the Pontiff asks, " profaneness flow 
 "From Nazareth — source of Christian Piety, 
 " From Bethlehem, from the Mounts of Agony 
 "And glorified Ascension"! Warriors, go, 
 " With prayers and blessings we your path will sow ; 
 "Like Moses hold our hands erect, till ye 
 " Have chased far off by righteous victory 
 " These sons of Anialec, or laid them low !" 
 "God willeth it," the whole assembly cry ; 
 Shout which the enraptured multitude astounds ! 
 The Council-roof and Clermont's towers reply ; 
 "God willeth it," from hill to hill rebounds, 
 And, in awe-stricken Countries far and nigh. 
 Through " Nature's hollow arch" the voice resounds.* 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 CRUSADES. 
 
 The turbaned Race are poured in thickening swarms 
 Along the West ; though driven from Aquitaine, 
 The Crescent glitters on the towers of Spain ; 
 And soft Italia feels renewed alarms; 
 The scimitar, that yields not to the charms 
 Of ease, the narrow Bosphorus will disdain ; 
 Nor long (that crossed) would Grecian hills detain 
 Their tents, and check the current of their arms. 
 Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever 
 Known to the moral world, Imagination, 
 Upheave (so seems it) from her natural station 
 All Christendom : — they sweep along (was never 
 So huge a host !) — to tear from the Unbeliever 
 The precious Tomb, their haven of salvation. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 RICHARD I 
 Redoubted King, of courage leonine, 
 I mark thee, Richard ! urgent to equip 
 Thy warlike person with the staff and scrip; 
 I watch thee sailing o'er the midland brine ; 
 In conquered Cyprus see thy Bride decline 
 
 *The decision of this cotmcil was believed to be instantly 
 known in remote parts of Europe. 
 
 Her blushing cheek, love-vows upon her lip. 
 And see love-emblems streaming from thy sliip, 
 As thence she holds her way to Palestine. 
 My Song, (a fearless Homager) would attend 
 Thy lliundering battle-axe as it cleaves the press 
 Of war, but duty summons her away 
 To tell — how, finding in the rash distress 
 Of those enthusiast powers a constant Friend, 
 Through giddier heights hath clomb the Papal sway. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 AN INTERDICT. 
 
 Realms quake by turns : proud Arbitress of grace. 
 The Church, by mandate shadowing forth the power 
 She arrogates o'er heaven's eternal door, 
 Closes tlie gates of every sacred place. 
 Straight from tlie sun and tainted air's embrace 
 All sacred things are covered : cheerful mom 
 Grows sad as night — no seemly garb is worn. 
 Nor is a face allowed to meet a face 
 With natural smile of greeting. Bells are dumb; 
 Ditches are graves — funereal rites denied; 
 And in the Church-yard he must take his Bride 
 Who dares be wedded ! Fancies thickly come 
 Into the pensive heart ill fortified. 
 And comfortless despairs the soul benumb. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 PAPAL ABUSES. 
 
 As with the Stream our voyage we pursue, 
 The gross materials of this world present 
 A marvellous study of wild accident; 
 Uncouth proximities of old and new; 
 And bold transfigurations, more untrue, 
 (As might be deemed) to disciplined intent 
 Than aught the sky's fantastic element, 
 When most fantastic, offers to the view. 
 Saw we not Henry scourged at Becket's shrine? 
 Lo! John self-stripped of his insignia: — crown. 
 Sceptre and mantle, sword and ring, laid down 
 At a proud Legate's feet ! The spears that line 
 Baronial Halls, the opprobrious insult feel; 
 And angry Ocean roars a vain appeal. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 SCENE IN VENICE. 
 
 Black Demons hovering o'er his mitred head. 
 To CaBsar's Successor tlie Pontiff spoke; 
 "Ere I absolve thee, stoop! that on thy neck 
 " Levelled with Earth this foot of mine may tread." 
 Then, he, v/ho to the Altar had been led, 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 297 
 
 He, whose strong arm the Orient could not check, 
 
 He, who had held the Soldan at his beck, 
 
 btooped, of all glory disinherited, 
 
 lAnd even the common dignity of man ! 
 
 Amazement strikes the crowd ; — while many turn 
 
 Their eyes away in sorrow, others burn 
 
 ■With scorn, invoking a vindictive ban 
 
 jFrom outraged Nature ; but the sense of most 
 
 la abject sympathy with power is lost. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 . PAPAL DOMINION. 
 
 lUuiESS to Peter's chair the viewless wind 
 iMust come and ask permission when to blow, 
 jWhat further empire would it have 1 for now 
 lA ghostly Domination, unconfined 
 (As that by dreaming Bards to Love assigned, 
 Sits there in sober truth — to raise the low. 
 Perplex the wise, the strong to overthrow — 
 Through earth and heaven to bind and to unbind ! 
 jResist — the thunder quails thee ! — crouch — rebuif 
 |3hall be thy recompense ! from land to land 
 The ancient thrones of Christendom are stuff 
 jFor occupation of a magic wand, 
 lAnd 't is the Pope that wields it : — whether rough 
 Or smooth his front, our world is in his hand ! 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 PART 11. 
 
 TO THE CLOSE OF THE TROUBLES IN THE 
 EEIGN OF CHARLES I. 
 
 I. 
 
 CISTERTIAN MONASTERY. 
 ' Here Man more purely lives, less oft doth Jail,* 
 ' More promptly rises, walks with nicer heed, 
 ' More safely rests, dies happier, is freed 
 \' Earlier from cleansing fires, and gains withal 
 !' A brighter crown." — On yon Cistertian wall 
 •That confident assurance may be read; 
 jind, to like shelter, from the world have fled 
 ncreasing multitudes. The potent call 
 Doubtless shall cheat full oft the heart's desires ; 
 ^et, while the rugged Age on pliant knee 
 l^ows to rapt Fancy humble fealty, 
 \ gentler life spreads round the holy spires ; 
 iVhere'er they rise, the sylvan waste retires, 
 \ni aery harvests crown the fertile lea. 
 
 * " Bonum est nos hie esse, quia homo vivit purins, cadit rarius, 
 iirgit velocins, incedif cautias, q iiiescit securins, moritiir feliciiis, 
 lurgatiir oitiiis, pnemiritur cnpiosiiis." Bernard. "This sen- 
 enre," soys Dr. Whitaker, "is usually inscribed on some con- 
 picuous part of the Cistei-lian houses." 
 2 N 
 
 II. 
 
 RELAXATIONS OF THE FEUDAL SYSTEM. 
 
 Deplorable his lot who tills the gTound, 
 
 His whole life long tills it, with heartless toil 
 
 Of villain-service, passing with the soil 
 
 To each new Master, like a steer or hound, " 
 
 Or like a rooted tree, or stone earth-bound ; 
 
 But, mark how gladly, through their own domains. 
 
 The Monks relax or break these iron chains; 
 
 While Mercy, uttering, through their voice, a sound 
 
 Echoed in Heaven, cries out, "ye Chiefs, abate 
 
 These legalized oppressions! Man whose name 
 
 And Nature God disdained not; Man, whose soul 
 
 Christ died for, cannot forfeit his high claim 
 
 To live and move exempt from all control 
 
 Which fellow-feeling doth not mitigate !" 
 
 III. 
 
 MONKS AND SCHOOLMEN. 
 
 Record we too, with just and faithful pen. 
 That many hooded Cenobites there are. 
 Who in their private Cells have yet a care 
 Of public quiet; unambitious Men, 
 Counsellors for the world, of piercing ken ; 
 Whose fervent exhortations from afar 
 Move Princes to their duty, peace or war; 
 And oft-times in the most forbidding den 
 Of solitude, with love of science strong. 
 How patiently the yoke of thought they bear! 
 How subtly glide its finest threads along! 
 Spirits that crowd the intellectual sphere 
 With mazy boundaries, as the Astronomer 
 With orb and cycle girds the starry throng. 
 
 IV. 
 
 OTHER BENEFITS. 
 
 And, not in vain embodied to the sight. 
 Religion finds even in the stern retreat 
 Of feudal Sway her own appropriate seat; 
 From the Collegiate pomps on Windsor's height, 
 Down to the humble altar, which the Knight 
 And his Retainers of the embattled hall 
 Seek in domestic oratory small, 
 For prayer in stillness, or the chanted rite; 
 Then chiefly dear, when foes are planted round, 
 Vno teach the intrepid guardians of the place, 
 Hourly exposed to death, with famine worn, 
 And suffering under many a perilous wound. 
 How sad would be their durance, if forlorn 
 Of offices dispensing heavenly grace ! 
 
298 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 I 
 
 V. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 And what melodious sounds at times prevail ! 
 And, ever and anon, how bright a gleam 
 Pours on the surface of the turbid Stream ! 
 What heartfelt fragrance mingles with the gale 
 That swells the bosom of our passing sail ! 
 For where, but on Ihis River's margin, blow 
 Those flowers of Chivalry, to bind the brow 
 Of hardihood with wreaths that shall not fail? 
 Fair Court of Edward ! wonder of the world! 
 I see a matchless blazonry unfurled 
 Of wisdom, magnanimity, and love; 
 And meekness tempering honourable pride; 
 The Lamb is couching by the Lion's side, 
 And near the flame-eyed Eagle sits the Dove. 
 
 VT. 
 
 CRUSADERS. 
 
 Nor can Lnagination quit the shores 
 
 Of these bright scenes without a farewell glance 
 
 Given to those dream-like Issues — that Romance 
 
 Of many-coloured life which Fortune pours 
 
 Round the Crusaders, till on distant shores 
 
 Their labours end; or they return to lie, 
 
 The vow performed, in cross-legged efligy, 
 
 Devoutly stretched upon their chancel floors. 
 
 Am I deceived] Or is their requiem chanted 
 
 By voices never mute when Heaven unties 
 
 Her inmost, softest, tenderest harmonics ; 
 
 Requiem wliich Earth takes up with voice undaunted, 
 
 When she would tell how Good, and Brave, and Wise, 
 
 For their high guerdon not in vain have panted ! 
 
 VIL 
 
 TRANSUBSTANTIATION 
 
 Enough ! for see, with dim association 
 
 The tapers burn ; tlie odorous incense feeds 
 
 A greedy flame ; the pompous mass proceeds ; 
 
 The Priest bestows the appointed consecration; 
 
 And, while the Host is raised, its elevation 
 
 An awe and supernatural horror breeds. 
 
 And all the People bow their heads, like reeds 
 
 To a soft breeze, in lowly adoration. 
 
 This Valdo brooked not. On the banks of Rhone 
 
 He taught, till persecution chased him thence 
 
 To adore the Invisible, and him alone. 
 
 Nor were his Followers loth to seek defence, 
 
 'Mid woods and wilds, on Nature's craggy throne, 
 
 From rites that trample upon soul and sense. 
 
 Vill. 
 
 THE VAUDOIS. 
 But whence came they who for the Saviour Lord 
 Have long borne witness as the Scriptures teach? 
 Ages ere Valdo raised his voice to preach 
 In Gallic ears the unadulterate Word, 
 Their fugitive Progenitors explored 
 Subalpine vales, in quest of safe retreats 
 Where that pure Church survives, though summer 
 
 heats 
 Open a passage to the Romish sword, ' 
 
 Far as it dares to follow. Herbs self-sown. 
 And fruitage gathered from the chestnut wood, 
 Nourish the Sufferers tlien ; and mists, that brood 
 O'er chasms with new-fallen obstacles bestrewn. 
 Protect them ; and the eternal snow that daunts 
 Aliens, is God's good winter for their haunts. 
 
 IX. 
 CONTINUED. 
 Praised be the Rivers, from their mountain-springs 
 Sliouting to Freedom, " Plant thy Banners here !" 
 To harassed Piety, " Dismiss thy fear. 
 And in our caverns smooth thy ruffled wings!" 
 Nor be unthanked their tardiest lingerings 
 'Mid reedy fens wide-spread and marches drear, 
 Their own creation, till their long career 
 End in the sea engulphed. Such welconiings 
 As came from mighty Po when Venice rose. 
 Greeted those simple Heirs of truth divine 
 Who near his fountains sought obscure repose, 
 Yet were prepared as glorious lights to shine, 
 Should that be needed for their sacred Charge; 
 Blest Prisoners They, whose spirits are at large! 
 
 X. 
 
 WALDENSES. 
 These who gave earliest notice, as the Lark 
 Springs from the ground the morn to gratulate; 
 Who rather rose the day to antedate, 
 By striking out a solitary spark, 
 When all the world with midnight gloom was dark — 
 These Harbingers of good, whom bitter hate 
 In vain endeavoured to e.xterminate, 
 Fell Obloquy pursues with hideous bark;* 
 
 * The lisl of foul names bestowed upon those poor creatures 
 is long and curious ; — and, as is, alas ! loo natural, most of the 
 opprobrious appellations are drawn from eirrumstances into 
 which they were forced by their persecutors, who even consoli- 
 dated their miseries into one reproachful term, calling them Pa- 
 tarenians or Patunns. from pati, to suffer. 
 
 Dwellers with wolves, she names them, for the Pine 
 And green Oak are their covert; as the gloom 
 Of night oft foils their ICneniy's design. 
 She calls ihem Riders on tlie (lying broom ; 
 Sorcerers, whose frame and aspect have become 
 One and the same through practices malign 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 299 
 
 [But they desist not; — and the sacred fire, 
 iiRekindled thus, from dens and savage woods 
 Imoves, handed on with never-ceasing care, 
 IThrough courts, through camps, o'er limitary floods ; 
 'Nor lacks this sea-girt Isle a timely share 
 Of the new Flame, not suflfered to expire. 
 
 XI. 
 
 ARCHBISHOP CHICHELY TO HENRY V. 
 
 " What Beast in wilderness or cultured field 
 " The lively beauty of the Leopard shows 1 
 (}"What Flower in meadow-ground or garden grows 
 ji"That to the towering Lily doth not yield] 
 "Let both meet only on thy royal shield ! 
 " Go forth, great King ! claim what thy birth bestows ; 
 "Conquer the Gallic Lily which thy foes 
 "Dare to usurp ; — thou hast a sword to wield, 
 "And Heaven will crown the right." — The mitred 
 
 Sire 
 Thus spake — and lo ! a Fleet, for Gaul addrest, 
 Ploughs her bold course across the wondering seas ; 
 For, sooth to say, ambition, in the breast 
 Of youthful Heroes, is no sullen fire. 
 But one that leaps to meet the fanning breeze. 
 
 XII. 
 
 WARS OF YORK AND LANCASTER. 
 
 Thts is the storm abated by the craft 
 
 Of a shrewd Counsellor, eager to protect 
 
 The Church, whose power hath recently been checked, 
 
 Whose monstrous riches threatened. So the shaft 
 
 Of victory mounts high, and blood is quaffed 
 
 In fields that rival Cressy and Poictiers — 
 
 Pride to be washed away by bitter tears ! 
 
 For deep as hell itself, the avenging draught 
 
 iOf civil slaughter. Yet, while Temporal power 
 
 Is by these shocks exhausted. Spiritual truth 
 
 Maintains the else endangered gift of life ; 
 
 IProceeds from infancy to lusty youth ; 
 
 And, under cover of this woeful strife. 
 
 Gathers unblighted strength from hour to hour. 
 
 XIII. 
 WICLIFFE. 
 Once more the Church is seized with sudden fear, 
 And at her call is Wiclifl% disinhumed : 
 Yea, his dry bones to ashes are consumed 
 And flung into the brook that travels near ; 
 Forthwith, that ancient Voice which Streams can hear, 
 Thus speaks (that Voice which walks upon the wind. 
 Though seldom heard by busy human kind,) 
 
 " As thou these ashes, little Brook ! wilt bear 
 " Into the Avon, Avon to the tide 
 " Of Severn, Severn to the narrow seas, 
 " Into main Ocean they, this Deed accurst 
 "An emblem yields to friends and enemies 
 "How the bold Teacher's Doctrine, sanctified 
 " By Truth, shall spread thoughout the world dis- 
 persed.* 
 
 XIV. 
 
 CORRUPTIONS OF THE HIGHER CLERGY. 
 
 " Woe to you. Prelates ! rioting in ease 
 "And cumbrous wealth — -the shame of your estate; 
 "You, on whose progress dazzling trains await 
 " Of pompous horses ; whom vain titles please ; 
 " Who will be served by others on their knees, 
 " Yet will yourselves lo God no service pay ; 
 "Pastors who neither take nor point the way 
 " To Heaven ; for either lost in vanities 
 " Ye have no skill to teach, or if ye know 
 
 " And speak the word " Alas ! of fearful things 
 
 'T is the most fearful when the People's eye 
 Abuse hath cleared from vain imaginings; 
 And taught the general voice to prophesy 
 Of Justice armed, and Pride to be laid low. 
 
 XV. 
 
 ABUSE OF MONASTIC POWER. 
 And what is Penance with her knotted thong, 
 Blortification with the shirt of hair. 
 Wan cheek, and knees indurated with prayer, 
 Vigils, and fastings rigorous as long. 
 If cloistered Avarice scruple not to wrong 
 The pious, humble, useful Secular, 
 And rob the people of his daily care, 
 Scorning that world whose blindness makes her strong 1 
 Inversion strange ! that unto One who lives 
 For self, and struggles with himself alone, 
 The amplest share of heavenly favour gives ; 
 That to a Monk allots, in the esteem 
 Of God and Man, place higher than to him 
 Who on the good of otliers builds his own ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 MONASTIC VOLUPTUOUSNESS. 
 Yet more, — round many a Convent's blazing fire 
 Unhallowed threads of revelry are spun ; 
 There Venus sits disguised like a Nun, — 
 While Bacchus, clothed in semblance of a Friar, 
 Pours out his choicest beverage high and higher 
 
 * See Note 19, p. 323. 
 
300 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Sparkling, until it cannot choose but run 
 
 Over the bowl, whose silver lip hath won 
 
 An instant kiss of masterful desire — 
 
 To slay the precious waste. Through every brain 
 
 The domination of the sprightly juice 
 
 Spreads high conceits to madding Fancy dear, 
 
 Till the arched roof, with resolute abuse 
 
 Of its grave echoes, swells a choral strain, 
 
 Whose votive burthen is — " Our kingdom's here !" 
 
 XVII. 
 DISSOLUTION OF THE MONASTERIES. 
 Threats come which no submission may assuage; 
 No sacrifice avert, no power dispute ; 
 The tapers shall be quenched, the belfries mute. 
 And, 'mid their choirs unroofed by selfish rage, 
 The warbling wren shall find a leafy cage ; 
 The gadding bramble hang her purple fruit; 
 And the green lizard and the gilded newt 
 Lead unmolested lives, and die of age.* 
 The owl of evening and the woodland fox 
 For their abode the shrines of Waltham choose : 
 Proud Glastonbury can no more refuse 
 To stoop her head before these desperate shocks — 
 She whose high pomp displaced, as story tells, 
 Arimathean Joseph's wattled cells. 
 
 XVIII. 
 THE SAME SUBJECT. 
 The lovely Nun (submissive, but more meek 
 Through saintly habit than from effort due 
 To unrelenting mandates that pursue 
 With equal wrath the steps of strong and weak) 
 Goes forth — unveiling timidly her cheek 
 Suffused with blushes of celestial hue, 
 While through the Convent gate to open view 
 Softly she glides, another home to seek. 
 Not Iris, issuing from her cloudy shrine, 
 An Apparition more divinely bright ! 
 Not more attractive to the dazzled sight 
 Those watery glories, on the stormy brine 
 Poured forth, while summer suns at distance shine, 
 And the green vales lie hushed in sober light ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 Yet some. Noviciates of the cloistral shade, 
 Or chained by vows, with undissembled glee 
 The warrant hail — exulting to be free ; 
 
 Like ships before whose keels, full long embayed 
 
 In polar ice, propitious winds have made 
 
 Unlooked-for outlet to an open sea, 
 
 Their liquid world, for bold discovery. 
 
 In all her quarters temptingly displayed ! 
 
 Hope guides the young ; but when the old must pas 
 
 The threshold, whitlier shall they turn to find 
 
 The hospitality — the alms (alas ! 
 
 Alms may be needed) which that house bestowed? 
 
 Can they, in faith and worship, train the mind 
 
 To keep this new and questionable road 1 
 
 XX. 
 
 SAINTS. 
 
 Ye, too, must fly before a chasing hand. 
 Angels and Saints, in every hamlet mourned ! 
 Ah ! if the old idolatry be spurned. 
 Let not your radiant Shapes desert the Land : 
 Her adoration was not your demand. 
 The fond heart proff'ered it — the servile heart; 
 And therefore are ye summoned to depart, 
 Micliael, and thou, St. George, whose flaming brand 
 I The Dragon quelled ; and valiant Margaret 
 j Whose rival sword a like Opponent slew : 
 And rapt Cecilia, seraph-haunted Queen 
 Of harmony ; and weeping Magdalene, 
 Who in the penitential desert met 
 Gales sweet as those that over Eden blew ! 
 
 XXL 
 
 THE VIRGIN. 
 
 Mother I whose virgin bosom was uncrost 
 With the least shade of thought to sin allied ; 
 W^oman ! above all women glorified. 
 Our tainted nature's solitary boast ; 
 Purer tlian foam on central Ocean tost 
 Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak strewn 
 With fancied roses, than tlie unblemished moon 
 Before her wane begins on heaven's blue coast; 
 Thy Image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween. 
 Not unforgiven the suppliant knee might bend, 
 As to a visible Power, in which did blend 
 All that was mixed and reconciled in Thee 
 Of mother's love with maiden purity. 
 Of high with low, celestial with terrene ! 
 
 * These two lines are adopied from a MS., written about the 
 year 1770, which arcidentally fell into my possession. The 
 close of the preceding Sonnet on monastic volnptuousness is 
 taken from the same source, as is the verse, " Where Venus 
 sits," &C. 
 
 XXIL 
 
 APOLOGY. 
 
 Not utterly unworthy to endure 
 Was the supremacy of crafty Rome ; 
 A^c aft.er age to the arch of Christendom 
 Aerial keystone haughtily secure ; 
 Supremacy from Heaven transmitted pure, 
 
POEMS OP THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 301 
 
 As many hold ; and, therefore, to the tomb 
 
 Pass, Bome through fire — and by the scaffold some — 
 
 Like saintly Fisher, and unbending More. 
 
 " Lightly for both the bosom's lord did sit 
 
 " Upon his throne ;" unsoftened, undismayed 
 
 By aught that mingled with the tragic scene 
 
 Of pity or fear ; and More's gay genius played 
 
 With the inoffensive sword of native wit, 
 
 Than the bare axe more luminous and keen. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 IMAGINATIVE REGRETS. 
 
 Deep is the lamentation ! Not alone 
 From Sages justly honoured by mankind. 
 But from the ghostly Tenants of the wind, 
 Demons and Spirits, many a dolorous groan 
 Issues for that dominion overthrown : 
 Proud Tiber grieves, and far-off Ganges, blind 
 As his own worshippers: — and Nile, reclined 
 Upon his monstrous urn, the farewell moan 
 Renews. — Through every forest, cave, and den. 
 Where frauds were hatched of old, hath sorrow past- 
 Hangs o'er tlie Arabian Prophet's native Waste, 
 Where once his airy helpers schemed and planned, 
 'Mid phantom lakes bemocking thirsty men, 
 And stalking pillars built of fiery sand. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 REFLECTIONS. 
 
 Grant, that by this unsparing Hurricane 
 Green leaves with yellow mixed are torn away. 
 And goodly fruitage with the mother spray, 
 
 i'Twere madness — -wished we, therefore to detain, 
 With hands stretched forth in mollified disdain, 
 The "trumpery" that ascends in bare display, — 
 Bulls, pardons, relics, cowls black, white, and gray, 
 Upwhirled — and flying o'er the ethereal plain 
 Fast bound for Limbo Lake. — And yet not choice 
 But habit rules the unreflecting herd, 
 
 I And airy bonds are hardest to disown ; 
 
 j Hence, with the spiritual sovereignty transferred 
 Unto itself, the Crown assumes a voice 
 Of reckless mastery, hitherto unknown. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE. 
 
 But, to outweigh all harm, the sacred Book, 
 ; In dusty sequestration wrapt too long. 
 
 Assumes the accents of our native tongue; 
 ; And he who guides the plough, or wields the crook, 
 j With understanding spirit now may look 
 
 Upon her records, listen to her song, 
 
 And sift her laws — much wondering that the wrong, 
 
 Which faith has suffered, Heaven could calmly brook. 
 
 Transcendent Boon ! noblest that earthly King 
 
 Ever bestowed to equalize and bless 
 
 Under the weight of mortal wretchedness ! 
 
 But passions spread like plagues, and thousands wild 
 
 With bigotry shall tread the Offering 
 
 Beneath their feet — detested and defiled. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 THE POINT AT ISSUE. 
 For what contend the wise 1 for nothing less 
 Than that the Soul, freed from the bonds of Sense, 
 And to her God restored by evidence 
 Of things not seen — drawn forth from their recess, 
 Root there, and not in forms, her holiness ; 
 For Faith which to the Patriarchs did dispense 
 Sure guidance, ere a ceremonial fence 
 Was needful round men thirsting to transgress; 
 For Faith, more perfect still, with which the Lord 
 Of all, himself a Spirit, in the youth 
 Of Christian aspiration, deigned to fill 
 The temples of their hearts — who, with his word 
 Informed, were resolute to do his will. 
 And worship him in spirit and in truth. 
 
 XXVIL 
 
 EDWARD VI. 
 
 " Sweet is the holiness of Youth" — so felt 
 
 Time-honoured Chaucer, when he framed tlie lay 
 
 By which the Prioress beguiled the way. 
 
 And many a Pilgrim's rugged heart did melt. 
 
 Hadst thou, loved Bard ! whose spirit often dwelt 
 
 In the clear land of -vision, but foreseen 
 
 King, Child, and Seraph, blended in the mien 
 
 Of pious Edward kneeling as he knelt 
 
 In meek and simple Infancy, what joy 
 
 For universal Christendom had thrilled 
 
 Thy heart ! what hopes inspired thy genius, skilled 
 
 (O great Precursor, genuine morning Star) 
 
 The lucid shafts of reason to employ. 
 
 Piercing the Papal darkness from afar ! 
 
 XXVIIL 
 
 EDWARD SIGNING THE WARRANT FOR THE EXE- 
 CUTION OF JOAN OF KENT. 
 
 The tears of man in various measure gush 
 From various sources ; gently overflow 
 From blissful transport some — from clefl;s of woe 
 Some with ungovernable impulse rush ; 
 And some, coeval with the earliest blush 
 26 
 
302 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Of infant passion, scarcely dare to show 
 
 Their pearly lustre — coming but to go ; 
 
 And some break forth when others' sorrows crush 
 
 The sympathising heart. Nor these, nor yet 
 
 The noblest drops to admiration known. 
 
 To gratitude, to injuries forgiven, 
 
 Claim Heaven's regard like waters that have wet 
 
 The innocent eyes of youthful Monarchs driven 
 
 To pen the mandates, nature doth disown. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 REVIVAL OF POPERY. 
 The saintly Youth has ceased to rule, discrowned 
 By unrelenting Death. O People keen 
 For change, to whom the new looks always green! 
 Rejoicing did they cast upon the ground 
 Their Gods of wood and stone ; and, at the sound 
 Of counter-proclamation, now are seen, 
 (Proud triumph is it for a sullen Queen !) 
 Lifting them up, the worship to confound 
 Of the Most High. Again do they invoke 
 The Creature, to the Creature glory give ; 
 Again with frankincense the altars smoke 
 Like those the Heathen served ; and mass is sung ; 
 And prayer, man's rational prerogative. 
 Runs through blind channels of an unknown tongue. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 LATIMER AND RIDLEY. 
 
 How fast the Marian death-list is unrolled ! 
 
 See Latimer and Ridley in the might 
 
 Of Faith stand coupled for a common flight ! 
 
 One (like those Prophets whom God sent of old) 
 
 Transfigured*, from this kindling hath foretold 
 
 A torch of inextinguishable light; 
 
 Tlie Other gains a confidence as bold ; 
 
 And thus they foil their enemy's despite. 
 
 The penal instruments, the shows of crime. 
 
 Are glorified while this once-mitred pair 
 
 Of saintly Friends "the Murtherer's chain partake. 
 
 Corded, and burning at tlie social stake :" 
 
 Earth never witnessed object more sublime 
 
 In constancy, in fellowship more fair ! 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 C R A N M E R . 
 OuTSTRETcniNO flame-ward his upbraided hand 
 (O God of mercy, may no earthly Seat 
 Of judgment such presumptuous doom repent!) 
 Amid the shuddering throng doth Cranmer stand ; 
 Firm as the stake to which with iron band 
 
 His frame is tied ; firm from the naked feet 
 
 To the bare head, the victory complete; 
 
 The shrouded Body, to the Soul's command. 
 
 Answering with more than Indian fortitude, 
 
 Through all her nerves with finer sense endued, 
 
 Till breath departs in blissful aspiration: 
 
 Then, 'mid the ghastly ruins of the fire, 
 
 Behold the unalterable heart entire. 
 
 Emblem of faith untouched, miraculous attestation if 
 
 xxxn. 
 
 GENERAL VIEW OF THE TROUBLES OF THE 
 
 REFORMATION. 
 
 Am, glorious Martyrs, from your fields of light. 
 
 Our mortal ken ! Inspire a perfect trust 
 
 (While we look round) that Heaven's decrees are just: 
 
 Which few can hold committed to a fight 
 
 That shows, ev'n on its better side, the might 
 
 Of proud Self-will, Rapacity, and Lust, 
 
 'Mid clouds enveloped of polemic dust. 
 
 Which showers of blood seem rather to incite 
 
 Than to allay. — Anathemas are hurled 
 
 From both sides ; veteran thunders (the brute test 
 
 Of Truth) are met by fulminations new — 
 
 Tartarian flags are caught at, and unfurled — 
 
 Friends strike at Friends — the flying shall pursue — 
 
 And Victory sickens, ignorant where to rest ! 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 * See Note 20, p. 323. 
 
 ENGLISH REFORMERS IN EXILE. 
 
 Scattering, like Birds escaped the Fowler's net, 
 
 Some seek with timely flight a foreign strand 
 
 ^lost happy, re-assembled in a land 
 
 By dauntless Luther freed, could they forget 
 
 Their Country's woes. But scarcely have they met. 
 
 Partners in faith, and Brothers in distress. 
 
 Free to pour forth their common thankfulness. 
 
 Ere hope declines; their union is beset 
 
 With speculative notions rashly sown. 
 
 Whence thickly-sprouting growth of poisonous weeds; 
 
 Their forms are broken staves ; their passions steeds 
 
 That master them. How enviably blest 
 
 Is he who can, by help of grace, enthrone 
 
 The peace of God within his single breast! ■ 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Hail, Virgin Queen ! o'er many an envious bar 
 Triumphant — snatched from many a treacherous wile! 
 All hail. Sage Lady, whom a grateful Isle 
 Hath blest, respiring from that dismal war 
 Stilled by tliy voice ! But quickly from afar 
 
 t For the belief in this fact, see the contemporary Historians. 
 
POEMS OP THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 303 
 
 Defiance breathes with more malignant aim ; 
 
 And alien storms with home-bred ferments claim 
 [Portentous fellowship. Her silver car, 
 jBy sleepless prudence ruled, glides slowly on; 
 \ Unhurt by violence, from menaced taint 
 
 Emerging' pure, and seemingly more bright; 
 
 For, wheresoe'er she moves, the clouds anon 
 
 Disperse ; or, under a divine constraint, 
 : Reflect some portion of her glorious light. 
 
 XXXV. 
 EMINENT REFORMERS. 
 
 i Methinks that I could trip o'er heaviest soil, 
 j Light as a buoyant Bark from wave to wave, 
 iWere mine the trusty Staff that Jewel gave 
 To youthful Hooker, in familiar style 
 The gifb exalting, and with playful smile :* 
 For thus equipped, and bearing on his head 
 The Donor's farewell blessing, can he dread 
 Tempest, or length of way, or weight of toil ? 
 More sweet than odours caught by him who sails 
 Near spicy shores of Araby the blest, 
 A thousand times more exquisitely sweet, 
 IThe freight of holy feeling which we meet, 
 :In thoughtful moments, wafted by the gales 
 From fields where good men walk, or bowers wherein 
 they rest. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 THE SAME. 
 
 Holy and heavenly Spirits as they are, 
 
 iSpotless in life, and eloquent as wise. 
 
 With what entire affection do they prize 
 
 Their new-born Church ! labouring with earnest 
 
 To bafl^e all that may her strength impair ; 
 
 That Church — the unperverted Gospel's seat ; 
 
 j!n their afflictions a divine retreat ; 
 
 Source of their liveliest hope, and tenderest prayer ! 
 
 The Truth exploring with an equal mind, 
 
 ;,n doctrine and communion they have sought 
 
 :rirmly between the two extremes to steer ; 
 
 i3ut theirs the wise man's ordinary lot. 
 
 To trace right courses for the stubborn blind, 
 
 i^nd prophesy to ears that will not hear. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 DISTRACTIONS. 
 
 iIen, who have ceased to reverence, soon defy 
 ;^heir Forefathers ; lo ! Sects are formed — and split 
 IVith morbid restlessness, — the ecstatic fit 
 
 * See Nole 21, p. 324. 
 
 Spreads wide; though special mysteries multiply. 
 
 The Saints must govern, is their common cry ; 
 
 And so they labour, deeming Holy Writ 
 
 Disgraced by aught that seems content to sit 
 
 Beneath the roof of settled Modesty. 
 
 The Romanist exults ; fresh hope he draws 
 
 From the confusion — craftily incites 
 
 The overweening — personates the madf — 
 
 To heap disgust upon the worthier Cause : 
 
 Totters the Throne ; the new-born Church is sad. 
 
 For every wave against her peace unites. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 GUNPOWDER PLOT. 
 
 Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agree 
 
 To plague her beating heart ; and there is one 
 
 (Nor idlest that!) which holds communion 
 
 With things that were not, yet were meant to be 
 
 Aghast within its gloomy cavity 
 
 That eye (which sees as if fulfilled and done 
 
 Crimes that might stop the motion of the sun) 
 
 Beholds the horrible catastrophe 
 
 Of an assembled Senate unredeemed 
 
 From subterraneous Treason's darkling power : 
 
 Merciless act of sorrow infinite ! 
 
 Worse than the product of that dismal night. 
 
 When gushing, copious as a thunder-shower. 
 
 The blood of Hugenots through Paris streamed. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 THE JUNG-FRAU AND THE FALL OF THE RHINE 
 NEAR SCHAFFHAUSEN. 
 
 (AN ILLUSTRATION.) 
 
 The Virgin Mountain};, wearing like a Queen 
 
 A brilliant crown of everlasting Snow, 
 
 Sheds ruin from her sides ; and men below 
 
 Wonder that aught of aspect so serene 
 
 Can link with desolation. Smooth and green, 
 
 And seeming, at a little distance, slow, 
 
 The waters of the Rhine ; but on they go 
 
 Fretting and whitening, keener and more keen, 
 
 Till madness seizes on the whole wide Flood, 
 
 Turned to a fearful Thing whose nostrils breathe 
 
 Blasts of tempestuous smoke — wherewith he tries 
 
 To hide himself, but only magnifies; 
 
 And doth in more conspicuous torment writhe, 
 
 Deafening the region in his ireful mood. 
 
 t A common device in religious and polilical conflicts. — Sec 
 Strype in support of this instance. 
 I Tlie Jung-frau. 
 
304 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 XL. 
 
 TROUBLES OF CHARLES THE FIRST 
 
 Even such the contrast that, where'er we move, 
 
 To the mind's eye Religion doth present; 
 
 Now with her own deep quietness content ; 
 
 Then, like the mountain, thundering from above 
 
 Against the ancient Pine-trees of the grove 
 
 And the Land's humblest comforts. Now her mood 
 
 Recalls the transformation of the flood. 
 
 Whose rage the gentle skies in vain reprove, 
 
 Earth cannot check. O terrible excess 
 
 Of headstrong will ! Can this be Piety 1 
 
 No — some fierce Maniac hath usurped her name ; 
 
 And scourges England struggling to be free : 
 
 Her peace destroyed ! her hopes a wilderness ! 
 
 Her blessings cursed — her glory turned to shame ! 
 
 XLI. 
 
 LAUD.* 
 
 Prejudged by foes determined not to spare. 
 
 An old weak Man for vengeance thrown aside, 
 
 Laud " in the painful art of dying" tried 
 
 (Like a poor Bird entangled in a Snare 
 
 Whose heart still flutters, though his wings forbear 
 
 To stir in useless struggle) hath relied 
 
 On hope that conscious Innocence supplied. 
 
 And in his prison breathes celestial air. 
 
 Why tarries then thy Chariot 1 Wherefore stay, 
 
 O Death ! the ensanguined yet triumphant wheels, 
 
 Which thou prepar'st, full often to convey 
 
 (What time a State with madding faction reels) 
 
 The Saint or Patriot to the world that heals 
 
 All wounds, all perturbations doth allay ] 
 
 XLII. 
 AFFLICTIONS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Harp ! could'st thou venture, on thy boldest string, 
 
 The faintest note to echo which the blast 
 
 Caught from the hand of Moses as it past 
 
 O'er Sinai's top, or from the Shepherd King, 
 
 Early awake, by Siloa's brook, to sing 
 
 Of dread Jehovah ; tlien, should wood and waste 
 
 Hear also of that name, and mercy cast 
 
 Off" to the mountains, like a covering 
 
 Of which the Lord was weary. Weep, oh ! weep. 
 
 Weep with the good, beholding King and Priest 
 
 Despised by that stern God to whom they raise 
 
 Their suppliant hands; but holy is the feast 
 
 He keepeth ; like the firmament his ways, 
 
 His statues like the chambers of the deep. 
 
 * Sse Note 22, p. 324. 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 FROM THE RESTORATION TO THE PRESENT TIMES 
 
 I SAW the figure of a lovely Maid 
 
 Seated alone beneath a darksome Tree, 
 
 Whose fondly overhanging canopy 
 
 Set off her brightness with a pleasing shade. 
 
 Substance she seemed (and that my heart betrayed, 
 
 For she was one I loved exceedingly ;) 
 
 But vyhile I gazed in tender reverie 
 
 (Or was it sleep that with my Fancy played 1) 
 
 The bright corporeal pre.sence, form, and face, 
 
 Remaining still distinct, grew thin and rare, 
 
 Like sunny mist ; at length the golden hair. 
 
 Shape, limbs, and heavenly features, keeping pace 
 
 Each with the other, in a lingering race 
 
 Of dissolution, melted into air. 
 
 II. 
 
 PATRIOTIC SYMPATHIES. 
 
 Last night, without a voice, this Vision spake 
 
 Fear to my Spirit — passion that might seem 
 
 Wholly dissevered from our present theme ; 
 
 Yet, my beloved Country, I partake 
 
 Of kindred agitations for thy sake ; 
 
 Thou, too, dost visit oft my midnight dream ; 
 
 Thy glory meets me with the earliest beam 
 
 Of light, which tells that morning is awake. 
 
 If aught impair thy beauty or destroy, 
 
 Or but forbode destruction, I deplore 
 
 With filial love the sad vicissitude ; 
 
 If thou hast fallen, and righteous Heaven restore 
 
 The prostrate, then my spring-time is renewed. 
 
 And sorrow bartered for exceeding joy. 
 
 III. 
 
 CHARLES THE SECOND. 
 
 Who comes with rapture greeted, and caress'd 
 With frantic love — his kingdom to regain) 
 Him Virtue's Nurse, Adversity, in vain 
 Received, and fostered in her iron breast : 
 For all she taught of hardiest and of best. 
 Or would have taught, by discipline of pain 
 And long privation, now dissolves amain, 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 305 
 
 Or is remembered only to give zest 
 
 To wantonness. — Away, Circean revels ! 
 
 Already stands our Country on the brink 
 
 Of bigot rage, tliat all distinction levels 
 
 Of truth and falsehood, swallowing- the good name, 
 
 And, with that drauglit, the life-blood : misery, shame. 
 
 By Poets loathed ; from which Historians shrink ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 L ATIT UDINARIANISM. 
 Yet Truth is keenly sought fiir, and the wind 
 Charged with rich words poured out in thought's de- 
 fence ; 
 Whether the Cliurch inspire that eloquence, 
 Or a Platonic Piety confined 
 To the sole temple of the inward mind ; 
 And One there is who builds immortal lays, 
 Though doomed to tread in solitary ways. 
 Darkness before, and danger's voice behind ! 
 Yet not alone, nor helpless to repel 
 Sad thoughts ; for from above the starry sphere 
 Come secrets, whispered nightly to his ear; 
 And the pure spirit of celestial light 
 Shines through his soul — " that he may see and tell 
 Of things invisible to mortal sight." 
 
 V. 
 
 CLERICAL INTEGRITY. 
 Nor shall the eternal roll of praise reject 
 Those Unconforming ; whom one rigorous day 
 Drives from their Cures, a voluntary prey 
 t To poverty, and grief, and disrespect, 
 I And some to want — as if by tempest wrecked 
 On a wild coast ; how destitute ! did They 
 Feel not that Conscience never can betray, 
 That peace of mind is Virtue's sure effect. 
 Their Altars they forego, their homes they quit, 
 Fields which they love, and paths they daily trod, 
 And cast the future upon Providence ; 
 As men the dictate of wliose inward sense 
 Outweighs the world ; whom self-deceiving wit 
 Lures not from what they deem the cause of God. 
 
 VI. 
 PERSECUTION OF THE SCOTTISH COVENANTERS. 
 
 When Alpine Vales threw forth a suppliant cry. 
 
 The majesty of England interposed 
 
 And the sword stopped ; the bleeding wounds were 
 
 closed ; 
 And Faith preserved her ancient purity. 
 How little boots that precedent of good. 
 Scorned or forgotten. Thou canst testify. 
 For England's shame, O Sister Realm ! from wood, 
 20 
 
 Mountain, and moor, and crowded street, where lie 
 
 The headless martyrs of the Covenant, 
 
 Slain by Compatriot-protestants that draw 
 
 From councils senseless as intolerant 
 
 Their warrant. Bodies fall by wild sword-law; 
 
 But who would force the Soul, tilts with a straw 
 
 Against a Champion cased in adamant. 
 
 VII. 
 
 ACQUITTAL OF THE BISHOPS. 
 
 A VOICE, from long-expecting thousands sent. 
 
 Shatters the air, and troubles tower and spire — 
 
 For Justice hath absolved the Innocent, 
 
 And Tyranny is balked of her desire : 
 
 Up, down, the busy Thames — rapid as fire 
 
 Coursing a train of gunpowder — it went. 
 
 And transport finds in every street a vent. 
 
 Till the whole City rings like one vast quire. 
 
 The Fathers urge the People to be still. 
 
 With outstretched hands and earnest speech — in vain! 
 
 Yea, many, haply wont to entertain 
 
 Small reverence for the Mitre's offices, 
 
 And to Religion's self no friendly will, 
 
 A Prelate's blessing ask on bended knees. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 WILLIAM THE THIRD. 
 
 Calm as an under current — strong to draw 
 
 Millions of waves into itself, and run, 
 
 From sea to sea, impervious to the sun 
 
 And ploughing storm — the spirit of Nassau 
 
 (By constant impulse of religious awe 
 
 Swayed, and thereby enabled to contend 
 
 With the wide world's commotions) from its end 
 
 Swerves not — diverted by a casual law. 
 
 Had mortal action e'er a nobler scope 1 
 
 The Hero comes to liberate, not defy ; 
 
 And, while he marches on with righteous hope, 
 
 Conqueror beloved ! expected anxiously ! 
 
 The vacillating Bondman of the Pope 
 
 Shrinks from the verdict of his steadfast eye. 
 
 IX. 
 
 OBLIGATIONS OF CIVIL TO RELIGIOUS LIBERTY. 
 
 Ungrateful Country, if thou e'er forget 
 The sons who for thy civil rights have bled ! 
 How, like a Roman, Sidney bowed his head. 
 And Russel's milder blood the scaffold wet; 
 But these had fallen for profitless regret, 
 Had not thy holy Church her Champions bred, 
 And claims from other worlds inspirited 
 26* 
 
306 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 The Star of Liberty to rise. Nor yet 
 
 (Grave this within thy heart!) if spiritual things 
 
 Be lost, through apathy, or scorn, or fear, 
 
 Shalt thou thy humbler franchises support, 
 
 However hardly won or justly dear: 
 
 What came from Heaven to Heaven by nature clings. 
 
 And, if dissevered thence, its course is short. 
 
 X. 
 
 Down a swift Stream, thus far, a bold design 
 Have we pursued, with livelier stir of heart 
 Than his who sees, borne forward by the Rhine, 
 The living landscapes greet him, and depart; 
 Sees spires fast sinking — up again to start! 
 And strives the towers to number, that recline 
 O'er the dark sleeps, or on the horizon line 
 Striding with shattered crests the eye athwart; — 
 So have we hurried on with troubled pleasure: 
 Henceforth, as on the bosom of a stream 
 That slackens, and spreads wide a watery gleam. 
 We, nothing loth a lingering course to measure. 
 May gather up our thoughts, and mark at leisure 
 Features that else had vanished like a dream. 
 
 XI. 
 
 WALTON'S BOOK OF LIVES. 
 
 There are no colours in the fairest sky 
 
 So fair as these. The feather whence the pen 
 
 Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, 
 
 Dropped from an Angel's wing. With moistened eye 
 
 We read of Faith and purest Charity 
 
 In Statesman, Priest, and humble Citizen : 
 
 O could we copy their mild virtues, then 
 
 What joy to live, what blessedness to die! 
 
 Methinks their very names shine still and bright; 
 
 Apart, like glow-worms on a summer night; 
 
 Or lonely tapers when from far they fling 
 
 A guiding ray ; or seen, like stais on high, 
 
 Satellites burning in a lucid ring 
 
 Around meek Walton's heavenly memory. 
 
 XII. 
 
 SACHEVERELL. 
 
 A SUDDEN conflict rises from the swell 
 Of a proud slavery met by tenets strained 
 In Liberty's behalf Fears, true or feigned. 
 Spread through all ranks; and lo ! the Sentinel 
 Who loudest rang his pulpit 'larum-bell. 
 Stands at the Bar — absolved by female eyes, 
 Minglinff their glances with grave flatteries 
 Lavished on Him — that England may rebel 
 
 Against her ancient virtue. High and Low, 
 
 Watch-words of Party, on all tongues are rife 
 
 As if a Church, though sprung from heaven, must owe 
 
 To opposites and fierce e.xtremes her life, — 
 
 Not to the golden mean, and quiet flow 
 
 Of truths tliat soften hatred, temper strife. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 PLACES OF WORSHIP. 
 
 As star that shines dependent upon star 
 
 Is to the sky while we look up in love ; 
 
 As to the deep fair ships which though they move 
 
 Seem fixed, to eyes that watch them from afar ; 
 
 As to the sandy desert fountains are. 
 
 With palm gloves shaded at wide intervals. 
 
 Whose fruit around the sun-burnt Native falls 
 
 Of roving tired or desultory war; 
 
 Such to this British Isle her Christian Fanes, 
 
 Each linked to each for kindred services; 
 
 Her Spires, her Steeple-towers with glittering vanes 
 
 Far-kenned, her Chapels lurking among trees, 
 
 Where a few villagers on bended knees 
 
 Find solace which a busy world disdains. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 PASTORAL CHARACTER. 
 
 A GENIAL hearth, a hospitable board, 
 
 And a refined rusticity, belong 
 
 To the neat Mansion*, where, his Flock among, 
 
 The learned Pastor dwells, their watchful Lord. 
 
 Though meek and patient as a sheathed sword, 
 
 Though pride's least lurking thought appear a wrong 
 
 To human kind ; though peace be on his tongue, 
 
 Gentleness in his heart; can earth afford 
 
 Such genuine state, pre-eminence so free, 
 
 As when, arrayed in Christ's authority. 
 
 He from the Pulpit lilts his awful hand ; 
 
 Conjures, implores, and labours all he can 
 
 For re-subjecting to divine command 
 
 The stubborn spirit of rebellious Man? 
 
 -A': 
 
 XV. 
 
 THE LITURGY. 
 
 Yes, if the intensities of hope and fear 
 
 Attract us still, and passionate e.\ercise 
 
 Of lofty thoughts, the way before us lies 
 
 Distinct with signs — through which, in fixed career 
 
 As through a zodiac, moves the ritual year 
 
 Of England's Cliurch — stupendous mysteries ! 
 
 *See Note 23, p. 324. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 307 
 
 Which whoso travels in her hosom, eyes 
 As he approaches them, with solemn cheer. 
 Enouo'h for us to cast a transient glance 
 The circle through; relinquishing its story 
 For those whom Heaven hath fitted to advance, 
 And, harp in hand, rehearse the King of Glory — 
 From his mild advent till his countenance 
 Shall dissipate the seas and mountains hoary. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 BAPTISM. 
 Blest be the Church, that, watching o'er the needs 
 Of Infancy, provides a timely shower. 
 Whose virtue changes to a Christian Flower 
 A Growth from sinful Nature's bed of Weeds! 
 Fitliest beneath the sacred roof proceeds 
 The ministration ; while parental Love 
 Looks on, and Grace descendeth from above 
 As the high service pledges now, now pleads. 
 There, should vain thoughts outspread their wings 
 
 and fly 
 To meet the coming hours of festal mirth. 
 The tombs which hear and answer that brief cry. 
 The Infant's notice of his second birth, 
 Recal the wandering soul to sympathy 
 With what Man hopes from Heaven, yet fears from 
 
 Earth. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 SPONSORS. 
 
 Father ! to God himself we cannot give 
 
 A holier name ! then lightly do not bear 
 
 Both names conjoined — but of thy spiritual care 
 
 Be duly mindful ; still more sensitive 
 
 Do Thou, in truth a second Mother, strive 
 
 Against disheartening custom, that by Thee 
 
 Watched, and with love and pious industry 
 
 Tended at need, the adopted Plant may thrive 
 
 For everlasting bloom. Benign and pure 
 
 This Ordinance, whether loss it would supply 
 
 Prevent omission, help deficiency, 
 
 Or seek to make assurance doubly sure. 
 
 Shame if the consecrated Vow be found 
 
 An idle form, the Word an empty sound ! 
 
 XVIIL 
 
 CATECHISING. 
 
 From Little down to Least — in due degree 
 j Around the Pastor, each in new-wrought vest, 
 
 Each with a vernal posy at his breast, 
 'We stood, a trembling, earnest Company! 
 
 With low soft murmur, like a distant bee, 
 
 Some spake, by thought-perplexing fears betrayed; 
 And some a bold unerring answer made : 
 How fluttered then thy anxious heart for me. 
 Beloved Mother ! Thou whose happy hand 
 Had bound the flowers 1 wore, with faithful tie : 
 Sweet flowers ! at whose inaudible command 
 Her countenance, phantom-like, doth re-appear: 
 O lost too earlj' for the frequent tear. 
 And ill requited by this heartfelt sigh ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 CONFIRMATION. 
 The Young-ones gathered in from hill and dale, 
 With holiday delight on every brow: 
 'T is passed away ; far other thoughts prevail ; 
 For they are taking the baptismal Vow, 
 Upon their conscious selves ; their own lips speak 
 The solemn promise. Strongest sinews fail, 
 And many a blooming, many a lovely cheek 
 Under the holy fear of God turns pale, 
 While on each head his lawn-robed Servant lays 
 An apostolic hand, and with prayer seals 
 The Covenant. The Omnipotent will raise 
 Their feeble Souls ; and bear with his regrets, 
 Who, looking round the fair assemblage, feels 
 That ere the Sun goes down their childhood sets. 
 
 XX. 
 
 CONFIRMATION CONTINUED. 
 
 I SAW a Mother's eye intensely bent 
 
 Upon a Maiden trembling as she knelt; 
 
 In and for whom the pious Mother felt 
 
 Things that we judge of by a light too faint: 
 
 Tell, if ye may, some star-crowned Muse, or Saint! 
 
 Tell what rushed in, from what she was relieved — 
 
 Then, when her Child the hallowing touch received. 
 
 And such vibration to the Mother went 
 
 That tears burst forth amain. Did gleams appear 1 
 
 Opened a vision of that blissful place 
 
 Where dwells a Sister-child'! And was power given 
 
 Part of her lost One's glory back to trace 
 
 Even to this Rite ■! For thus She knelt, and, ere 
 
 The Summer-leaf had faded, passed to Heaven. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 SACRAMENT. 
 
 By chain yet stronger must the soul be tied : 
 One duty more, last stage of this ascent. 
 Brings to thy food, memorial Sacrament 
 The Offspring, haply, at the Parent's side; 
 
303 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 But not till They, with all that do abide 
 
 In Heaven, have lifted up their hearts to laud 
 
 And magnify the glorious name of God, 
 
 Fountain of Grace, whose Son for Sinners died. 
 
 Here must my song in timid reverence pause: 
 
 But shrink not, ye, whom to the saving rite 
 
 The Altar calls ; come early under laws 
 
 That can secure for you a path of light 
 
 Through gloomiest shade ; put on (nor dread its weight) 
 
 Armour divine, and conquer in your cause ! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 RURAL CEREMONY.* 
 
 CoNTE.NT with calmer scenes around us spread 
 
 And humbler objects, give we to a day 
 
 Of annual joy one tributary lay ; 
 
 This day, when, forth by rustic music led, 
 
 The village Children, vvliile the sky is red 
 
 With evening lights, advance in long array 
 
 Through the still Church-yard, each with garland gay, 
 
 That, carried sceptre-like, o'ertops the head 
 
 Of the proud Bearer. To the wide Church-door, 
 
 Charged with these offerings which their Fathers bore 
 
 For decoration in the Papal time. 
 
 The innocent procession softly moves : — 
 
 The spirit of Laud is pleased in Heaven's pure clime, 
 
 And Hooker's voice the spectacle approves ! 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 REGRETS. 
 
 Would that our Scrupulous Sires had dared to leave 
 Less scanty measure of those graceful rites 
 And usages, whose due return invites 
 A stir of mind too natural to deceive; 
 Giving the Memory help when she would weave 
 A crown for Hope ! I dread the boasted lights 
 That all too often are but fiery blights. 
 Killing the bud o'er which in vain we grieve. 
 Go, seek, when Christmas snows discomfort bring. 
 The counter Spirit found in some gay Church 
 Green with fresh Holly, every pew a perch 
 In which the linnet or the thrush might sing, 
 Merry and loud, and safe from prying search, 
 Strains offered only to the genial Spring. 
 
 *This is still continued in many Churches in Westmoreland. 
 It takes place in the month of July, when the door of the Stalls 
 is strewn with fresh rushes ; and hence it is called the " Rush- 
 bearing." 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 MUTABILITY. 
 
 From low to high doth dissolution climb, 
 
 And sinks from high to low, along a scale 
 
 Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail ; 
 
 A musical but melancholy chime. 
 
 Which they can hear who meddle not with crime, 
 
 Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care. 
 
 Truth fails not ; but her outward forms that bear 
 
 The longest date do melt like frosty rime. 
 
 That in the morning whitened hill and plain 
 
 And is no more ; drop like the tower sublime 
 
 Of yesterday, which royally did wear 
 
 Its crown of weeds, but could not even sustain 
 
 Some casual shout that broke the silent air. 
 
 Or the unimaginable touch of Time. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 OLD ABBEYS. 
 
 Monastic Domes ! following my downward way. 
 Untouched by due regret I marked your fall ! 
 Now, ruin, beauty, ancient stillness, all 
 Dispose to judgment temperate as we lay 
 On our past selves in life's declining day : 
 For as, by discipline of Time made wise, 
 We learn to tolerate the infirmities 
 And faults of others, gently as he may 
 Towards our own the mild Instructor deals, 
 Teaching us to forget them or forgive.f 
 Perversely curious, then, for hidden ill 
 Why should we break Time's charitable seals'! 
 Once ye were holy, ye are holy still ; 
 Your spirit freely let me drink, and live ! 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 EIVnCRANT FRENCH CLERGY. 
 
 Even while I speak, the sacred roofs of France 
 
 Are shattered into dust ; and self-exiled 
 
 From Altars threatened, levelled, or defiled. 
 
 Wander the Ministers of God, as chance 
 
 Opens a way for life, or consonance 
 
 Of Faith invites. More welcome to no land 
 
 The fugitives than to the British strand, 
 
 Where Priest and Layman with the vigilance 
 
 Of true compassion greet them. Creed and test 
 
 Vanish before the unreserved embrace 
 
 Of Catholic humanity: — distrest 
 
 They came, — and, while the moral tempest roars 
 
 Throughout the Country they have left, our shores 
 
 Give to their Faith a dreadless resting-place. 
 
 t This is borrowed from an affecting passage in Blr. George 
 Dyer's History of Cambridge. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 309 
 
 XXVII. 
 CONGRATULATION. 
 
 Thus all things lead to Cliarity — secured 
 By THEM who blessed the soft and happy gale 
 That landward urged the great Deliverer's sail, 
 Till in the sunny bay his fleet was moored ! 
 Propitious hour! had we, like them, endured 
 jSore stress of apprehension*, with a mind 
 Sickened by injuries, dreading worse designed. 
 From month to month trembling and unassured, 
 iHow had we then rejoiced ! But we have felt, 
 As a loved substance, their futurity : 
 Good, which they dared not hope for, we have seen ; 
 A State whose generous will through earth is dealt ; 
 A State — which, balancing herself between 
 License and slavish order, dares be free. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 NEW CHURCHES. 
 
 But liberty, and triumphs on the Main, 
 
 And laurelled Armies — not to be withstood. 
 
 What serve they f if, on transitory good 
 
 Intent, and sedulous of abject gain. 
 
 The State (ah, surely not preserved in vain I) 
 
 Forbear to shape due channels which the Flood 
 
 Of sacred Truth may enter — till it brood 
 
 O'er the wide realm, as o'er the Egyptian Plain 
 
 The all-sustaining Nile. No more — the time 
 
 Is conscious of her want ; through England's bounds. 
 
 In rival haste, the wished-for Temples rise ! 
 
 [ hear their Sabbath bells' harmonious chime 
 
 Float on the breeze — the heavenliest of all sounds 
 
 That hill or vale prolongs or multiplies ! 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 CHURCH TO BE ERECTED. 
 
 Be this the chosen site ; — the virgin sod, 
 Moistened from age to age by dewy eve. 
 Shall disappear — and grateful earth receive 
 The corner-stone from hands that build to God. 
 Yon reverend hawthorns, hardened to the rod 
 Of winter storms, yet budding cheerfully ; 
 Those forest oaks of Druid memory. 
 Shall long survive, to shelter the Abode 
 Of genuine Faith. Where, haply, 'mid this band 
 Of daisies. Shepherds sate of yore and wove 
 May-garlands, let the holy Altar stand 
 For kneeling adoration ; while — above. 
 Broods, visibly portrayed, the mystic Dove, 
 ^hat shall protect from Blasphemy the Land. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 Mine ear has rung, my spirit sunk subdued. 
 Sharing the strong emotion of the crowd. 
 When each pale brow to dread hosannahs bowed. 
 While clouds of incense mounting veiled the rood. 
 That glimmered like a pine-tree dimly viewed 
 Through Alpine vapours. Such appalling rite 
 Our Church prepares not, trusting to the might 
 Of simple truth with grace divine imbued ; 
 Yet will we not conceal the precious Cross, 
 Like Men ashamedf : the Sun with his first smile 
 Shall greet that symbol crowning the low Pile : 
 And the fresh air of " incense-breathing morn" 
 Shall wooingly embrace it ; and green moss 
 Creep round its arms through centuries unborn. 
 
 XXXL 
 
 ' * See Burnet, who is unusually animated on ihis subject : the 
 East wind, so anxiously expected and prayed for, was called the 
 I" Protestant wind." 
 
 NEW CHURCH- YARD. 
 
 The encircling ground, in native turf arrayed. 
 Is now by solemn consecration given 
 To social interests, and to favouring Heaven ; 
 And where the rugged Colts their gambols played. 
 And wild Deer bounded through the forest glade, 
 Unchecked as when by merry Outlaw driven, 
 Shall hymns of praise resound at morn and even ; 
 And soon, full soon, the lonely Se.xton's spade 
 Shall wound the tender sod. Encincture small 
 But infinite in grasp of weal and woe ! 
 Hopes, fears, in never-ending ebb and flow, — 
 The spousal trembling — and the " dust to dust " — 
 The prayers, the contrite struggle, and the trust 
 That to the Almighty Father looks through all. 
 
 XXXIL 
 
 CATHEDRALS, ETC. 
 
 Open your Gates, ye everlasting Piles ! 
 
 Types of the Spiritual Church which God hath reared ; 
 
 Not loth we quit the newly-hallowed sward 
 
 And humble altar, 'mid your sumptuous aisles 
 
 To kneel — or thrid your intricate defiles — 
 
 Or down the nave to pace in motion slow ; 
 
 Watching with upward eye, the tall tower grow 
 
 And mount, at every step, with living wiles 
 
 Instinct — to rouse the heart and lead the will 
 
 By a bright ladder to the world above. 
 
 Open your Gates, ye Monuments of love 
 
 Divine ! tliou, Lincoln, on thy sovereign hill ! 
 
 Thou, stately York ! and Ye, whose splendours cheer 
 
 Isis and Cam, to patient Science dear ! 
 
 t The Lutherans have retained the Cross within their Church- 
 es : it is to be regretted that we have not done the same. 
 
310 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CARIBRIDGE. 
 
 Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, 
 
 With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned, 
 
 Albeit labourinor for a scanty band 
 
 Of white-robed Scholars only, this imnnense 
 
 And glorious Work of fine Intelligence ! 
 
 Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore 
 
 Of nicely-calculated less or more ; 
 
 So deemed the Man who fashioned for the sense 
 
 These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof 
 
 Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells. 
 
 Where light and shade repose, where music dwells 
 
 Lingering — and wandering on as loth to die ; 
 
 Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof 
 
 That they were born for immortality. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 THE SAME. 
 
 What awful perspective ! while from our sight 
 With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide 
 Their Portraitures, their stone-work glimmers, dyed 
 In the soft chequerings of a sleepy light. 
 Martyr, or King, or sainted Eremite, 
 Whoe'er ye be, that thus — yourselves unseen — 
 Imbue your prison-bars with solemn sheen, 
 Shine on, until ye fade with coming Night ! 
 But, from the arms of silence — list! O list! 
 The music bursteth into second life ; — 
 The notes luxuriate — every stone is kissed 
 By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife ; 
 Heart-thrilling strains, that cast before the eye 
 Of the devout a veil of ecstasy ! 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 They dreamt not of a perishable home 
 Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear 
 Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here; 
 Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam ; 
 V/here bubbles burst, and folly's dancing foam 
 Melts, if it cross the threshold ; where the wreath 
 Of awe-struck wisdom droops : or let my path 
 
 Lead to that younger Pile, whose sky-like dome 
 Hath typified by reach of daring art 
 Infinity's embrace ; whose guardian crest, 
 The silent Cross, among the stars shall spread 
 As now, wlien she hath also seen her breast 
 Filled with mementos, satiate with its part 
 Of grateful England's overflowing Dead. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 EJACULATION. 
 
 Glory to God ! and to the Power who came 
 In filial duty, clothed with love divine; 
 That made his human tabernacle shine 
 Like Ocean burning with purpureal flame; 
 Or like the Alpine Mount, that takes its name 
 From roseate hues, far kenned at morn and even, 
 In hours of peace, or when the storm is driven 
 Along the nether region's rugged frame !* '■ 
 
 Earth prompts — Heaven urges; let us seek the ligkfe 
 Studious of that pure intercourse begun 
 When first our infant brows their lustre won ; 
 So, like the Mountain may we grow more bright 
 From unimpeded commerce with the Sun, 
 At the approach of all-involving night. 
 
 xxxvn. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Why sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled. 
 Coil within coil, at noon-tide! For the Word 
 Yields, if witli unpresumptuous faith explored. 
 Power at whose touch the sluggard sliall unfold 
 His drowsy rings. Look forth ! that Stream behold, : 
 That Stream upon whose bosom we have passed 
 Floating at ease while nations have effaced 
 Nations, and Death has gathered to his fold 
 Long lines of mighty Kings — look forth, my Soul!' 
 (Nor in this vision be thou slow to trust) 
 The living Waters, less and less by guilt 
 Stained and polluted, brighten as they roll, 
 Till they have reached the Eternal City — built 
 For the perfected Spirits of the just ! 
 
 * Some say that Monte Rosa takes its name from a belt ol 
 Tock at its summit — a very unpoelical and scarcely a probablt 
 supposition. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 311 
 
 NOTES 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Note 1, p. 152. 
 
 "Song at the Feast of Brougham CastZe." 
 
 Henry Lord Clifford, &c. &c., who is the subject of 
 ,his Poem, was the son of John Lord Clifford, who was 
 ;!ain at Tovvton Field, which John Lord Clifford, as is 
 inown to the Reader of English History, was the 
 )erson who after the battle of Wakefield slew, in the 
 Ijursuit, the young Earl of Rutland, son of the Duke 
 i)f York, who had fallen in the battle, " in part of re- \ 
 ,'enge" (say the Authors of the History of Cumberland 
 iiid Westmoreland) ; " for the Earl's Father had slain 
 lis." A deed which worthily blemished the author 
 'saith Speed) : but who, as he adds, " dare promise any 
 hing temperate of himself in the heat of martial fury] 
 chiefly, when it was resolved not to leave any branch 
 )f the York line standing; for so one maketh this Lord 
 ;o speak." This, no doubt, I would observe by the by, 
 vas an action sufficiently in the vindictive spirit of the 
 imes, and yet not altogether so bad as represented ; 
 'for the Earl was no child, as some writers would 
 iave him, but able to bear arms, being sixteen or seven- 
 een years of age, as is evident from this, (say the 
 Hernoirs of the Countess of Pembroke, who was laud- 
 bly anxious to wipe away, as far as could be, this 
 tigma from the illustrious name to which she was 
 lorn,) that he was the next Child to King Edward the 
 i.^iirlh, which his mother had by Richard Duke of 
 ifork, and that King was then eighteen years of age : 
 md for the small distance betwixt her Children, see 
 Austin Vincent, in his Book of Nobility, page 632., 
 vvhere he writes of them all." It may further be ob- 
 served, that Lord Clifford, who was then himself only 
 .wenty-five years of age, had been a leading Man and 
 Commander, two or three years together, in the army 
 )f Lancaster, before this time; and, therefore, would 
 36 less likely to think that the Earl of Rutland might 
 X entitled to mercy from his youth. — But, indepen- 
 dent of this act, at best a cruel and savage one, the 
 Family of Clifford had done enough to draw upon them 
 |the vehement hatred of the House of York : so that 
 ifter the Battle of Towton there was no hope for them 
 Dut in flight and concealment. Henry, the subject of 
 ;he Poem, was deprived of his estate and honours during 
 ;he space of twenty-four years; all which time he 
 .ived as a shepherd in Yorkshire, or in Cumberland, 
 where the estate of his Father-in-law (Sir Lancelot 
 Threlkeld) lay. He was restored to his estate and 
 
 honours in the first year of Henry the Seventh. It is 
 recorded that, " when called to parliament, he behaved 
 nobly and wisely; but otherwise came seldom to Lon- 
 don or the Court ; and rather delighted to live in the 
 country, where he repaired several of his Castles, 
 which had gone to decay during the late troubles." 
 Thus far is chiefly collected from Nicliolson and Burn; 
 and I can add, from my own knowledge, that there is 
 a tradition current in the village of Threlkeld and 
 its neighbourhood, his principal retreat, that, in tlie 
 course of his shepherd-life, he had acquired great 
 astronomical knowledge. I cannot conclude this note 
 without adding a word upon the subject of those nume- 
 rous and noble feudal Edifices, spoken of in the Poem, 
 the ruins of some of which are, at this day, so great 
 an ornament to that interesting country. The Cliflbrds 
 had always been distinguished for an honourable pride 
 in these Castles ; and we have seen that after the wars 
 of York and Lancaster they were rebuilt; in the civil 
 wars of Charles the First they were again laid waste, 
 and again restored almost to their former magnificence, 
 by the celebrated Lady Anne Clifford, Countess of Pem- 
 broke, &c. &c. Not more than twenty-five years after 
 this was done, when the estates of Clifford had passed 
 into the Family of Tufton, three of these Castles, 
 namely, Brough, Brougham, and Pendragon, were de- 
 molished, and the timber and other materials sold by 
 Thomas Earl of Thanet. We will hope that, when 
 this order was issued, the Earl had not consulted the 
 text of Isaiah, 58th chap. 12th verse, to which the in- 
 scription placed over the gate of Pendragon Castle, by 
 the Countess of Pembroke (I believe his Grandmother), 
 at the time she repaired that structure, refers the 
 reader : " And they that shall be of thee shall build 
 the old waste places : thou shall raise up the founda- 
 tions of many generations ; and thou shall be called 
 the repairer of the breach, the restorer of paths to 
 dwell in." The Earl of Thanet, the present possessor 
 of the Estates, with a due respect for the memory of 
 his ancestors, and a proper sense of the value and 
 beauty of these remains of antiquity, has (I am told) 
 given orders that they shall be preserved from all de- 
 predations. 
 
 [This subject is again alluded to in Canto I. of 'The 
 White Doe of Rylstone,' p. 273, and in an additional 
 note (N. 16) attached to it. The story of " the Shep- 
 herd Lord" has so deep an interest that, at the hazard 
 
312 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 of repetition, I am induced to enlarge these notices of his 
 career by the insertion of a passage from Mr. Hartley 
 Coleridse's ' Lives of Distinguished Northerns' — a vo- 
 lume which may be classed with that brief list of works, 
 which fully develop the charm of biographical com- 
 position. 
 
 " Thus was the house of Clifford driven 
 
 from its possessions, and deprived of its rank. The 
 children of the ruthless warrior sought and found a 
 refuge among the simple dalesmen of Cumberland. 
 Who has not heard of the Good Lord Clifford, the 
 Shepherd Lord ] He that in his childhood was placed 
 among lowly men for safety, found more in obscurity 
 than he sought, — love, humble wisdom, and a docile 
 heart. How his time past during his early years, it is 
 pleasanter to imagine than safe to conjecture ; but we 
 doubt not, happily, and since he proved equal to his 
 highest elevation, his nurtured must needs have been 
 good. His mother Margaret, with whom came in the 
 barony of Vescy, was married to Sir Lancelot Throlkeld 
 who extended his protection over the offspring of her 
 former husband. Much of Henry Clifford's bnyhood is 
 said to have been passed in the village named after his 
 kind step-father, which lies under Blencathara, on tlie 
 
 road between Keswick and Penrith Tiie 
 
 ' Shepherd Lord' was restored to all his estates and 
 titles in the first year of Henry VIL He was a lover 
 of study and retirement, who had lived too long at lib- 
 erty, and according to reason, to assimilate readily with 
 the court of the crafty Henry. By the Lady Anne, he 
 is described 'as a plain man, who lived for the most 
 part a country life, and came seldom either to court or 
 to London, excepting when called to Parliament, on 
 which occasion he behaved himself like a wise and good 
 English nobleman.' His usual retreat, when in York- 
 shire, was Barden-tower ; his chosen companions the 
 Canons of Bolton. His favourite pursuit was astrono- 
 my. He had been accustomed to watcli the motions of 
 the heavenly bodies from the hill-tops, when he kept 
 sheep: for in those days, when clocks and almanacs 
 were few, every shepherd made acquaintance with the 
 stars. If he added a little judicial astrology, and was 
 a seeker for the philosopher's-stone, he had the counte- 
 nance of the wisest of his time for his learned super- 
 stition. It is asserted that at the period of his restora- 
 tion he was almost wholly illiterate. Very probably he 
 was so ; hut it does not follow that he was ignorant. 
 He might know many things well worth knowing, 
 without being able to write his name. He might learn 
 a great deal of Astronomy by patient observation. He 
 might know where each native flower of the hills was 
 grown, what real qualities it possessed, and what occult 
 powers the fancy, the fears, or the wishes of men had 
 ascribed to it. The haunts, habits, and instincts of ani- 
 mals, the notes of birds, and their wondrous architec- 
 ture, vfere to him instead of books; but above all, he 
 learned to know something of what man is, in tliat 
 
 condition to which the greater number of men are borr 
 and to know himself better than he could have done i 
 his hereditary sphere. Moreover, the legendary lore 
 the floating traditions, the wild superstitions of tlia 
 age, together with the family history, which must hav< 
 been early instilled into him, and the romantic and lii- 
 torical ballads, which were orally communicated Iron 
 generation to generation, or published by the voice am 
 harp of the errant minstrel, if they did not constitut' 
 sound knowledge, at least preserved the mind fron 
 unidead vacancy. The man ' whose daily teachers hai 
 been woods and rills,'* must needs, when suddenlj 
 called to the society of ' Knights and barons bold,' havi 
 found himself deficient in many things ; and that wan 
 was exceeding great gain, botli to his tenantry aiK 
 neighbours, and to his own moral nature. He lived u 
 Barden with what was then a small retinue, though lii: 
 household accounts make mention of sixty servants or 
 that establishment, whose wages were from five ti 
 five-and-twenty shillings each. But the state of hi; 
 revenues, after so many years of spoliation, must have 
 required rigorous economy, and he preferred abatin; 
 something of ancestral splendour, to grinding the face: 
 of the poor. This peaceful life he led, with little inter 
 ruption, from the accession of the house of Tudor, til 
 the Scotch invasion, which was defeated at Flodden- 
 field. Then he became a warrior in his sixtieth year 
 and well supported the military fame of his house or 
 that bloody day. He survived the battle ten years, aiic 
 died April 23, 1523, aged about 70." 
 
 Hartley Coleridge's ' JJves of Distijtguished Norlliems': 
 Life of Anne ClifTord— II. R.] 
 
 Note 2, p. 155. 
 " French Revolution." 
 
 [The passage in ' The Friend', introductory to thia 
 extract on the French Revolution is here annexed, 
 with a ^iew to restore the original connection, and 
 thus to preserve unimpaired their mutual interest. 
 Coleridge records his own lofty enthusiasm in this 
 confession : 
 
 " My feelings and imagination did not remain un- 
 kindled in this general conflagration ; and I confess I 
 should be more inclined to be ashamed than proud of 
 myself, if they had ! I was a sharer in the general 
 vortex, though my little world described the path of 
 its revolution in an orbit of its own. What I dared' 
 not expect from constitutions of government and whole 
 nations, I hoped from Religion and a small company 
 of chosen individuals, and formed a plan, as harmless 
 as it was extravagant, of trying the experiment of 
 
 [* See Wordsworth's " Song at the Feast of Brougliam Cas- 
 tle," a strain of triumph supposed to be chanted by a minstrel of 
 the day of rejoicing for the "good Lord's restoration, in whicli 
 the poet has almost excelled himself Had lie never written 
 another Ode, this alone would set him decidedly at llie head of 
 the lyric poets of England,"] 
 
POEMS OP THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 313 
 
 of human perfectibility on the banks of the Susque- 
 hannah ; where our little society, in its second gene- 
 ration, was to have combined tlie innocence of the 
 'patriarchal age with the knowledge and genuine re- 
 finements of European culture; and where I dreamt 
 that in the sober evening of my life, I should behold 
 the Cottages of Independence in the undivided Dale 
 of Industry, 
 
 " And oft, soothed sadly by some dirgeful wind, 
 Muse on the sore ills I iiad left behind !" 
 
 Strange fancies ! and as vain as strange ! yet to the 
 intense interest and impassioned zeal, which called 
 forth and strained every faculty of my intellect for 
 the organization and defence of this scheme, I owe 
 much of whatever I at present possess, my clearest 
 insight into the nature of individual man, and my 
 most comprehensive views of his social relations, of 
 the true uses of trade and commerce, and how far the 
 •wealth and relative power of nations promote or im- 
 pede tlieir welfare and inherent strength. Nor were 
 they less serviceable in securing myself, and perhaps 
 some others, from the pitfalls of sedition : and when 
 ;we gradually alighted on the firm ground of common 
 isense from the gradually exhausted balloon of youthful 
 enthusiasm, though the air-built castles, which we had 
 been pursuing, had vanished v/ith all their pageantry 
 jf shifting forms and glowing colours, we were yet 
 ree from the stains and impurities which might have 
 remained upon us, had we been travelling with the 
 frovvd of less imaginative malcontents, through the 
 lark lanes and foul bye-roads of ordinary fanaticism. 
 
 But oh! there were thousands as young and as in- 
 Mcent as myself, who, not like me, sheltered in the 
 tranquil nook or inland cove of a particular fancy, 
 were driven along with the general current ! Many 
 ;here were, young men of loftiest minds, yea the 
 prime stuff out of which manly wisdom and practica- 
 )le greatness is to be formed, who had appropriated 
 ;heir hopes and the ardour of their souls to mankind at 
 arge, to the wide expanse of national interests, which 
 ■,hen seemed fermenting in the French Republic as in 
 :he main outlet and chief crater of the revolutionary 
 .orrents ; and who confidently believed, that these tor- 
 ■ents, like the lavas of Vesuvius, were to subside into 
 I soil of inexhaustible fertility on the circumjacent 
 ands, the old divisions and mouldering edifices of 
 ivhich they had covered or swept away. — Enthusiasts 
 )f kindliest temperament, who, to use the words of the 
 Poet (having already borrowed the meaning and the 
 netaphor) had approached 
 
 " the shield 
 
 Of human nature from the golden side, 
 
 And would have fought even to the death to attest 
 
 The quality of the melal which they saw." 
 
 Slj honoured friend has permitted me to give a value 
 md relief to the present Essay, by a quotation from 
 ine of his unpublished Poems, the length of which I 
 2P 
 
 regret only from its forbidding me to trespass on his 
 kindness by making it longer. I trust there are many 
 of my readers of the same age with myself, who will 
 throw themselves back into the state of thought and 
 feeling in which they were, when France was reported 
 to have solemnised her first sacrifice of error and pre- 
 judice on the bloodless altar of Freedom, by an oath 
 of peace and good-will to all mankind." 
 
 ' The Friend; II. p. 38.— H. R.] 
 
 Note 3, p. 198. 
 "Ellen Irwin." 
 
 [This is affectionate Service to the old Minstrelsy. 
 The Poet has here versified, with great fidelity 
 to the tradition, the incidents associated with an an- 
 cient ballad, abounding with the tragic pathos and 
 simplicity of the Scottish minstrelsy. It was fitting 
 that the story of 'Fair Helen,' as well as her lover's 
 lament, should be preserved in verse. The ballad is 
 contained in Sir Walter Scott's ' Minstrelsy of the Bor- 
 der,' from which it is here inserted : 
 
 "FAIR HELEN. 
 
 I wish I were wliere Helen lies, 
 
 Night and day on me she cries; 
 
 O that I were where Helen lies 
 
 On fair Kirconnell Lee ! 
 
 Curst be the heart that thought the thought, 
 And curst the hand (hat fired the shot, 
 When in my arms burd Helen dropt, 
 And died to succour me! 
 
 think na ye my heart was sair, 
 
 When my love dropt down and spak nae mair! 
 There did she swoon wi' mickle care, 
 On lair Kirconnell Lee ; 
 
 As I went down the water side. 
 None but my foe to be my guide, 
 None but my foe to be my guide, 
 On fair Kirconnell Lee. 
 
 1 lighted down my sword to draw, 
 I hacked him in pieces sma', 
 
 I hacked him in pieces sma', 
 
 For her sake that died for me. 
 
 Helen fair, beyond compare I 
 
 1 'U make a garland of thy hair, 
 Shall bind my heart for evermair. 
 
 Until the day I die. 
 
 O that I were where Helen lies ! 
 Night and day on me she cries ; 
 Out of my bed she bids me rise. 
 
 Says, "Haste and come to me!" — 
 
 O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! 
 If I were with thee, I were blest, 
 Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest. 
 On fair Kirconnell Lee. 
 27 
 
314 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 I wish my grave were growing green, 
 A winding-sheet drawn ower my een, 
 And I in Helen's arms lying, 
 On fair Kirconnell Lee. 
 
 I wish I were where Helen lies! 
 Night and day on me she cries; 
 And I am weary of the skies, 
 
 For her sake that died for me." 
 
 Scott's Poetical Works, III. p. 103.— H. R.] 
 
 Note 4, p. 213. 
 Sonnet XI. 
 
 [The concluding lines of this sonnet are thus quo- 
 ted by Coleridge : 
 
 "Effects will not immediately disappear with their 
 causes; but neither can they long continue without 
 them. If by the reception of Truth in the spirit of 
 Truth, we became what we are ; only by the retention 
 of it in the same spirit, can we remain what we are. 
 The narrow seas that form our boundaries, what were 
 they in times of old 1 The convenient highway for 
 Danisli and Norman pirates. What are they now'! 
 Still but 'a Span of Waters.'— Yet they roll at the 
 base of the inisled Ararat, on which the Ark of the 
 Hope of Europe and of Civilization rested ! 
 
 ' Even so doth Cod protect us, if w'e be 
 Virttions and Wise. Winds blow and Whalers roll. 
 Strength to the Brave, and Power and Deity : 
 Vet in themselves are nothing ! One Decree 
 Spake laws to iJiem, and said that by the Soul 
 Only the Nations shall be great and free !' — Wordsworth." 
 ' The Friend,' Vol. I p. 106. 
 
 Again, in the ' Sibylline Leaves' : 
 
 "Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile, 
 O Albion! O my mother Isle ! 
 Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers. 
 Glitter green with sonny showers ; 
 Thy grassy uplands' gentle swells 
 
 Echo to the bleat of flocks; 
 (Those grassy hills, those glittering dells 
 
 Proudly ramparted with rocks) 
 And Oce.w 'mid his uproar wild 
 Spe.*ks safety to his isi^and-child; 
 
 Hence for many a i'earless age 
 
 Has Social Quiet loved thy shore ; 
 Nor ever proud invader's rage 
 Or sacked thy towers, or stained thy fields with gore." 
 
 Coleridge : ' Ode to the Departing Year.' H. R.] 
 
 Note 5, p. 213. 
 
 Sonnet XIII. 
 
 [This Sonnet appears to have been composed in a 
 state of feeling difi'erent froin that which pervades the 
 Series, of which one distinguishing trait is a placid but 
 constant confidence in the cause of Truth, — a relying 
 upon a rational love of fteedo.ii and of country as a 
 
 means of security — a hope which resulting from alook 
 ing up to Providence is not lastingly impaired h 
 either fear or distrust — in a word, that mood of miii 
 which at an earlier day enabled a kindred spirit to 
 
 . "argue not 
 
 Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot 
 Of heart or hope ; but still bear up and steer 
 Right onward." 
 
 Well does the Poet claim the praise that " his son 
 did not shrink from hope in the worst moments of e\ 
 days," (Sonnet XXXIII. p. 221.) It is true, indeoi 
 there may be traced apprehensions — momentary mii 
 givings — anxieties, but only white clouds floating ovi 
 a gentle sky, adorning rather than darkening it. Tl 
 peculiarity of this Sonnet seems to be simply "this; 
 that after the expression of heart-sinking, it does no 
 as is usual with him, express also the self-recovery c 
 the Poet's spirit, a beautiful instance of which occui 
 in Sonnet XVII. p. 213. At the same time the feelin 
 which is expressed is perfectly natural, especially i 
 we consider the locality of the Sonnet ; nor is it, i 
 we regard it as a transitory feeling, at all at variant 
 with the general tenor of the poems of the Series. I 
 inserting in this Note the affectionate expostulatio 
 of one of the Poet's most zealous admirers, Mr. Hat 
 ley Coleridge, it will, I hope, be perceived tliat it 
 designed not for a corrective comment, but to guai 
 against a probable over-estimate of the dcspondenc 
 which darkened the Poet's thought in the coneeptic 
 of the Sonnet alluded to. 
 
 " Mr. Wordsworth will, I doubt not, excuse mo, i 
 admiring above measure the poetry of this sublin: 
 Sonnet, I venture to object to the querulous spir 
 which it breathes. That we are much worse than h ! 
 ought to be is unfortunately a standing truisin, but th: 
 the ' stream of tendency' is recently diverted froi 
 good to evil, I confidently deny. Having said th 
 much, it is better to give the Sonnet at once, for I ai 
 afraid that some one of my readers may not have 
 copy of Wordsworth's poems in his pocket, or even i 
 his parlour window." (After quoting the Sonnet, h 
 proceeds :) 
 
 "Seldom has the same feeling, which is expressc 
 so often, been expressed so beautifully ; but is not th 
 feeling itself a delusion, or rather in minds lik 
 Wordsworth's a voluntary i7/i(sio;i .' Greater virtud 
 were rendered visible by the trials of the past, tha ' 
 by the security of the present ; but it was not the gom 
 ness of the times that called those virtues into ac 
 Had there been no persecutors, there would have bee 
 no martyrs : war and oppression make patriots and he 
 roes; and wherever we hear of much almsgiving, w 
 may be sure that there is much poverty. If Ann 
 Clifford had not had a had father and two bad hui 
 bands, and a long weary widowhood, and lived in dav 
 of rebellion, usurpation, and profligacy, she perlin] I 
 would have obtained no other record than that of 
 sensible, good sort of a woman, upon whose brow Ih 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 315 
 
 f;oronet sat with graceful ease. Nay, it is possible, 
 'Jiat the same disposition which her adversities disci- 
 plined to steady purpose, meek self-command, consi- 
 ilerate charity, and godly fortitude, might under better 
 circumstances have produced a most unamiable degree 
 jf patrician haughtiness. From reading the memoirs 
 :)f her, and such as her, an imaginative mind receives 
 ii strong impression of the superior sanctity of former 
 [venerations; but a little examination will prove that 
 ilhese high examples have always been elect exceptions, 
 jailed out of the world — no measures of the world's 
 •io-hteousness. No period produced more saintly ex- 
 ;ellence than that in which Anne Clifford lived : in 
 :ione were greater crimes perpetrated ; and if we look 
 i;o her later years — never, in a christian age, was the 
 fiverage of morals so low. But the age was charac- 
 ;;erised more by the evil than the good, as Rochester's 
 iioems were much more characteristical of Charles the 
 ;Second's time than Milton's. 
 
 I One thing is obvious, that if we are not better than 
 pur ancestors, we must be much worse — if we are not 
 viser than the ancients, we must be incorrigible fools. 
 J!od forbid that I should glory, save in the glory of 
 Sod. God forbid that I should flatter the men of my 
 jwn generation, or detract one atom from the wise or 
 food of ages past. What we are we did not make 
 'lUrselves ; whatever truth perfumes our atmosphere, is 
 ;he flower of a seed planted long ago. We do not, we 
 keed not do more than cultivate and improve our pater- 
 lal fields. But to deny that we are benefiting by the 
 {ibours of our forefathers, morally as well as physical- 
 y, would be impious ingratitude to that Great Power 
 Vhich hath given, and is giving, and will give the wish, 
 Ind the will, and the povver, and the knowledge, and 
 tie means to do the good which he willeth and doeth. 
 Much, very much remains to do. It is no time to sit 
 ;own self-complacently and count our gains ; but neither 
 s it a time to stretch out our arms vainly to catch the 
 rrevocable past. We can neither stand still nor go 
 ,ackward, but striving to go backward, we may go 
 amentably astray. There is one line in Mr. Words- 
 worth's sonnet, against which, for his own sake, I 
 ■lUSt enter my protest : 
 
 * No grandeur now in nature or in book 
 Delights us.' 
 
 fby'us,' he means the numerical majority of the 
 ■opulation, I answer, that many more are awake to the 
 .'randeur and beauty of nature now than at any former 
 ra: if he means that the mind and soul of England 
 3 insensible to the sublime, in the visible or in the in- 
 isllectual world, let him only consider the number of 
 Joung, and pure, and noble hearts, that have joyftilly 
 [cknowledged the grandeur of his hook, and kt him 
 [nsay the slander." Hartley Coleridge's ' Lives 
 
 ! 1/ diitinguished Northerns ;' —Life of Anne Clif- 
 
 ! prd.— H. R.] 
 
 L 1 -• 
 
 Note 6, p. 218. 
 Sonnet XVI. 
 
 " Of more than martial courage in the breast 
 Of peaceful civic virtue ;" 
 
 [The siege-renowned City has received from the Poet 
 another tribute, — indeed a high 'impassioned strain,' 
 though sustained ' without aid of numbers.' It occurs 
 in his Tract on the Convention of Cintra, referred to 
 in Sonnets VII. and VIII. p. 217; and whether we re- 
 gard the eloquence of the expression or the sublime 
 moral truth it teaches, it is a noble passage of English 
 prose. It is in such true harmony with these Sonnets, 
 that it is gratifying to place it in connection with them 
 by means of a note : 
 
 "Most gloriously have the citizens of Zaragoza 
 proved that the true army of Spain, in a contest of this 
 nature, is the whole people. The same city has also 
 exemplified a melancholy, yea, a dismal truth, — yet 
 consolatory and full of joy, — that when a people are 
 called suddenly to fight for their liberty, and are sorely 
 pressed upon, their best field of battle is the floors upon 
 which their children have played ; the chambers where 
 the family of each man has slept, (his own or his 
 neighbours' ; ) upon or under the roofs by which they 
 have been sheltered ; in the gardens of their recrea- 
 tion ; in the street, or in the market place; before the 
 altars of their temples, and among their congregated 
 dwellings, blazing or uprooted. 
 
 " The government of Spain must never forget Zara- 
 goza for a moment. Nothing is wanting to produce 
 the same effects everywhere, but a leading mind such 
 as that city was blessed with. In the latter contest 
 this has been proved ; for Zaragoza contained at tliat 
 time, bodies of men from almost all parts of Spain. 
 The narrative of those two sieges should be the manual 
 of every Spaniard. He may add to it the ancient 
 stories of Numantia and Saguntum ; let him sleep upon 
 the book as a pillow, and if he be a devout adherent 
 to the religion of his country, let him wear it in his 
 bosom for his crucifix to rest upon." — —Wordsworth : 
 ' On the Convention of Cintra.' 
 
 In closing this note I cannot refrain from adding the 
 single remark, that he must be dull of heart, who, in 
 perusing this series of Poems ' dedicated to Liberty,' 
 does not feel his affection for his own country — where- 
 ever it may be — and his love of freedom — under 
 whatever form of government his lot may have been 
 cast — at once invigorated and chastened into a purer 
 and more thoughtful emotion ; — and that mind must 
 be of a weak abstracting power, which fails to trace 
 amid these notices of men and of events which have 
 passed away, the record of those 
 
 truths that wake, 
 
 To perish never. 
 
 H. R.] 
 
316 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Note 7, p. 230. 
 " Bruges." 
 
 This is not the first poetical tribute wliicli in our 
 times has been paid to this beautiful City. Mr. Southey, 
 in the "Poet's Pilgrimage," speaks of it in lines which 
 I cannot deny myself the pleasure of connecting with 
 my own. 
 
 " Time hath not wronged her, nor hath niin sought 
 
 Rudely her splendid structures lo destroy, 
 Save in those recent days, with evil fraught. 
 
 When Mutability, in drunken joy 
 Triumphant, and from all restraint released. 
 Let loose her fierce and many-headed beast. 
 
 " But for the scars in that unhappy rage 
 Inflicted, firm she stands and undecayed; 
 Like our first Sires, a beautiful old age 
 
 Is hers in venerable years arrayed ; 
 And yet, lo her, benignant stars may bring. 
 What fate denies to m.an, — a second spring. 
 
 " When I may read of tilts in days of old. 
 
 And tourneys graced by Chieftains of reno«Ti, 
 Fair dames, grave citizens, and warriors bold. 
 If fincy would pourtray some stately town 
 Which for such pomp fit theatre should be, 
 Fair Bruges, I shall then remember thee." 
 
 In this City are many vestiges of the splendour of 
 the Burgundian Dukedom, and the long black mantle 
 universally worn by the females is probably a remnant 
 of the old Spanish connection, which, if I do not much 
 deceive myself, is traceable in the grave deportment 
 of its inhabitants. Bruges is comparatively little dis- 
 turbed by that curious contest, or rather conflict, of 
 Flemish with French propensities in matters of taste, 
 so conspicuous through other parts of Flanders. The 
 hotel to which we drove at Ghent furnished an odd in- 
 stance. In the pa.ssages were paintings and statues, 
 after the antique, of Hebe and Apollo; and in the gar- 
 den, a little pond, about a yard and a half in diameter, 
 with a weeping willow bending over it, and under the 
 shade of that tree, in the centre of the pond, a wooden 
 painted statue of a Dutch or Flemish boor, looking in- 
 effably tender upon his mistress, and embracing her. 
 A living duck, tethered at the feet of the sculptured 
 lovers, alternately tormented a miserable eel and itself 
 with endeavours to escape from its bonds and prison. 
 Had we chanced to espy the hostess of the hotel in 
 this quaint rural retreat, the exhibition would have 
 been complete. She was a true Flemish figure, in the 
 dress of the days of Holbein, her symbol of olBce, a 
 weitrhty bunch of keys, pendent from her portly waist. 
 In Brussels, the modern taste in costume, architecture, 
 &c,, has got the mastery ; in Ghent there is a struggle ; 
 but in Bruges old images are still paramount, and an 
 air of monastic life among the quiet goings-on of a 
 thinly-peopled City is inexpressibly soothing ; a pen- 
 sive grace seems to be cast over all, even the very 
 children. Extract from Journal. 
 
 Note 8, p. 247. 
 Sonnet VI. 
 
 " There bloomed the strawberry of the wildernesi. 
 The Ircmbling cyebright showed her sapphire blue." 
 
 These two lines are in a great measure taken from 
 '' The Beauties of Spring, a Juvenile Poem," by the Rev, 
 Joseph Sympson, author of " The Vision of Alfred," &c 
 He was a native of Cumberland, and was educated ir 
 the vale of Grasmere, and at Hawkshead school : hi: 
 poems are little known, but they contain passages of 
 splendid description; and the versification of his "Vis 
 ion of Alfred,' is harmonious and animated. In descri- 
 bing the motions of the Sylphs, that constitute thf 
 strange machinery of his Poem, he uses the following 
 illustrative simile : — 
 
 *' Glancing from their plumes 
 
 A changeful light the azure vault illumes. 
 Less varying hues beneath the Polo adorn 
 The streamy glories of the Boreal morn. 
 That wavering to and fro their radiance shed 
 On Bothnia's gulf with glassy ice overspread. 
 Where the lone native, as he homeward glides. 
 On polished sandals o"er the imprisoned tides. 
 And still the balance of his frame preserves. 
 Wheeled on alternate foot in lengthening curves. 
 Sees at a glance, above him and below. 
 Two rival heavens with equal splendour glow. 
 Sphered in the centre of the world he seems : 
 For all around with soft effulgence gleams ; 
 Stars, moons, and meteors, ray oppose to ray, 
 And solemn midnight pours the blaze of day." 
 
 He was a man of ardent feeling, and bis facultiet 
 of mind, particularly his memory, were e.xtraordinary 
 Brief notices of his life ought to find a place in thi 
 History of Westmoreland. 
 
 Note 9, p. 248. 
 
 Sonnet XVII. 
 
 The Eagle requires a large domain for its support 
 but several pairs, not many years ago, were constanll) 
 resident in this country, building their nests in tlit 
 steeps of Borrowdale, Wastdale, Ennerdale, and on l!i« 
 eastern side of Ilelvellyn. Often have I heard angler 
 speak of the grandeur of their appearance, as they 
 hovered over Red Tarn, in one of the coves of thi; i 
 mountain. The bird frequently returns, but is always 
 destroyed. Not long since, one visited Rydal Lake 
 and remained some hours near its banks : the conster 
 nation which it occasioned among the different specie! 
 of fowl, particularly the herons, was expressed by lout 
 screams. The horse also is naturally afraid of lli< 
 eagle. — There were several Roman stations amonf 
 these mountains ; the most considerable seem? to havt 
 been in a meadow at the head of Windermere, estab 
 lished, undoubtedly, as a check over the passes o! 
 Kirkstone, Dunmail-raise, and of Hardknot and Wry 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 317 
 
 nose. On the margin of Rydal Lake, a coin of Trajan 
 
 ] was discovered very lately. — The Roman Fort here 
 
 ! alluded to, called by the country people " Hardknot 
 
 ! Castle" is most impressively situated half-way down 
 
 I the hill on the right of the road that descends from 
 
 Hardknot into Eskdale. It has escaped the notice of 
 
 most antiquarians, and is but slightly mentioned by 
 
 Lysons. — The Druidical Circle is about half a mile 
 
 to the left of the road ascending Stone-side from the 
 
 vale of Duddon : the country people call it " Sunken 
 
 Church." 
 
 The reader who may have been interested in the 
 foregoing Sonnets, (which together may be considered 
 as a Poem,) will not'be displeased to find in this place 
 a prose account of the Duddon, extracted from Green's 
 comprehensive Guide to the Lakes, lately published. 
 "The road leading from Coniston to Broughton is over 
 high ground, and commands a view of the River Dud- 
 don ; which, at high water, is a grand sight, having 
 the beautiful and fertile lands of Lancashire and Cum- 
 berland stretching each way from its margin. In this 
 extensive view, the face of nature is displayed in a 
 wonderful variety of hill and dale ; wooded grounds 
 and buildings ; amongst the latter, Bronghton Tower, 
 seated on the crown of a hill, rising elegantly from the 
 valley, is an object of extraordinary interest. Fertility 
 on each side is gradually diminished, and lost in the 
 superior heights of Blackcomb, in Cumberland, and the 
 high lands between Kirkby and Ulverstone. 
 
 " The road from Broughton to Seathwaite is on the 
 banks of the Duddon, and on its Lancashire side it is 
 of various elevations. The river is an amusing com- 
 panion, one while brawling and tumbling over rocky 
 precipices, until the agitated water becomes again calm 
 by arriving at a smoother and less precipitous bed, but 
 its course is soon again rufHed, and the current thrown 
 into every variety of foam which the rocky channel 
 of a river can give to water." — Vide Green''s G-uide 
 to the Lakes, vol. i. pp. 98—100. 
 
 • After all, the traveller would be most gratified who 
 shbuld approach this beautiful Stream, neither at its 
 source, as is done in the Sonnets, nor from its termina- 
 tion; but from Coniston over Walna Scar; first de- 
 scending into a little circular valley, a collateral com- 
 partment of the long winding vale through which flows 
 the Duddon. This recess, towards the close of Sep- 
 tember, when the after-grass of the meadows is still of 
 a fresh green, with the leaves of many of the trees 
 faded, but perhaps none fallen, is truly enchanting. At 
 a point elevated enough to show the various objects in 
 the valley, and not so high as to diminish their impor- 
 tance, the stranger will instinctively halt. On the 
 foreground, a little below the most favourable station, 
 a rude foot-bridge is thrown over the bed of the noisy 
 brook foaming by the way-side. Russet and craggy 
 hills, of bold and varied outline, surround the level val- 
 ley, which is besprinkled with gray rocks plumed with 
 
 birch trees. A few homesteads are interspersed, in 
 some places peeping out from among the rocks like 
 hermitages, whose site has been chosen for the benefit 
 of sunshine as well as shelter; in other instances, the 
 dwelling-house, barn, and byre, compose together a 
 cruciform structure, which, with its embowering tree.?, 
 and the ivy clothing part of the walls and roof like a 
 fleece, call to mind the remains of an ancient abbey. 
 Time, in most cases, and nature every where, have 
 given a sanctity to the humble works of man, that are 
 scattered over this peaceful retirement. Hence a har- 
 mony of tone and colour, a perfection and consumma- 
 tion of beauty, which would have been marred had aim 
 or purpose interfered with the course of convenience, 
 utility, or necessity. This unvitiated region stands in 
 no need of the veil of twilight to soften or disguise its 
 features. As it glistens in the morning sunshine, it 
 would fill the spectator's heart with gladsomeness. 
 Looking ft'om our chosen station, he would feel an im- 
 patience to rove among its pathways, to be greeted by 
 the milkmaid, to wander from house to house, exchan- 
 ging " good-morrows" as he passed the open doors ; but, 
 at evening, when the sun is set, and a pearly liglit 
 gleams from the western quarter of the sky, with an 
 answering light from the smooth surface of the mea- 
 dows; when the trees are dusky, but each kind still 
 distinguishable ; when the cool air has condensed the 
 blue smoke rising from the cottage-chimneys; when 
 the dark mossy stones seem to sleep in the bed of the 
 foaming Brook; then, he would be unwilling to move 
 forward, not less from a reluctance to relinquish what 
 he beholds, than from an apprehension of disturbing, 
 by his approach, the quietness beneath him. Issuing 
 from the plain of this valley, the Brook descends in a 
 rapid torrent, passing by the churchyard of Seathwaite. 
 The traveller is thus conducted at once into the midst 
 of the wild and beautiful scenery which gave occasion 
 to the Sonnets from the 14th to the 20th inclusive. 
 From the point where the Seathwaite Brook joins the 
 Duddon, is a view upwards, into the pass through 
 which the River makes its way into the Plain of Don- 
 nerdale. The perpendicular rock on the right bears 
 the ancient British name of The Pen ; the one oppo- 
 site is called Walla-earrow Crag, a name that 
 occurs in several places to designate rocks of the same 
 character. The chaotic aspect of the scene is well 
 marked by the expression of a stranger, who strolled 
 out while dinner was preparing, and at his return, 
 being asked by his host, " What way he had been 
 wandering"!" replied, "As far as it is finished ! 
 
 The bed of the Duddon is here strewn with large frag- 
 ments of rocks fallen from aloft ; which, as Mr. Green 
 truly says, "are happily adapted to the many-shaped 
 waterfalls," (or rather water-breaks, for none of them 
 are high,) " displayed in the short space of half a mile." 
 That there is some hazard in frequenting these desolate 
 places, I myself have had proof; for one night an 
 27* 
 
318 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 immense mass of rock fell upon the very spot where, 
 with a friend, I had lingered the day before. The con- 
 cussion," says Mr. Green, speaking of the event, (for 
 he also, in the practice of his art, on that Any sat 
 exposed for a still longer time to the same peril,) 
 " was heard, not without alarm, by the neighbouring 
 shepherds." But to return to Seathwaile Church-yard : 
 it contains the following inscription. 
 
 "In memory of the Reverend Robert Walker, who 
 died the Q.'ith of June, 1802, in the 93d year of his age, 
 and 67tli of his curacy at Seathwaite. 
 
 " Also, of Anne, his wife, who died the 28th of Janu- 
 ary, in the 93d year of her age." 
 
 In the parish-register of Seathwaite Chapel, is this 
 notice : 
 
 "Buried, June 28th, the Rev. Robert Walker. lie 
 was curate of Seathwaite sixty-six years. He was 
 a man singular for his temperance, industry, and in- 
 tegrity." 
 
 This individual is the Pastor alluded to, in the 
 eighteenth Sonnet, as a worthy compeer of the Conn- 
 try Parson of Chaucer, &c. In the Seventh Book of 
 the Excursion, an abstract of his character is given, 
 beginning — 
 
 " A Priest abides before whose life such doubts 
 Fall to tlie ground ; — " 
 
 and some account of his life, for it is worthy of being 
 recorded, will not be out of place here. [See Appen- 
 dix III., to which this memoir has been transferred, 
 reference being made to the subject of it in several 
 places in this volume. — H. R.] 
 
 Note 10, p. 256. 
 " Highland Hut:' 
 
 This sonnet describes the exterior of a Highland hut, 
 as often seen under morning or evening sunshine. The 
 reader may not be displeased with the following extract 
 from the journal of a Lady, my fellow-traveller in 
 Scotland, in the autumn of 1803, which accurately 
 describes, under particular circumstances, the beautiful 
 appearance of the interior of one these rude hr.bita- 
 tions. 
 
 " On our return from the Trossachs the evening be- 
 gan to darken, and it rained so heavily that we were 
 completely wet before we had come two miles, and it 
 was dark when we landed with our boatman, at his 
 hut upon the banks of Loch Katrine. I was faint 
 from cold : the good woman had provided, according to 
 her promise, a better fire than we had found in the 
 morning; and, indeed, when I sat down in tlie chim- 
 ney-corner of her smoky biggin, I thought I had never 
 felt more comfortable in my life : a pan of coffee was 
 boiling for us, and having put our clothes in the way 
 of drying, we all «at down thankful for a shelter. We 
 could not prevail upon our boatman, the master of the 
 house, to draw near the fire, though he was cold and 
 wet, or to suffer his wife to get him dry clothes till 
 
 she had served us, which she did most willingly, though 
 not very expeditiously. 
 
 " A Cumberland man of the same rank would not 
 have had such a notion of what was fit and right in his 
 own house, or, if he had, one would have accused him 
 of servility ; but in the Highlander it only seemed like 
 politeness (however erroneous and painful to us), na- 
 turally growing out of the dependence of the inferiors 
 of the clan upon their laird : he did not, however, re- 
 fiise to let his wife bring out the whisky bottle for his 
 refreshment, at our request. " She keeps a dram," as 
 the phrase is: indeed, I believe there is scarcely a 
 lonely house by the wayside, in Scotland, where travel- 
 lers may not be accommodated with a dram. We 
 asked for sugar, butter, barley-bread, and milk; and, 
 witli a smile and a stare more of kindness than wonder, 
 she replied, "Ye '11 get tliat," bringing each article 
 separately. We caroused over our cups of coffee, laugh- 
 ing like children at the strange atmosphere in which we 
 were : the smoke came in gusts, and spread along the 
 walls; and above our heads in the chimney (where the 
 hens were roosting) like clouds in the slcy. We 
 laughed and laughed again, in spite of the smarting 
 of our eyes, yet had a quieter pleasure in observing 
 the beauty of the beams and rafters gleaming between 
 the clouds of smoke : they had been crusted over, and 
 varnished by many winters, till, where the firelight fell 
 upon them, they had become as glossy as black rocks, 
 on a sunny day, cased in ice. When we had eaten 
 our supper we sat about half an hour, and I think I 
 never felt so deeply the blessing of a hospitable wel- 
 come and a warm fire. The man of the house re- 
 peated from time to time that we should often tell of 
 this night when we got to our homes, and interposed 
 praises of his own lake, which he had more than once, 
 when we were returning in the boat, ventured to say 
 was " bonnier than Loch Lomond." Our companion 
 from tlie Trossachs, who, it appeared, was an Edin- 
 burgh drawing-master going, during the vacation, on a 
 pedestrian tour to John o' Groat's house, was to sleep 
 in the barn with rny fellow-travellers, where the man 
 said he had plenty of dry hay. I do not believe that 
 the hay of the Highlanders is ever very dry, but this 
 year it had a better chance than usual : wet or dry, 
 however, the next morning they said they had slept 
 comfortably. When I went to bed, the mistress, de- 
 siring me to "go ben" attended me with a candle, and 
 assured me that the bed was dry, though not " sic as 
 I had been used to." It was of chaff; there were 
 two others in the room, a cupboard and two chests, 
 upon one of which stood milk in wooden vessels, 
 covered over. The walls of the whole house were of 
 stone un plastered: it consisted of three apartments, 
 the cowhouse at one end, the kitchen or house in the 
 middle, and the spence at the other end ; the rooms 
 were divided, not up to the rigging, but only to the 
 ben-inning of the roof, so that there was a free i 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 319 
 
 for light and smoke from one end of the house to the 
 other. I went to bed some time before the rest of the 
 family : the door was shut between us, and they had a 
 bright fire, which I could not see, but the light it sent 
 up among the varnished rafters and beams, which 
 crossed each other in almost as intricate and fantastic 
 a manner as I have seen the under boughs of a large 
 beech tree withered by the depth of shade above, pro- 
 duced the most beautiful effect that can be conceived. 
 It was like what I should suppose an underground 
 cave or temple to be, with a dripping or moist roof, and 
 the moonlight entering in upon it by some means or 
 other; and yet the colours were more like those of 
 melted gems. I lay looking up till the light of the 
 fire faded away, and the man and his wife and child 
 had crept into their bed at the other end of the room : 
 I did not sleep much, but passed a comfortable night ; 
 for my bed, though hard, was warm and clean ; the 
 unusualness of my situation prevented me from sleep- 
 ing. I could hear the waves beat against the shore of 
 the lake ; a little rill close to the door made a much 
 louder noise, and, when I sat up in my bed, I could see 
 the lake through an open window-place at the bed's 
 head. Add to this, it rained all night. I was less 
 occupied by remembrance of the Trossachs, beautiful 
 as they were, than the vision of the Highland hut, 
 which I could not get out of my head ; I thought of 
 the Fairy-land of Spenser, and what I had read in ro- 
 mance at other times, and then what a feast it would 
 be for a London Pantomime-maker, could he but trans- 
 plant it to Drury Lane, with all its beautiful co- 
 lours r—MS. 
 
 Note 11, p. 256. 
 
 "Bothwell Castle." 
 
 The follovving is from the same MS., and gives an 
 account of the visit to Bothwell Castle here alluded 
 to: — 
 
 "It was exceedingly delightful to enter thus unex- 
 pectedly upon such a beautiful region. The castle 
 stands nobly, overlooking the Clyde. When we came 
 : up to it, I was hurt to see that flower-borders had taken 
 place of the natural overgrowings of the ruin, the scat- 
 : tered stones and wild plants. It is a large and grand 
 pile of red freestone, harmonizing perfectly with the 
 rocks of the river, from which, no doubt, it has been 
 [. hewn. When I was a little accustomed to the unna- 
 ! turalness of a modern garden, I could not help admiring 
 ' the excessive beauty and luxuriance of some of the 
 plants, particularly the purple-flowered clematis, and 
 a broad-leafed creeping plant without flowers, which 
 scrambled up the castle wall, along with the ivy, and 
 spread its vine-like branches so lavishly that it seemed 
 to be in its natural situation, and one could not help 
 thinking that, though not self-planted among the ruins 
 of this country, it must somewhere have its native abode 
 ' in such places. If Bothwell Castle had not been close 
 
 to the Douglas mansion, we should have been disgusted 
 with tlie possessor's miserable conception of adorning 
 such a venerable ruin ; but it is so very near to the 
 house, that of necessity the pleasure-grounds must have 
 extended beyond it, and perhaps the neatness of a 
 shaven lawn and the complete desolation natural to a 
 ruin might have made an unpleasing contrast; and, 
 besides being within the precincts of the pleasure- 
 grounds, and so very near to the dwelling of a noble 
 family, it had forfeited, in some degree, its independent 
 majesty, and becomes a tributary to the mansion : its 
 solitude being interrupted, it has no longer the com- 
 mand over the mind in sending it back into past times, 
 or excluding the ordinary feelings which we bear 
 about us in daily life. We had then only to regret 
 that the castle and the house were so near to each 
 other ; and it was impossible 7iot to regret it ; for the 
 ruin presides, in state over the river, far from city -or 
 town, as if it might have a peculiar privilege to preserve 
 its memorials of past ages, and maintain its own charac- 
 ter for centuries to come. We sat upon a bench under 
 the high trees, and had beautiful views of the difiierent 
 reaches of the river, above and below. On the oppo- 
 site bank, which is finely wooded with elms and other 
 trees, are the remains of a priory built upon a rock ; and 
 rock and ruin are so blended, that it is impossible to 
 separate tlie one from the other. Nothing can be more 
 beautiful than the little remnant of this holy place: 
 elm trees (for we were near enough to distinguish 
 them by their branches) grow out of the walls, and 
 overshadow a small, but very elegant window. It can 
 scarcely be conceived what a grace the castle and 
 priory impart to each other ; and the river Clyde flows 
 on smooth and unruflled below, seeming to my thoughts 
 more in harmony with the sober and stately images 
 of former times, than if it had roared over a rocky 
 channel forcing its sound upon the ear. It blended 
 gently with the warbling of the smaller birds, and the 
 chattering of the larger ones, that had made their nests 
 in the ruins. In this fortress the chief of the English 
 nobility were confined after the battle of Bannockburn. 
 If a man is to be a prisoner, he scarcely could have a 
 more pleasant place to solace his captivity ; but I 
 thought that, for close confinement, I should prefer tlie 
 banks of a lake, or the sea-side. The greatest charm 
 of a brook or river is in the liberty to pursue it through 
 its windings ; you can then take it in whatever mood 
 you like; silent or noisy, sportive or quiet. The beau- 
 ties of a brook or river must be sought, and the pleasure 
 is in going in search of them ; those of a lake, or of 
 the sea, come to you of themselves. These rude war- 
 riors cared little, perhaps, about either; and yet, if one 
 may judge from the writings of Chaucer, and from the 
 old romances, more interesting passions were connected 
 with natural objects in the days of chivalry tlian now; 
 though going in search of scenery, as it is called, had 
 not then been thought of I had previously heard no- 
 
320 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 thing of Bothwell Castle, at least nothing that I re- 
 membered ; therefore, perhaps, my pleasure was greater, 
 compared with what I received elsewhere, than others 
 might feel." MS. Journal. 
 
 Note 12, p. 257. 
 ' The HarVs-horn Tree.'' 
 " In the time of the first Rohert de Clifford, in the 
 year 1333 or 1334, Edward Baliol, king of Scotland, 
 came into Westmoreland, and stayed some time with 
 the said Robert at his castles of Appleby, Brougham, 
 and Pendragon. And during that time they ran a stag 
 by a single greyhound out of VVhinfell Park to Red- 
 kirk, in Scotland, and back again to this place ; where, 
 being both spent, the stag leaped over the pales, but 
 died on the other side ; and the greyhound, attempting 
 to leap, fell, and died on the contrary side. In memory 
 of this fact the stag's horns were nailed upon a tree 
 just by, and (the dog being named Hercules) this rhyme 
 was made upon them : 
 
 'Hercules kiU'd Hart a greose 
 .^nd Hart a greese kiU'd Hercules.' 
 
 The tree to this day bears the name of Hart's-horn 
 Tree. The horns in process of time were almost 
 grown over by the growth of the tree, and another pair 
 
 was put up in their place." Nicholson and Barns's 
 
 History of Westmoreland and Cumberland. 
 
 The tree has now disappeared, but the author of 
 these poems well remembers its imposing appearance 
 as it stood, in a decayed state, by the side of the high 
 road leading from Penrith to Appleby. This whole 
 neighbourhood abounds in interesting traditions and 
 vestiges of antiquity, viz., Julian's Bower; Brougham 
 and Penrith Castles ; Penrith Beacon, and the curious 
 remains in Penrith church-yard ; Arthur's Round Table ; 
 the excavation, called the Giant's Cave, on the banks 
 of the Eamont ; Long Ueg and her Daughters, near 
 Eden, &c. &c. 
 
 Note 13, p. 260. 
 The River Greta. 
 " But if thou like Cocytus," &c. 
 Many years ago, when the author was at Greta 
 Bridge, in Yorkshire, the hostess of the inn, proud 
 of her skill in etymology, said, that "the name 
 of the river was taken from the bridge, the form of 
 which, as every one must notice, exactly resembled a 
 great A." But Dr. Wliitaker has derived it from the 
 word of common occurrence in the north of England, 
 "to greet;" signifying to lament aloud, mostly with 
 weeping: a conjecture rendered more probable from 
 the stony and rocky channel of both the Cumberland 
 and Yorkshire river.s. The Cumberland Greta, though 
 it does not, among tlie country people, take up that 
 name till within three miles of its disappearance in 
 the river Derwent, may be considered as having its 
 
 source in the mountain cove of Wythburn, and flowing 
 through Thirlmere, the beautiful features of which 
 lake are known only to those who, travelling between 
 Grasmere and Keswick, have quitted the main road in 
 the vale of Wythburn, and, crossing over to the oppo- 
 site side of the lake, have proceeded with it on the 
 right hand. 
 
 The channel of the Greta, immediately above Kes- 
 wick, has, for the purposes of building, been in a great 
 measure cleared of the inmiense stones which, by their 
 concussion in high floods, produced the loud and awful 
 noises described in the sonnet. 
 
 " The scenery upon this river," says Mr. Southey 
 in his Colloquies, " where it passes under the woody 
 side of Latrigg, is of the finest and most rememberable . 
 
 kind : — 
 
 ' ambiguo lapsu refluilque fluitque, 
 
 Occurrensque sibi Venturas aspicit undas.' 
 
 Note 14, p. 269. 
 St. Bees. 
 " Were not, in sooth, their Requiems sacred ties." 
 The author is aware that he is here treading upon 
 tender ground ; but to the intelligent reader he feels 
 that no apology is due. The prayers of survivors, 
 during passionate grief for the recent loss of relatives 
 and friends, as the object of those prayers could no 
 longer be the suffering body of the dying, would natu- 
 rally be ejaculated for the souls of the departed ; the 
 barriers between the two worlds dissolving before the 
 power of love and faith. The ministers of religion, 
 from their habitual attendance upon sick-beds, would 
 be daily witnesses of these benign results; and hence 
 would be strongly tempted to aim at giving to them 
 permanence, by embodying them in rites and ceremo- 
 nies, recurring at stated periods. All this, as it was 
 in course of nature, so was it blameless, and even 
 praiseworthy ; but no reflecting person can view with- 
 out sorrow the abuses which rose out of thus formal- 
 izing sublime instincts, and disinterested movements 
 of passion, and perverting them into means of gratify- 
 ing the ambition and rapacity of the priesthood. But, 
 while we deplore and are indignant at these abuses, it . 
 would be a great mistake if we imputed the origin of 
 the offices to prospective selfishness on the part of the 
 monks and clergy : they were at first sincere in their 
 sympathy, and in their degree dupes rather of their 
 own creed, than artful and designing men. Charity is, 
 upon the whole, the safest guide that we can take in 
 judging our fellow-men, whether of past ages, or of 
 the present time. 
 
 Note 15, p. 270. 
 " The White Doe of Rylstone." 
 The Poem of the White Doe of Rylstone is found- 
 ed on a local tradition, and on the Ballad in Percy's 
 Collection, entitled, " The Rising of the North." The 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 321 
 
 tradition is as follows: — "About this time," not 
 ilong- after tlie Dissolution, " a Wliite Doe, say the aged 
 people of the neig-hbourhood, long continued to make 
 a weekly pilgrimage from Rylstone over the fells of 
 (Bolton, and was constantly found in the Abbey Church- 
 i yard during divine service; after the close of which 
 I she rotiu'ned home as regularly as the rest of the con- 
 ! oregation." — Dr. Whitaker's Hislorrj of the Dean- 
 [ery of Craven. — Rylstone was the property and resi- 
 dence of the Nortons, distinguished in that ill-advised 
 'and unfortunate Insurrection; which led me to connect 
 with this tradition the principal circumstances of their 
 fate, as recorded in the Ballad. 
 
 "Bolton Priory," says Dr. Whitaker in his e.xcellent 
 book, The History and Antiquities of the Deanery of 
 Craven, "stands upon a beautiful curvature of the 
 Wharf, on a level suiTieienUy elevated to protect it 
 from inundations, and low enough for every purpose of 
 picturesque effect. 
 
 " Opposite to the East window of the Priory Church, 
 the river washes the foot of a rock nearly perpendicu- 
 lar, and of the richest purple, where several of the 
 mineral beds, which break out, instead of maintaining 
 their usual inclination to the horizon, are twisted by 
 some inconceivable process into undulating and spiral 
 lines. To the South all is soft and delicious ; the eye 
 reposes upon a few rich pastures, a moderate reach of 
 the river, sufficiently tranquil to form a mirror to the 
 piiD, and the bounding hiils beyond, neither too near 
 nor too lofty to exclude, even in winter, any portion of 
 pis rays. 
 
 I " But, after all, the glories of Bolton are on the 
 North. Whatever the most fastidious taste could re- 
 jquire to constitute a perfect landscape is not only found 
 here, but in its proper place. In front, and immedi- 
 .itely under the eye, is a smooth expanse of park-like 
 enclosure, spotted with native elm, ash, &c. of the 
 .finest growth : on the right a skirting oak wood, with 
 [jutting points of gray rock ; on the left a rising copse. 
 ^Still forward, are seen the aged groves of Bolton Park, 
 Ihe growth of centuries ; and farther yet, the barren 
 ind rocky distances of Simon-seat and Barden Fell 
 contrasted with the warmth, fertility, and luxuriant 
 jbliage of the valley below. 
 
 "About half a mile above Bolton the valley closes, 
 ind either side of the Wharf is overhung by solemn 
 Iwoods, from which huge perpendicular masses of gray 
 ifock jut out at intervals. 
 
 "This sequestered scene was almost inaccessible 
 ill of late, that ridings have been cut on both sides of 
 :he River, and the most interesting points laid open by 
 judicious thinnings in the woods. Here a tributary 
 litream rushes from a waterfall, and bursts through a 
 ;.voody glen to mingle its waters with the Wharf: there 
 jhe Wharf itself is nearly lost in a deep cleft in the 
 I'ock, and next becomes a horned flood enclosing a 
 ivoody island — sometimes it reposes for a moment, and 
 2Q 
 
 then resumes its native character, lively, irregular, and 
 impetuous. 
 
 " The cleft mentioned above is the tremendous Strid. 
 This chasm, being incapable of receiving the winter 
 floods, has formed on either side, a broad strand of na- 
 ked gritstone full of rock-basins, or ' pots of the Linn,' 
 which bear witness to the restless impetuosity of so 
 many Northern torrents. But, if here Wharf is lost 
 to the eye, it amply repays another sense by its deep 
 and solemn roar, like 'the Voice of the angry Spirit 
 of the Waters,' heard far above and beneath, amidst 
 the silence of the surrounding woods. 
 
 " The terminating object of the landscape is the re- 
 mains of Barden Tower, interesting from their form 
 and situation, and still more so from the recollections 
 which they excite." 
 
 Note 16, p. 273. 
 " Who loved ihe Shepherd Lord to meet." 
 
 At page 152 of this volume will be found a Poem 
 entitled, " Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, 
 upon the Restoration of Lord Clifford the Shepherd to 
 the Estates and Honours of his Ancestors," to which 
 is annexed an account of this personage, chiefly ex- 
 tracted from Burn's and Nicholson's History of Cum- 
 berland and Westmoreland. It gives me pleasure to 
 add these further particulars concerning him, from Dr. 
 Whitaker, who says, "he retired to the solitude of 
 Barden, where he seems to have enlarged the tower 
 out of a common keeper's lodge, and where he found 
 a retreat equally favourable to taste, to instruction, and 
 to devotion. The narrow limits of his residence show 
 that he had learned to despise the pomp of greatness, 
 and that a small train of servants could suffice him, 
 who had lived to the age of thirty a servant himself I 
 think this nobleman resided here almost entirely when 
 in Yorkshire, for all his charters which I have seen are 
 dated at Barden. 
 
 "His early habits, and the want of those artificial 
 measures of time which even shepherds now possess, 
 liad given him a turn for observing the motions of the 
 heavenly bodies ; and, having purchased such an appa- 
 ratus as could then be procured, he amused and inform- 
 ed himself by those pursuits, with the aid of the Can- 
 ons of Bolton, some of whom are said to have been 
 well versed in what was then known of the science. 
 
 "I suspect this nobleman to have been sometimes 
 occupied in a more visionary pursuit, and probably in 
 the same company. 
 
 "For, from the family evidences, I have met with 
 two MSS. on the subject of Alchemy, which, from the 
 character, spelling-, &c., may almost certainly be re- 
 ferred to the reign of Henry the Seventh. If these 
 were originally deposited with the MSS. of the Clif- 
 fords, it might have been for the use of this nobleman. 
 If they were brought from Bolton at the Dissolution, 
 
322 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 I 
 
 they must have been the work of those Canons whom 
 he almost exclusively conversed with. 
 
 " In these peaceful employments Lord Clifford spent 
 the whole reign of Henry the Seventh, and the first 
 years of his son. But in the year 1.513, when almost 
 sixty years old, he was appointed to a principal com- 
 mand over the army which fought at Flodden, and 
 showed that the military genius of the family had nei- 
 ther been chilled in him by age, nor extinguished by 
 habits of peace. 
 
 "He survived the battle of Flodden ten years, and 
 died April 23d, 1.523, aged about 70. I shall endea- 
 vour to appropriate to him a tomb, vault, and chantry 
 in the choir of the church of Bolton, as I should be 
 sorry to believe that he was deposited, when dead, at 
 a distance from the place which in his lifetime he 
 loved so well. 
 
 "By his last will he appointed his body to be in- 
 terred at Shap, if he died in Westmoreland ; or at 
 Bolton, if he died in Yorkshire." 
 
 With respect to the Canons of Bolton, Dr. Whitaker 
 shows from MSS. that not only alchemy but astronomy 
 was a favourite pursuit with them. 
 
 Note 17, p. 278. ■ 
 
 " III that other day of Neville's Cross. 
 
 " In the night before the battle of Durham was stnick- 
 en and begun, the 17th day of October, anno, 134G, there 
 did appear to John Fosser, then Prior of the abbey of 
 Durham, a Vision, commanding him to take the holy 
 Corporax-cloth, wherewith St. Cuthbert did cover the 
 chalice when he used to say mass, and to put the same 
 holy relique like to a banner-cloth upon tlie point of a 
 spear, and the next morning to go and repair to a place 
 on the west side of the city of Durham, called the 
 Red Hills, where the Maid's Bower wont to be, and 
 there to remain and abide till the end of the battle. To 
 which vision, the Prior obeying, and taking the same 
 for a revelation of God's grace and mercy by the me- 
 diation of holy St. Cuthbert, did accordingly the next 
 morning, with the monks of the said abbey, repair to 
 the said Red Hills, and there most devoutly humbling 
 and prostrating themselves in prayer fur the victory in 
 the said battle : (a great multitude of the Scots run- 
 ning and pressing by them, with intention to have 
 spoiled them, yet had no power to commit any violence 
 under snch holy persons, so occupied in prayer, being 
 protected and defended by the mighty Providence of 
 Almighty God, and by the mediation of Holy St. Cuth- 
 bert, and the presence of the holy relique.) And, after 
 many conflicts and warlike exploits there had and done 
 between the Englishmen and the King of Scots and 
 his company, the said battle ended, and the victory 
 was obtained, to the great overthrow and confusion of 
 the Scots, their enemies: And then the said Prior 
 and monks accompanied with Ralph Lord Nevil, and 
 
 John Nevil his son, and the Lord Percy, and many 
 other nobles of England, returned home, and went to 
 the abbey church, there joining in hearty prayer and 
 thanksgiving to God and holy St. Cuthbert for the vic- 
 tory achieved that day." 
 
 This battle was afterwards called the Battle of Ne- ,| 
 ville's Cross, from the following circumstance : — 
 
 " On the west side of the city of Durham, where 
 two roads pass each other, a most notable, famous, and 
 goodly cross of stone-work was erected and set up to 
 the honour of God for the victory there obtained in tlie 
 field of battle, and known by the name of Nevil's 
 Cross, and built at the sole cost of the Lord Ralph 
 Nevil, one of the most excellent and chief persons in 
 the said battle." The Relique of St. Cuthbert after- 
 wards became of great importance in military events. 
 For soon after this battle, says the same author, " The 
 prior caused a goodly and sumptuous banner to be 
 made," (which is then described at great length,) " and , 
 in the midst of the same banner-cloth was the said 
 holy relique and corporax-cloth enclosed, &c. &c. and 
 so sumptuously finished, and absolutely perfected, this 
 banner was dedicated to holy St. Cuthbert, of intent- 
 and purpose that for the future it should be carried to 
 any battle, as occasion should serve ; and was never 
 carried and showed at any battle but by the especial 
 grace of God Almighty, and the mediation of holy St. 
 Cuthbert, it brougiit home victory ; which banner-cloth, 
 after the dissolution of the abbey, fell into the posses- 
 sion of Dean Whittingham, whose wife, called Ka- 
 THEKINE, being a French woman, (as is most credibly 
 reported by eye-witnesses,) did most injuriously bum 
 the same in her fire, to the open contempt and dis- 
 grace of all ancient and goodly reliques." — Extracted 
 from a book entitled, " Durham Cathedral, as it stood 
 before the Dissolution of the Monastery." It appears,; 
 from the old metrical History, that the above-mention- 
 ed banner was carried by the Earl of Surrey to Flod- 
 den Field. 
 
 Note 18, p. 293. 
 
 "Man's life is like a Sparrow." 
 
 See the original of this speech in Bede. — The Con-' 
 version of Edwin, as related by him, is highly interest- 
 ing — and the breaking up of this Council accora-^ 
 panied with an event so striking and characteristic, 
 that I am tempted to give it at length in a translation. 
 " Who, exclaimed the King, when the Council was 
 ended, shall first desecrate the Altars and the Tem- 
 ples 1 I, answered the Chief Priest; for who more fit 
 than myself, through the wisdom which the true God 
 hath given me, to destroy, for the good example of 
 others, what in foolishness I worshipped 1 Immediate- 
 ly, casting away vain superstition, he besouglit the 
 King to grant him, what the laws did not allow to a 
 Priest, arms and a courser (equum emissarium) ; which 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 323 
 
 'mounting, and furnished with a sword and lance, he 
 proceeded to destroy the Idols. The crowd, peeing 
 this, thought him mad — he however halted not, but, 
 approaching, he profaned the Temple, casting against 
 it the lance which he had held in his hand, and, exult- 
 ing in acknowledgment of the worship of the true 
 God, he ordered his companions to pull down the Tem- 
 ple, with all its enclosures. The place is shown 
 
 I where those idols formerly stood, not far from York, at 
 the source of the river Derwent, and is at this day 
 
 ' called Gormund Gaham, ubi pontifex ille, inspirante 
 Deo vero, poUuit ac destruxit eas, quas ipse sacraverat 
 aras." The last expression is a pleasing proof that the 
 
 I venerable Monk of Wearmouth was familiar with the 
 poetry of Virgil. 
 
 Note 19, p. 299. 
 Sonnet XIII. 
 " WicUffe." 
 
 [The concluding part of this Sonnet, marked as a 
 quotation, is one of the instances of the obligations of 
 the Poet to the early Prose writers acknowledged by 
 him in a note at p. 292. The judgment and skill 
 with which he has adapted to verse the phraseology 
 of old Fuller, scarcely changing it in the process, can 
 be appreciated only by a comparison with the original 
 passage, which should be placed within reach of every 
 reader of this volume, were it only for that purpose. 
 
 Wickliffe's body burnt by order of the Council of 
 Constance, A. D. 1428. — " Hitherto the corpse of 
 John Wickliffe had quietly slept in his grave about 
 one and forty years after his death, till his body was 
 reduced to bones, and his bones almost to dust. For 
 though the earth in the chancel of Lutterworth, in 
 Leicestershire, where he was interred, hath not so 
 quick a digestion with the earth of Aceldama, to con- 
 sume flesh in twenty-four hours, yet such the appetite 
 thereof, and all other English graves, to leave small 
 reversions of a body after so many years. But now such 
 the spleen of the Council of Constance, as they not 
 only cursed his memory as dying an obstinate heretic, 
 but ordered that his bones (with this charitable cau- 
 tion, — if it may be discerned from the bodies of other 
 faithful people) to be taken out of the ground, and 
 thrown far off" from any Christian burial. In obedience 
 hereunto, Richard Fleming, Bishop of Lincoln, Dio- 
 cesan of Lutterworth, sent his officers (vultures with a 
 quick sight scent, at a dead carcase) to ungrave him 
 accordingly. To Lutterworth they come, Sumner, 
 Commissary, Official, Chancellor, Proctors, Doctors, 
 and the servants (so that the remnant of the body 
 would not hold out a bone amongst so many hands), 
 take what was left out of the grave, and burnt them 
 to ashes, and cast them into Swift, a neighbouring 
 brook, running hard by. Thus this brook has conveyed 
 Ms ashes into Avon, Avon into Severn, Severn into 
 
 the narrow seas, they into the main Ocean ; and thus 
 the ashes of Wickliffe are the emblem of his doctrine, 
 which now is disbursed all the world over." — Fuller. 
 — "The Church History of Britain." — Book IV. 
 
 The delightful comment of the late Charles Lamb 
 upon this passage in Fuller will not, I am confident, be 
 regarded by any one, as intruded by being here con- 
 nected with the sonnet containing the imitation: 
 
 " The concluding period of this most lively narrative 
 I will not call a conceit: it is one of the grandest con- 
 ceptions I ever met with. One feels the ashes of Wick- 
 liffe gliding away out of reach of the Sumners, Commis- 
 saries, Officials, Proctors, Doctors, and all the pudder- 
 ing rout of executioners of the impotent rage of the 
 baffled Council : from Swift to Avon, from Avon into 
 Severn, from Severn into the narrow seas, from the 
 narrow seas into the main Ocean, where they become 
 the emblem of his doctrine, " dispersed all the world 
 over." Hamlet's tracing the body of C^sar to the 
 clay that stops a beer-barrel, is a no less curious pur- 
 suit of " ruined mortality ;" but it is in an inverse ratio 
 to this : it degrades and saddens us, for one part of our 
 nature at least ; but this expands the whole of our 
 nature, and gives to the body a sort of ubiquity, — a 
 diffusion, as far as the actions of its partner can have 
 reach or influence. 
 "I have seen this passage smiled at, and set down as 
 a quaint conceit of old Fuller. But what is not a con- 
 ceit to those who read it in a temper different from 
 that in which the writer composed it] The most 
 pathetic parts of poetry to cold tempers seem and are 
 nonsense, as divinity was to the Greeks foolishness. 
 When Richard II., meditating on his own utter anni- 
 hilation as to royalty, cries out, 
 
 " Oh that I were a mockery King of snow, 
 To melt before the sun of Bolingbroke," 
 
 if we have been going on pace for pace with the pas- 
 sion before, this sudden conversion of a strong-felt 
 metaphor into something to be actually realized in 
 nature, like that of Jeremiah, "Oh! that my head 
 were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears," is 
 strictly and strikingly natural ; but come unprepared 
 upon it, and it is a conceit : and so is a ' head' turned 
 into ' waters.' " 
 
 Lamb's Prose Works. H. R.] 
 
 Note 20, p. 302. 
 
 " One (like those Prophets whom God sent of old) 
 Transfigured," &c. 
 
 "M. Latimer very quietly suffered his keeper to 
 pull off his hose, and his other array, which to looke 
 unto was very simple : and being stripped into his 
 shrowd, he seemed as comely a person to them that 
 were present, as one should lightly see : and whereas 
 in his clothes hee appeared a withered and crooked 
 sillie (weak) olde man, he now stood bolt upright, as 
 
324 
 
 M'ORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 comely a father as one mi^ht lightly behold. * * * * 
 Then they brought a fagotle, kindled with fire, and 
 laid the same downe at Dr. Ridley's feete. To whom 
 M. Latimer spake in this manner, 'Bee of good com- 
 fort, master Ridley, and play the man : wee shall this 
 day light such a candle by God's grace in England, as 
 I trust shall never bee put out.' " — Fox's Acts, &c. 
 
 Similar alterations in the outward figure and de- 
 portment of persons brought to like trial were not un- 
 common. See note to the above passage in Dr. Words- 
 worth's Ecclesiastical Biography, for an example in an 
 humble Welsh fisherman. 
 
 Note 2L p. 303. 
 " The gift exalting, and with playful smile." 
 "On foot they went, and took Salisbury in their 
 way, purposely to see the good Bishop, who made Mr. 
 Hooker sit at his own table : which Mr. Hooker boast- 
 ed of with much joy and gratitude when he saw his 
 mother and friends; and at the Bishop's parting with 
 him, the Bishop gave him good counsel, and his bene- 
 diction, but forgot to give him money; which when 
 the Bishop had considered, he sent a Servant in all 
 haste to call Richard back to him, and at Richard's re- 
 turn, the Bishop said to him, 'Richard, I sent for you 
 back to lend you a horse which hath carried me many 
 a mile, and I thank God with much ease,' and present- 
 ly delivered into his hand a walking-staff, with which 
 he professed he had travelled through many parts of 
 Germany ; and he said, ' Richard, I do not give, but 
 lend you my horse ; be sure you be honest, and bring 
 my horse back to me at your return this way to Ok- 
 ford. And I do now give you ten groats to bear your 
 charges to Exeter: and here is ten groats more, whicli 
 I charge you to deliver to your mother, and tell her, I 
 send her a Bishop's benediction with it, and beg the 
 continuance of her prayers for me. And if you bring 
 my horse back to me, I will give you ten groats more 
 to carry you on foot to the college ; and so God bless 
 you, good Richard.' " See Walton's Life of Rich- 
 ard Hooker. 
 
 Note 22, p. 304. 
 
 " Land." 
 
 In this age a word cannot be said in praise of Laud, 
 or even in compassion for his fate, without incurring a 
 charge of bigotry ; but, fearless of such imputation, I 
 concur with Hume, " that it is sufficient for his vindica- 
 tion to observe, that his errors were the most excusable 
 of all those which prevailed during that zealous period." 
 A key to the right understanding of those parts of his 
 conduct that brought the most odium upon him in his 
 own time, may be found in the following passage of 
 his speech before the Bar of the House of Peers : — 
 "Ever since I came in place, I have laboured nothing 
 more, than that the external publick worsliip of God, so 
 
 much slighted in divers parts of this kingdom, might] 
 be preserved, and that with as much decency and uni- ' 
 formity as miglit be. For I evidently saw, that the ) 
 publick neglect of God's service in the outward face i 
 of it, and the nasty lying of many places dedicated to ,' 
 that service, had almost cast a damp upon the true 
 and inward worship of God, which, while we live in 
 the body, needs external helps, and all little enough 
 to keep it in any vigour." 
 
 Note 23, p. 306. 
 
 " A genial hearth, 
 
 And a refined rusticity, belong 
 To the neat Mansion." 
 Among the benifits arising, as Mr. Coleridge his 
 well observed, from a Church Establishment of endow- 
 ments corresponding with the wealth of the Country' j 
 to which it belongs, may be reckoned, as eminently.! 
 important, the examples of civility and refinementi 
 which the Clergy, stationed at intervals, afliird to thei 
 wliole people. The established Clergy in many partSi 
 of England have long been, as they continue tobe,theli 
 principal bulwark against barbarism, and the link) 
 which unites the sequestered Peasantry with the in- 
 tellectual advancement of the age. Nor is it belowi 
 the dignity of the subject to observe, that their Taste, 
 as acting upon rural Residences and scenery, ofteni| 
 furnishes models which Country Gentlemen, who arei 
 more at liberty to follow the caprices of Fashion, 
 might profit by. The precincts of an old residence 
 must be treated by Ecclesiastics with respect, both(i 
 from prudence and necessity. I remember being mnehi 
 pleased, some years ago, at Rose Castle, tlie mtali 
 Seat of the See of Carlisle, with a style of Garden: 
 and Architecture, which, if the place had belonged to 
 a wealthy Layman, would no doubt have been swepti 
 away. A Parsonage-house generally stands not far 
 from the Church ; this proximity imposes favourable 
 restraints, and sometimes suggests an aflfecting union 
 of the accommodations and elegancies of life with the- 
 outward signs of piety and mortality. With pleasure 
 I recall to mind a happy instance of this in the Resi- 
 dence of an old and much valued Friend in Oxford- 
 shire. The house *nd Church stand parallel to each; 
 other, at a small distance; a circular lawn, or rather! 
 grass-plot, spreads between them; shrubs and trees ■ 
 curve from each side of the Dwelling, veiling, but not 
 hiding, the Church. From the front of this Dwelling, 
 no part of the Burial-ground is seen ; but, as you wind 
 by the side of the Shrubs towards the Steeple-end of 
 the Church, the eye catches a single, small, low, monu- 
 mental headstone, moss-grown, sinking into, and gently 
 inclining towards, the earth. Advance, and the 
 Church-yard, populous and gay with glittering Tomb- 
 stones, opens upon the view. This humble, and beau- 
 tiful Parsonage called forth a tribute, for which s 
 p. 192. 
 
P O E M S ^ 
 
 ON THE NAMING OF PLACES, 
 
 INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 325 
 
 28 
 
POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 By persons resident in the country and attached to 
 rural objects, many places will he found unnamed or 
 of unknown names, where little Incidents must have 
 occurred, or feelings been experienced, which will 
 have given to such places a private and peculiar inter- 
 est. From a wish to give some sort of record to such 
 [ncidents, or renew the gratification of such Feelings, 
 Names have been given to Places by the Author and 
 ^;ome of his Friends, and the following Poems written 
 in consequence. 
 
 [t was an April morning : fresh and clear 
 
 The Rivulet, delighting in its strength, 
 
 [Ian with a young man's speed ; and yet the voice 
 
 3f waters which the winter had supplied 
 
 Was softened down into a vernal tone. 
 
 The spirit of enjoyment and desire, 
 
 \nd hopes and wishes, from all living things 
 
 'iVeat, circling, like a multitude of sounds. 
 
 rhe budding groves appeared as if in haste 
 
 Po spur the steps of June ; as if their shades 
 
 i)f various green were hinderances that stood 
 
 :?etween them and their object : yet, meanwhile, 
 
 There was such deep contentment in the air. 
 
 That every naked ash, and tardy tree 
 
 ifet leafless, seemed as though the countenance 
 
 {iVith which it looked on this delightful day 
 
 iiVere native to the summer. — Up the brook 
 
 :. roamed in the confusion of my heart, 
 
 iWive to all things and forgetting all. 
 
 j^t length I to a sudden turning came 
 
 Sin this continuous glen, where down a rock 
 
 iPhe Stream, so ardent in its course before, 
 
 :3ent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all 
 
 ;SVhich I till then had heard, appeared the voice 
 
 ;3f common pleasure : beast and bird, the Lamb, 
 
 The Shepherd's Dog, the Linnet and the Thrush 
 
 I'^ied with this Waterfall, and made a song 
 
 Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth 
 
 |3r like some natural produce of the air. 
 
 That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here ; 
 
 But 'twas the foliage of the rocks, the birch. 
 
 The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, 
 
 With hanging islands of resplendent furze : 
 
 And on a summit, distant a short space. 
 
 By any who should look beyond the dell, 
 
 A single mountain Cottage might be seen. 
 
 I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said, 
 
 " Our thoughts at least are ours ; and this wild nook, 
 
 My Emma, I will dedicate to thee." 
 
 Soon did the spot become my other home, 
 
 My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. 
 
 And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there. 
 
 To whom I sometimes in our idle talk 
 
 Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps. 
 
 Years after we are gone and in our graves. 
 
 When they have cause to speak of this wild place, 
 
 May call it by the name of Emma's Dell. 
 
 IL 
 
 TO JOANNA. 
 Amid the smoke of cities did you pass 
 The time of early youth ; and there you learned. 
 From years of quiet industry, to love 
 Tlie living Beings by your own fire-side. 
 With such a strong devotion, that your heart 
 Is slow toward the sympathies of them 
 Who look upon the hills with tenderness, 
 And make dear friendships with the streams and groves. 
 Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind. 
 Dwelling retired in our simplicity 
 Among the woods and fields, we love you well, 
 Joanna! and I guess, since you have been 
 So distant from us now for two long years, 
 That you will gladly listen to discourse. 
 However trivial, if you thence are taught 
 That they, with whom you once were happy, talk 
 Familiarly of you and of old times. 
 
 While I was seated, now some ten days past. 
 
 Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop 
 
 Their ancient neighbour, the old Steeple tower. 
 
 The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by 
 
 Came forth to greet me ; and when he had asked, 
 
 " How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid ! 
 
328 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And when will she return to us V he paused; 
 And, after short exchange of village news, 
 He with grave looks demanded, for what cause 
 Reviving obsolete Idolatry, 
 I, like a Runic Priest, in characters 
 Of formidable size had chiselled out 
 Some uncouth name upon the native rock. 
 Above the Rotha, by the forest side.* 
 
 — Now, by those dear immunities of heart 
 Engendered betwixt malice and true love, 
 I was not loth to be so catechised, 
 
 And this was my reply: — "As it befel, 
 
 One summer morning we had walked abroad 
 
 At break of day, Joanna and myself 
 
 — 'Tvvas that delightful season when the broom. 
 
 Full- flowered, and visible on every steep. 
 
 Along the copses runs in veins of gold. 
 
 Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks ; 
 
 And when we came in front of that tall rock 
 
 Which looks towards the East, I there stopped short. 
 
 And traced the lofty barrier with my eye 
 
 From base to summit; such delight I found 
 
 To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower. 
 
 That intermixture of delicious hues, 
 
 Along so vast a surface, all at once, 
 
 In one impression, by connecting force 
 
 Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. 
 
 — When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space, 
 Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld 
 
 That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. 
 The Rock, like something starting from a sleep, 
 Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again ; 
 That ancient Woman seated on Helm-Crag 
 Was ready with her cavern ; llammar-Scar, 
 And the tall Steep of Silver-How, sent forth 
 A noise of laughter ; southern Loughrigg heard, 
 And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone : 
 Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky 
 Carried the Lady's voice, — old Skiddaw blew 
 His speaking trumpet; — back out of the clouds 
 Of Glaramara southward came the voice; 
 And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head.t 
 
 * In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several Inscriptions, 
 upon the native rock, which, from the wasting of Time, and 
 the rudeness of the workmanship, have been mistaken for 
 Runic. They are without doubt Roman. 
 
 The Rotha. mentioned in this poem, is the River which, flow- 
 ing through the lakes of Grasmere and Rydale, falls into Wy- 
 nander. On Ilelm-Crag, that impressive single Mountain at the 
 head of the Vale of Grasmere. is a rock which from most points 
 of view bears a striking resemblance to an Old Woman cower- 
 ing. Close by this rock is one of those Fissures or Caverns, 
 which in the language of the country are called Dungeons. 
 Most of the Mountains here mentioned immediately surround 
 the Vale of Grasmere ; of the others, some are at a considerable 
 distance, but they belong to the same cluster. 
 
 f [" — a noble imitation of Drayton, (if it was not rather a 
 coincidence)." Coleridge, ' Biographia Literaria,' chap 20 — 
 It matters little which, though there seems to be greater proba- 
 
 — Now whether (said I to our cordial friend, 
 Who in the heyday of astonishment 
 Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth 
 A work accomplished by the brotherhood 
 
 Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched 
 
 With dreams and visionary impulses 
 
 To me alone imparted, sure I am 
 
 That there was a loud uproar in the hills : 
 
 And, while we both were listening, to my side 
 
 The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished 
 
 To slielter from some object of her fear, 
 
 — And hence, long afterwards, wlien eighteen moons 
 Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone 
 Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm 
 
 And silent morning, I sat dow-n, and there, 
 In memory of afl^ections old and true, 
 I chiselled out in those rude characters 
 Joanna's name upon the living stone. 
 And I, and all who dwell by my fire-side, 
 Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock." 
 
 in. 
 
 There is an Etninence, — of these our hills 
 
 The last that parleys with the setting sun. 
 
 We can behold it from our Orchard-seat ; 
 
 And, when at evening we pursue our walk 
 
 Along the public way, this Clifl^, so high 
 
 Above us, and so distant in its height, 
 
 Is visible ; and often seems to send 
 
 Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts. 
 
 The meteors make of it a favourite haunt: 
 
 The star of Jove, so beautiful and large 
 
 In the mid heavens, is never half so fair 
 
 As when he shines above it. 'T is in truth 
 
 The loneliest place we have among the clouds. 
 
 And She who dwells with me, whom I have loved 
 
 With such comtnunion, that no place on earth 
 
 Can ever be a solitude to me. 
 
 Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name. 
 
 bility in the latter supposition. The passage in Drayton, alluded 
 
 to, is as follows : 
 " — Till to your shouts the hills with eclio all reply, 
 Which Copland scarce had spoke, but quickly every hill, 
 Upon her verge that stands, the neighbouring valleys fill ; 
 HelviUon from liis height, it through the mountains threw, 
 From whom as soon again, the sound Dunbalrase drew. 
 From whose sione-lrophied head, it on to Wendross went, 
 Which tovv'rds the sea again, resounded it to Dent. 
 That Broadwater therewith within her banks astound, 
 In sailuig to the sea, told it in Fgremound, 
 Whose buildings, vvallis, and su-eets, with echoes loud and 
 
 long. 
 Did mightily commend old Copland for her song." 
 
 'Polyolbion; Song XXX. — H. fi.] 
 
POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 
 
 329 
 
 -^ 
 
 IV. 
 
 A NARROW girdle of rough stones and crags, 
 U rude and natural causeway, interposed 
 (Between the water and a winding slope 
 'of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore 
 Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy : 
 lAnd there, myself and two beloved Friends, 
 One calm September morning, ere the mist 
 Had altogether yielded to the sun, 
 Sauntered on this retired and difficult way. 
 
 j 111 suits the road with one in haste, but we 
 
 Played with our time ; and, as we strolled along. 
 
 It was our occupation to observe 
 
 Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore, 
 
 Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough. 
 
 Each on the other heaped, along the line 
 
 Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood, 
 
 ;Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft 
 
 lOf dandelion seed or thistle's-beard, 
 
 That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake, 
 
 Suddenly halting now — a lifeless stand ! 
 
 And starting off again with freak as sudden ; 
 
 [n all its sportive wanderings, all the while, 
 
 Making report of an invisible breeze 
 
 That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse, 
 
 jits playmate, rather say its moving soul. 
 
 I And often, trifling with a privilege 
 
 Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now. 
 And now the other, to point out, perchance 
 To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair 
 Either to be divided from the place 
 On which it grew, or to be left alone 
 To its own beauty. Many such there are, 
 jFair Ferns and Flowers, and chiefly that tall Fern, 
 i3o stately, of the Queen Osinunda named ; 
 (Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode 
 iDn Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side 
 bf Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere, 
 ;3ole-sitting by the shores of old Romance. 
 I— So fared we that bright morning : from the fields, 
 'Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth 
 Of Reapers, Men and Women, Boys and Girls. 
 ^Delighted much to listen to those sounds. 
 And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced 
 Along the indented shore ; when suddenly. 
 Through a thin veil of glittering haze was seen 
 Before us, on a point of jutting land. 
 The tall and upright figure of a Man 
 Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone, 
 Angling beside the margin of the lake, 
 ilraprovident and reckless, we exclaimed, 
 The Man must be, who thus can lose a day 
 Of the mid harvest, when the labourer's hire 
 Is ample, and some little might be stored 
 Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time. 
 Thus talking of that Peasant, we approached 
 Close to the spot where with his rod and line 
 2R 
 
 He stood alone ; whereat he turned his head 
 
 To greet us — and we saw a Man worn down 
 
 By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks 
 
 And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean 
 
 That for my single self I looked at them, 
 
 Forgetful of the body they sustained. — 
 
 Too weak to labour in the harvest field. 
 
 The Man was using his best skill to gain 
 
 A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake 
 
 That knew not of his wants. I will not say 
 
 What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how 
 
 The happy idleness of that sweet morn. 
 
 With all its lovely images, was changed 
 
 To serious musing and to self-reproach. 
 
 Nor did we fail to see within ourselves 
 
 What need there is to be reserved in speech. 
 
 And temper all oar thoughts with charity. 
 
 — Therefore^ unwilling to forget that day. 
 
 My Friend, Myself, and She who then received 
 
 The same admonishment, have called the place 
 
 By a memorial name, uncouth indeed 
 
 As e'er by Mariner was given lo Bay 
 
 Or Foreland, on a new-discovered coast ; 
 
 And Point Rash-Judgment is the Name it bears. 
 
 V. 
 TO M. H. 
 
 Our walk was far among the ancient trees ; 
 
 There was no road, nor any woodman's path ; 
 
 But the thick umbrage, checking the wild growth 
 
 Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf 
 
 Beneath the branches, of itself had made 
 
 A track, that brought us to a slip of lawn, 
 
 And a small bed of water in the woods. 
 
 All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink 
 
 On its firm margin, even as from a Well, 
 
 Or some Stone-basin which the Herdsman's hand 
 
 Had shaped for their refreshment; nor did sun, 
 
 Or wind from any quarter, ever come. 
 
 But as a blessing, to this calm recess. 
 
 This glade pf water and this one green field. 
 
 The spot was made by Nature for herself; 
 
 The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain 
 
 Unknown to them : but it is beautiful ; 
 
 And if a man should plant his cottage near. 
 
 Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees, 
 
 And blend its waters with his daily meal. 
 
 He would so love it, that in his death hour 
 
 Its image would survive among his thoughts: 
 
 And therefore, my sweet Mary, this still Nook, 
 
 With all its beeches, we have named from You. 
 
 VI. 
 
 When, to the attractions of the busy World, 
 Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen 
 28* 
 
330 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 A habitation in this peaceful Vale, 
 Sharp season followed of 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 sliade, 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, 
 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, between their stems, 
 A length of open space, where to and fro 
 My feet might move without concern or care; 
 And, baflled thus, before the storm relaxed, 
 I ceased the shelter to frequent, — and prized. 
 Less than I wished to prize, that calm recess. 
 
 The snows dissolved, and genial Spring returned 
 
 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 path-way 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. 
 
 Beneath my cottage roof, had newly 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 
 
 With which the Sailor measures o'er and o'er 
 
 His short domain upon the vessel's deck. 
 
 While she is travelling 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 
 
 Year followed year, my Brother ! and we two, 
 
 Conversing not, knew little in what mould 
 
 Each other's minds were 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 School-boy, 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 
 
 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.* 
 
 *This wish was not granted ; the lamented Person nol long 
 after perished by shipwreck, in discharge of his duty as Com- 
 mander of the Honourable East India Company's Vessel, the 
 Earl of Abergavenny. 
 
INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON, THE SEAT OF SIR 
 GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART. LEICESTERSHIRE. 
 
 Thb embowering Rose, the Acacia, and the Pine, 
 
 Will not unwillingly their place resign; 
 
 If but the Cedar thrive that near them stands, 
 
 Planted by Beaumont's and by Wordsworth's hands. 
 
 One wooed the silent Art with studious pains, — 
 
 These Groves have heard the Other's pensive strains ; 
 
 Devoted thus, their spirits did unite 
 
 By interchange of knowledge and delight. 
 
 May Nature's kindliest powers sustain the Tree, 
 
 And Love protect it from all injury ! 
 
 And when its potent branches, wide out-thrown, 
 
 Darken the brow of this memorial Stone, 
 
 Here may some Painter sit in future days, 
 
 Some future Poet meditate his lays; 
 
 Not mindless of that distant age renowned 
 
 When Inspiration hovered o'er this ground. 
 
 The haunt of him who sang how spear and shield 
 
 In civil conflict met on Bosworth Field ; 
 
 And of that famous Youth, full soon removed 
 
 From earth, perhaps by Shakspeare's self approved, 
 
 Fletcher's Associate, Jonson's Friend beloved. 
 
 n. 
 
 IN A GARDEN OF THE SAME. 
 
 I Oft is the Medal faithful to its trust 
 When Temples, Columns, Towers, are laid in dust; 
 And 't is a common ordinance of fate 
 That things obscure and small outlive the great : 
 Hence, when yon Mansion and the flowery trim 
 Of this fair Garden, and its alleys dim, 
 
 ] And all its stately trees, are passed away, 
 This little Niche, unconscious of decay. 
 Perchance may still survive. — And be it known 
 That it was scooped within the living stone, — 
 Not by the sluggish and ungrateful pains 
 
 I Of labourer plodding for his daily gains, 
 
 [But by an industry that wrought in love; 
 
 ! With help from female hands, that proudly strove 
 To aid the work, what lime these walks and bowers 
 Were shaped to cheer dark winter's lonely hours. 
 
 III. 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF SIR GEORGE BEAITMONT, 
 BART. AND IN HIS NAME, FOR AN URN, PLACED BY 
 HIM AT THE TERMINATION OF A NEWLY-PLANTED 
 AVENUE, IN THE SAME GROUNDS. 
 
 Ye Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed Urn, 
 
 Shoot forth with lively power at Spring's return ; 
 
 And be not slow a stately growth to rear 
 
 Of Pillars, branching off' from year to year. 
 
 Till they have learned to frame a darksome Aisle ; — 
 
 That may recall to mind that awful Pile 
 
 Where Reynolds, 'mid our Country's noblest Dead, 
 
 In the last sanctity of fame is laid. 
 
 — There, though by right the excelling Painter sleep 
 
 Where Death and Glory a joint sabbath keep, 
 
 Yet not the less his Spirit would hold dear 
 
 Self-hidden praise, and Friendship's private tear : 
 
 Hence, on my patrimonial Grounds, have I 
 
 Raised this frail tribute to his memory ; 
 
 From youth a zealous follower of the Art 
 
 That he professed, attached to him in heart; 
 
 Admiring, loving, and with grief and pride 
 
 Feeling what England lost when Reynolds died. 
 
 IV. 
 
 FOR A SEAT IN THE GROVES OF COLEORTON. 
 
 Beneath yon eastern Ridge, the craggy Bound, 
 Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest ground. 
 Stand yet, but, Stranger ! hidden from thy view, 
 The ivied Ruins of forlorn Grace Dieu; 
 Erst a religious house, which day and night 
 With hymns resounded, and the chanted rite : 
 And when those rites had ceased, the Spot gave birth 
 To honourable Men of various worth : 
 There, on the margin of a Streamlet wild. 
 Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager Child 
 There, under shadow of the neighbouring rocks. 
 Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their flocks ; 
 Unconscious prelude to heroic themes, 
 Heart-breaking tears, and melancholy dreams 
 Of slighted love, and scorn, and jealous rage. 
 With which his genius shook the buskined Stage. 
 Communities are lost, and Empires die. 
 And things of holy use unhallowed lie ; 
 They perish ; — but the Intellect can raise. 
 From airy words alone, a Pile that ne'er decays. 
 
 331 
 
332 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL UPON A STONE IN THE 
 WALL OP THE HOUSE (AN OUT-HOUSE) ON THE 
 ISLAND AT GRASMERE. 
 
 Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen 
 Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained 
 Proportions more harmonious, and approached 
 ''o somewhat of a closer fellowship 
 >Vith the ideal grace. Yet, as it is, 
 Do take it in good part: — alas ! the poor 
 Vitruvius of our village had no help 
 From the great City ; never, on the leaves 
 Of red Morocco fijlio saw displayed 
 The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts 
 Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box, 
 Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed, and Hermitage. 
 Thou see'st a homely Pile, yet to these walls 
 The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here 
 Tlie new-dropped lamb finds shelter from the wind. 
 And hither does one Poet sometimes row 
 His Pinnace, a small vagrant Barge, up-piled 
 With plenteous store of heath and withered fern, 
 (A lading which he with his sickle cuts. 
 Among the mountains) and beneath this roof 
 He makes his summer couch, and here at noon 
 Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the Sheep, 
 Panting beneath the burthen of their wool. 
 Lie round him, even as if they were a part 
 Of his own Household.: nor, while from his bed 
 He through that door-place looks toward the lake 
 And to the stirring breezes, does he want 
 Creations lovely as the work of sleep. 
 Fair sights — and visions of romantic joy ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 WRITTEN WITH A SLATE-PENCIL ON A STONE, ON THE 
 SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN OF BLACK COMB.* 
 
 Stat, bold Adventurer ; rest awhile thy limbs 
 On this commodious Seat ! for much remains 
 Of hard ascent before thou reach the top 
 Of this huge Eminence, — from blackness named, 
 And, to far-travelled storms of sea and land, 
 A favourite spot of tournament and war! 
 But thee may no such boisterous visitants 
 Molest ; may gentle breezes fan thy brow ; 
 And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air 
 Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle. 
 From centre to circumference, unveiled! 
 Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest, 
 That on the summit whither thou art bound, 
 A geographic Labourer pitched his tent. 
 With books supplied and instruments of art, 
 
 *See page 131. 
 
 To measure height and distance; lonely task. 
 Week after week pursued ! — To him was given 
 Full many a glimpse (but sparingly bestowed 
 On timid man) of Nature's processes 
 Upon the exalted hills. He made report 
 That once, while there he plied his studious work 
 Within that canvas Dwelling, suddenly 
 The many-coloured map before his eyes 
 Became invisible : for all around 
 
 Had darkness fallen — unthreatened, unproclaimed 
 
 As if the golden day itself had been 
 Extinguished in a moment ; total gloom. 
 In which he sate alone, with unclosed eyes, 
 Upon the blinded mountain's silent top ! 
 
 VIL 
 
 WRITTEN WITH A SLATE-PENCIL UPON A STONE, THE 
 LARGEST OF A HEAP LYING NEAR A DESERTED 
 QUARRY, UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS AT RYDAL. 
 
 Stranger ! this hillock of mis-shapen stones 
 
 Is not a Ruin of the ancient time. 
 
 Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn 
 
 Of some old British Chief: 't is nothing more 
 
 Than the rude embryo of a little Dome 
 
 Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be built 
 
 Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle. 
 
 But, as it chanced. Sir William having learned 
 
 That from the shore a full-grown man might wade, 
 
 And make himself a freeman of this spot 
 
 At any hour he chose, the Knight forthwith 
 
 Desisted, and the quarry and the mound 
 
 Are monuments of his unfinished task. — 
 
 The block on which these lines are traced, perhaps, 
 
 Was once selected as the corner-stone 
 
 Of the intended Pile, which would have been 
 
 Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill. 
 
 So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush. 
 
 And other little builders who dwell here. 
 
 Had wondered at the work. But blame him not. 
 
 For old Sir William was a gentle Knight, 
 
 Bred in this vale, to which he appertained 
 
 With all his ancestry. Then peace to him. 
 
 And for the outrage which he had devised 
 
 Entire forgiveness! — But if thou art one 
 
 On fire with thy impatience to become 
 
 An inmate of these mountains, — if, disturbed 
 
 By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn 
 
 Out of the quiet rock the elements 
 
 Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze 
 
 In snow-white splendour, — think again, and, taught 
 
 By old Sir William and his quarry, leave 
 
 Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose; 
 
 There let the vernal Slow-worm sun himself. 
 
 And let the Redbreast hop from stone to stone. 
 
INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 333 
 
 VIII. 
 
 INSCRIPTIONS 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN AND NEAR A 
 HERMIT'S CELL. 
 
 1. 
 
 Hopes what are they 1 — Beads of morning 
 Strung on slender blades of grass ; 
 Or a spider's web adorning 
 In a strait and treacherous pass. 
 
 What are fears but voices airy? 
 Whispering harm where harm is not ; 
 And deluding the unwary 
 Till the fatal bolt is shot! 
 
 What is glory 1 — in the socket 
 See how dying tapers fare! 
 What is pride? — a whizzing rocket 
 That would emulate a star. 
 
 What is friendship? — do not trust her, 
 Nor the vows which she has made; 
 Diamonds dart their brightest lustre 
 From a palsy-shaken head. 
 
 What is truth ? — a staff rejected ; 
 Duty? — an unwelcome clog; 
 Joy ? — a moon by fits reflected 
 In a swamp or watery bog ; 
 
 Bright, as if through ether steering. 
 To the Traveller's eye it shone: 
 He hath hailed it re-appearing — 
 And as quickly it is gone ; 
 
 Gone, as if for ever hidden. 
 Or mis-shapen to the sight, 
 And by sullen weeds forbidden 
 To resume its native light. 
 
 What is youth? — a dancing billow, 
 (Winds behind, and rocks before !) 
 Age? — a drooping, tottering willow 
 On a flat and lazy shore. 
 
 What is peace? — when pain is over 
 And love ceases to rebel, 
 Let the last faint sigh discover 
 That precedes the passing knell! 
 
 2. 
 
 INSCRIBED Ul'ON A ROCK. 
 
 Pause, Traveller ! whosoe'er thou be 
 Whom chance may lead to this retreat. 
 Where silence yields reluctantly 
 Even to the fleecy straggler's bleat ; 
 
 Give voice to what my hand shall trace, 
 And fear not lest an idle sound 
 Of words unsuited to the place 
 Disturb its solitude profound. 
 
 I saw this rock, while vernal air 
 Blew softly o'er the russet heath, 
 Uphold a Monument as fair 
 As Church or Abbey furnisheth. 
 
 Unsullied did it meet the day. 
 Like marble white, like ether pure ; 
 As if, beneath, some hero lay, 
 Honoured with costliest sepulture. 
 
 My fancy kindled as I gazed ; 
 And, ever as the sun shone forth. 
 The flattered structure glistened, blazed, 
 And seemed the proudest thing on earth. 
 
 But Frost had reared the gorgeous Pile 
 Unsound as those which fortune builds ; 
 To undermine with secret guile. 
 Sapped by the very beam that gilds. 
 
 And, while I gazed, with sudden shock 
 Fell the whole Fabric to the ground ; 
 And naked left this dripping Rock, 
 With shapeless ruin spread around ! 
 
 3. 
 
 Hast thou seen, with flash incessant. 
 Bubbles gliding under ice, 
 Bodied forth and evanescent, 
 No one knows by what device? 
 
 Such are thoughts ! — A wind-swept meadow 
 
 Mimicking a troubled sea: 
 
 Such is life ; ^nd death a shadow 
 
 From the rock eternity ! 
 
 NEAR THE SPRING OF THE HERMITAGE. 
 
 Troubled long with warring notions 
 Long impatient of thy rod, 
 I resign my soul's emotions 
 Unto Thee, mysterious God ! 
 
 What avails the kindly shelter 
 Yielded by this craggy rent. 
 If my spirit toss and welter 
 On the waves of discontent? 
 
 Parching Summer hath no warrant 
 To consume this crystal Well ; 
 Rains, that make each hill a torrent 
 Neither sully it nor swell. 
 
334 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Thus, dishonouring not her station. 
 Would my life present to Thee, 
 Gracious God, the pure oblation 
 Of divine Tranquillity ! 
 
 5. 
 
 Not seldom, clad in radiant vest, 
 Deceitfully goes forth the Morn; 
 Not seldom Evening in the west 
 Sinks smilingly forsworn. 
 
 The smoothest seas will sometimes prove. 
 To the confiding Bark, untrue ; 
 And, if she trust the stars above, 
 They can be treacherous too. 
 
 The umbrageous Oak, in pomp outspread. 
 Full oft, when storms the welkin rend. 
 Draws lightning down upon the head 
 It promised to defend. 
 
 But Thou art true, incarnate Lord, 
 Who didst vouchsafe for man to die; 
 Thy smile is sure, thy plighted word 
 No change can falsify ! 
 
 I bent before thy gracious throne. 
 And asked for peace on suppliant knee ; 
 And peace was given, — nor peace alone, 
 But faith sublimed to ecstasy ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 FOR THE SPOT WHERE THE HERMITAGE STOOD ON 
 ST. HERBERT'S ISLAND, DERWENT-WATER. ' 
 
 If thou in the dear love of some one Friend 
 
 Hast been so happy that thou knowest what thoughts 
 
 Will sometimes in the happiness of love 
 
 Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence 
 
 This quiet spot; and, Stranger! not unmoved 
 
 Wilt thou behold this shapeless heap of stones, 
 
 The desolate ruins of St. Herbert's Cell. 
 
 Here stood his threshold ; here was spread the roof 
 
 That sheltered him, a self-secluded Man, 
 
 After long exercise in social cares 
 
 And offices humane, intent to adore 
 
 The Deity, with undistracted mind. 
 
 And meditate on everlasting things. 
 
 In utter solitude. — But he had left 
 
 A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man loved 
 
 As his own soul. And, when with eye upraised 
 
 To heaven he knelt before the crucifi.t. 
 While o'er the Lake the cataract of Lodore 
 Pealed to his orisons, and when he paced 
 Along the beach of this small isle and thought 
 Of his Companion, he would pray that both 
 (Now that their earthly duties were fulfilled) 
 Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain 
 So prayed he : — as our Chronicles report. 
 Though here the Hermit numbered his last day, 
 Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved Friend, 
 Those holy Men both died in the same hour. 
 
 X 
 
 INSCRIPTION 
 
 INTENDED FOR A STONE IN THE GROUNDS OP 
 RYDAL MOUNT. 
 
 In these fair vales hath many a Tree 
 
 At Wordsworth's suit been spared ; 
 And from the Builder's hand this Stone, 
 For some rude beauty of its own, 
 
 Was rescued by the Bard: 
 So let it rest, — and time will come 
 
 When here the tender-hearted 
 May heave a gentle sigh for him, 
 
 As one of the departed. 
 
 XL 
 
 The massy Ways, carried across these Heights 
 
 By Roman Perseverance, are destroyed. 
 
 Or hidden under ground, like sleeping worms. 
 
 How venture then to hope that Time will spare 
 
 This humble Walk "! Yet on the mountain's side 
 
 A Poet's hand first shaped it ; and the steps 
 
 Of that same Bard, repeated to and fro 
 
 At morn, at noon, and under moonlight skies, 
 
 Through the vicissitudes of many a year. 
 
 Forbade the weeds to creep o'er its gray line. 
 
 No longer, scattering to the heedless winds 
 
 The vocal raptures of fresh poesy. 
 
 Shall he frequent these precincts; locked no more 
 
 In earnest converse with beloved Friends, 
 
 Here will he gather stores of ready bliss. 
 
 As from the beds and borders of a garden 
 
 Choice flow ers are gathered ! But, if Power may spring 
 
 Out of a farewell yearning favoured more 
 
 Than kindred wishes mated suitably 
 
 With vain regrets, the Exile would consign 
 
 This Walk, his loved possession, to the care 
 
 Of those pure Minds that reverence the Muse. 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION- 
 
 EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. 
 
 " Why, William, on that old gray stone, 
 Tlius for the length of half a day, 
 Why, William, sit you thus alone, 
 And dream your time awayl 
 
 Where are your books? — that light bequeathed 
 To beings else forlorn and blind! 
 Up ! up ! and drink the spirit breathed 
 From dead men to their kind. 
 
 You look round on your mother Earth, 
 As if she for no purpose bore you ; 
 As if you were her first-born birth, 
 And none had lived before you !" 
 
 One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake. 
 When life was sweet, I knew not why, 
 To me my good friend Matthew spake, 
 And thus I made reply : 
 
 "The eye — it cannot choose but see; 
 We cannot bid the ear be still ; 
 Our bodies feel, where'er they be. 
 Against, or with our will. 
 
 Nor less I deem that there are Powers 
 Which of themselves our minds impress; 
 That we can feed this mind of ours 
 In a wise passiveness. 
 
 Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 
 Of things for ever speaking, 
 That nothing of itself will come. 
 But we must still be seeking 1 
 
 — Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 
 
 Conversing as I may, 
 
 I sit upon this old gray stone. 
 
 And dream my time away." 
 
 THE TABLES TURNED; 
 
 AN T-'"'NING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT. 
 
 Ur ' , ly Friend, and quit your books ; 
 Ortui-.'l you'll grow double: 
 Up! up' my Friend, and clear your looks; 
 Vhy hi i.his toil and trouble ? 
 2S 
 
 The sun, above the mountain's head, 
 
 A freshening lustre mellow 
 
 Through all the long green fields has spread. 
 
 His first sweet evening yellow. 
 
 Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: 
 Come, hear the woodland Linnet, 
 How sweet his music ! on my life, 
 There's more of wisdom in it. 
 
 And hark ! how blithe the Throstle sings! 
 He, too, is no -mean preacher: 
 Come forth into the light of things. 
 Let Nature be your teacher. 
 
 She has a world of ready wealth, 
 Our minds and hearts to bless — 
 Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health. 
 Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 
 
 One impulse from a vernal wood 
 May teach you more of man, 
 Of moral evil and of good, 
 Than all the sages can. 
 
 Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 
 Our meddling intellect 
 Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things : 
 — We murder to dissect. 
 
 Enough of Science and of Art; 
 Close up the.se barren leaves; 
 Come forth, and bring with you a heart 
 That watches and receives. 
 
 WRITTEN IN GERMANY, 
 
 ON ONE OP THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY. 
 
 The Reader must be apprised, that the Stoves in Norlh-Gcr. 
 many generally have the impression of a galloping Horse upon 
 them, this being part of the Brunswick Arms. 
 
 A PLAGUE on your languages, Gennan and Norse ! 
 
 Let me have the snng of the Kettle ; 
 
 And the tongs and the poker, instead of that Horse 
 
 That gallops away with such fury and force 
 
 On his dreary dull plate of black metal. 
 
 29 ==' 
 
338 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 See that Fly, — a disconsolate creature ! perhaps 
 A child of the field or the grove ; 
 And, sorrow for him ! the dull treacherous heat 
 Has seduced the poor fool from his winter retreat, 
 And he creeps to the edge of my stove. 
 
 Alas ! how he fumbles about the domains 
 Which this comfortless oven environ ! 
 He cannot find out in what track he must crawl, 
 Now back to the tiles, and now back to the wall, 
 And now on the brink of the iron. 
 
 Stock-still there he stands like a traveller beraazed : 
 
 The best of his skill he has tried; 
 
 His feelers, methinks, I can see him put forth 
 
 To the East and the West, to the South and the North ; 
 
 But he finds neither Guide-post nor Guide. 
 
 How his spindles sink under him, foot, leg, and thigh ! 
 His eyesight and hearing are lost ; 
 Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws ; 
 And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze 
 Are glued to his sides by the frost. 
 
 No Brother, no I\Iate has he near him — vi'hile I 
 
 Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love; 
 
 As blest and as glad, in this desolate gloom. 
 
 As if green summer grass were the floor of my room, 
 
 And woodbines were hanging above. 
 
 Vet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing ! 
 Thy life I would gladly sustain 
 
 Till summer comes up from the South, and with crowds 
 Of thy brethren a march thou shouldst sound through 
 
 the clouds. 
 And back to the forests again ! 
 
 LINES 
 
 Lefl upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the Lake 
 of Eslhwaile, on a desolate part of the Shore, commanding a 
 beautiful Prospect. 
 
 Nay, Traveller ! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands 
 Far from all human dwelling: what if here 
 No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb) 
 What if the bee love not these barren boughs ! 
 Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, 
 That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind 
 By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. 
 
 - Who he was 
 
 That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod 
 
 First covered o'er, and taught this aged Tree 
 
 With its dark arms to form a circling bower, 
 
 I well remember. — He was one who owned 
 
 No common soul. In youth by science nursed, 
 
 And led by nature into a wild scene 
 
 Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth 
 
 A favoured Being, knowing no desire 
 
 Which Genius did not hallov,', — 'gainst the taint 
 
 Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, 
 
 And scorn, — against all enemies prepared. 
 
 All but neglect. The world, for so it thought. 
 
 Owed him no service ; wherefore he at once 
 
 With indignation turned himself away, 
 
 And with the food of pride sustained his soul 
 
 In solitude. — Stranger ! these gloomy boughs 
 
 Had charms for him ; and here he loved to sit. 
 
 His only visitants a straggling sheep. 
 
 The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper: 
 
 And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath. 
 
 And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er, 
 
 Pi.\ing his downcast eye, he many an hour 
 
 A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here 
 
 An emblem of his own unfruitful life: 
 
 And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze ] 
 
 On the more distant scene, — how lovely 'tis \ 
 
 Thou seest, — and he would gaze till it became 
 
 Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain 
 
 The beauty, still more beauteous ! Nor, that time, ■ 
 
 When nature had subdued him to herself. 
 
 Would he forget those beings, to whose minds, 
 
 Warm from the labours of benevolence. 
 
 The world, and hutnan life, appeared a scene 
 
 Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh 
 
 With mournful joy, to think that others felt 
 
 What he must never feel: and so, lost Man! 
 
 On visionary views would fancy feed. 
 
 Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale . 
 
 He died, — this seat his only monument. 
 
 If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms 
 
 Of young imagination have kept pure. 
 
 Stranger ! henceforth be warned ; and know thatprid 
 
 Ilowe'er disguised in its own majesty, 
 
 Is littleness; that he who feels contempt 
 
 For any living thing, hath faculties 
 
 Which he has never used ; that thought with hiin 
 
 Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 
 
 Is ever on himself doth look on one. 
 
 The least of Nature's works, one who might move 
 
 The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds 
 
 Unlawful, ever. O be wiser. Thou ! 
 
 Instructed that true knowledge leads to love, 
 
 True dignity abides with him alone 
 
 Who, in the silent hour of inward thought. 
 
 Can still suspect, and still revere himself. 
 
 In lowliness of heart. 
 
 CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 
 
 Who is the happy Warrior 1 Who is he 
 That every Man in arms should wish to be ? 
 
 It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought 
 
 Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 
 Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought: 
 Whose high endeavours are an inward light 
 That makes the path before him always bright: 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 339 
 
 Who, witli a natural instinct to discern 
 What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; 
 Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, 
 But makes his moral being his prime care; 
 Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, 
 And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train ! 
 Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 
 In face of these doth exercise a power 
 jWhich is our human nature's highest dower; 
 IControls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 
 jOf their bad influence, and their good receives: 
 IBy objects, which might force the soul to abate 
 iHer feeling, rendered more compassionate ; 
 [s placable — because occasions rise 
 3o often that demand such sacrifice ; 
 More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, 
 \\a tempted more ; more able to endure, 
 As more exposed to suffering and distress ; 
 irhence, also, more alive to tenderness. 
 1— 'Tis he whose law is reason ; who depends 
 jjpon that law as on the best of friends; 
 ISVhence, in a state where men are tempted still 
 To evil for a guard against worse ill, 
 ind what in quality or act is best 
 )oth seldom on a right foundation rest, 
 le fixes good on good alone, and owes 
 i^o virtue every triumph that he knows : 
 -Who, if he rise to station of command, 
 lises by open means ; and there will stand 
 )n honourable terms, or else retire, 
 Ind in himself possess his own desire ; 
 [Vho comprehends his trust, and to the same 
 jleeps faithful with a singleness of aim; 
 ind therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait 
 'or wealth, or honours, or for worldly state; 
 Vhom they must follow ; on wliose head must fall, 
 like showers of manna, if they come at all : 
 Vhose powers shed round him in the common strife, 
 •r mild concerns of ordinary life, 
 I constant influence, a peculiar grace; 
 iut who, if he be called upon to face 
 ome awful moment to which Heaven has joined 
 reat issues, good or bad for human kind, 
 i happy as a Lover ; and attired 
 l^ilh sudden brightness, like a Man inspired ; 
 .nd, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law 
 1 calmness made, and sees what he foresaw ; 
 iir if an unexpected call succeed, 
 ome when it will, is equal to the need : 
 - He who though thus endued as with a sense 
 nd faculty for storm and turbulence, 
 )! yet a Soul whose master-bias leans 
 homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes ; 
 |weet images ! which, wheresoe'er he be, 
 jre at his heart; and such fidelity 
 is his darling passion to approve ; 
 '.ore brave for this, that he hath much to love : — 
 
 'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, 
 Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, 
 Or left unthought-of in obscurity, — 
 Who, witii a toward or untoward lot. 
 Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not. 
 Plays, in the many games of life, that one 
 Where what he most doth value must be won: 
 Whom neither shape of danger can dismay. 
 Nor thought of tender happiness betray ; 
 Who, not content that former worth stand fast, 
 Looks forward, persevering to the last. 
 From well to better, daily self-surpast : 
 Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth 
 For ever, and to noble deeds give birth. 
 Or He must go to dust without his fame. 
 And leave a dead unprofitable name. 
 Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; 
 And, vs'hile the mortal rnist is gathering, draws 
 His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause : 
 This is the happy Warrior; this is He 
 Whom every Man in arms should wish to be. 
 
 A POET'S EPITAPH. 
 
 Art thou a Statesman, in the van 
 Of public business trained and bred 1 
 
 — First learn to love one living man ; 
 Then may'st thou think upon the dead. 
 
 A Lawyer art thou? — draw not nigh: 
 Go, carry to some fitter place 
 The keenness of that practised eye. 
 The hardness of that sallow face. 
 
 Art thou a Man of purple cheer 1 
 A rosy Man, right plump to seel 
 Approach ; yet. Doctor, not too near : 
 This grave no cushion is for thee. 
 
 Or art thou one of gallant pride, 
 A Soldier, and no man of chafl"? 
 Welcome ! — but lay thy sword aside, 
 And lean upon a Peasant's staff. 
 
 Physician art thou 1 One, all eyes, 
 Philosopher! a fingering slave. 
 One that would peep and botanize 
 Upon his mother's grave 1 
 
 Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, 
 O turn aside, — and take, I pray. 
 That he below may rest in peace. 
 That abject thing, thy soul, away ! 
 
 — A Moralist perchance appears ; 
 
 Led, Heaven knows how ! to this poor sod ; 
 And He has neither eyes nor ears; 
 Himself his world, and his own God ; 
 
 J 
 
340 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling 
 Nor form, nor feeling, great nor small; 
 A reasoning, self-sufficient thing, 
 An intellectual All in All! 
 
 Shut close the door; press down the latch; 
 Sleep in thy intellectual crust; 
 Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch 
 Near this unprofitable dust. 
 
 But who is He, with modest looks, 
 And clad in homely russet brown'! 
 He murmurs near the running brooks 
 A music sweeter than their own. 
 
 He is retired as noontide dew, 
 Or fountain in a noon-day grove; 
 And you must love him, ere to you 
 He will seem worthy of your love. 
 
 The outward shows of sky and earth, 
 Of hill and valley, he has viewed; 
 And impulses of deeper birth 
 Have come to him in solitude. 
 
 In common things that round us lie 
 Some random truths he can impart, 
 
 — The harvest of a quiet eye 
 
 That broods and sleeps on his own heart. 
 
 But he is wealc, both Man and Boy, 
 Hath been an idler in the land; 
 Contented if he might enjoy 
 The things which others understand. 
 
 — Come hither in thy hour of strength ; 
 Come, weak as is a breaking wave ! 
 Here stretch thy body at full length; 
 Or build thy house upon this grave. 
 
 TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND, 
 
 (AN AGRICULTURIST,) 
 
 COMPOSED WHILE WE WERE LABOURING TOGETHER IN HIS 
 PLEASURE-GROUND. 
 
 Spade ! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his Lands, 
 
 And shaped these pleasant vi^alks by Emont's side. 
 
 Thou art a tool of honour in my hands; 
 
 I press thee, through the yielding soil, with pride. 
 
 Rare Master has it been thy lot to know ; 
 Long hast Thou served a Man to reason true ; 
 Whose life combines the best of high and low, 
 The toiling many and the resting few ; 
 
 Health, meekness, ardour, quietness secure, 
 And industry of body and of mind ; 
 And elegant enjoyments, that are pure 
 As Nature is ; — too pure to be refined. 
 
 Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing 
 In concord with his River murmuring by ; 
 Or in some silent field, while timid Spring 
 Is yet uncheered by other minstrelsy. 
 
 Who shall inherit Thee when death has laid 
 Low in the darksome Cell thine own dear Lord! 
 That Man will have a trophy, humble Spade ! 
 A trophy nobler than a Conqueror's sword. 
 
 If he be One that feels, with skill to part 
 False praise from true, or greater from the less, 
 Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart, 
 Thou monument of peaceful happiness ! 
 
 With Thee he will not dread a toilsome day. 
 His powerful Servant, his inspiring Mate ! 
 And, when thou art past service, worn away. 
 Thee a surviving soul shall consecrate. 
 
 His thrift thy usefulness will never scorn; 
 An Heir-loom in his cottage wilt thou be : 
 High will he hang thee up, and will adorn 
 His rustic chimney with the last of Thee ! 
 
 TO MY SISTER. 
 
 WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE, 
 AND SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY. 
 
 It is the first mild day of March : 
 Each minute sweeter than before. 
 The Redbreast sings from the tall Larch 
 That stands beside our door. 
 
 There is a blessing in the air. 
 Which seems a sense of joy to yield 
 To the bare trees, and mountains bare. 
 And grass in the green field. 
 
 My Sister ! ('t is a wish of mine) 
 Now that our morning meal is done. 
 Make haste, your morning task resign; 
 Come forth and feel the sun. 
 
 Edward will come with you; — and, pray, 
 Put on with speed your woodland dress; 
 And brmg no book : for this one day 
 We'll give to idleness. 
 
 No joyless forms shall regulate 
 Our living Calendar : 
 We from to-day, my Friend, will date 
 The opening of the year. 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 341 
 
 Love, now an universal birth, 
 
 From heart to heart is stealing, 
 
 From earth to man, from man to earth: 
 
 — It is the hour of feelin^. 
 
 One moment now may give us more 
 Than fifty years of reason : 
 Our minds shall drink at every pore 
 The spirit of the season. 
 
 Some silent laws our hearts will make, 
 Which they shall long obey : 
 We for the year to come may take 
 Our temper from to-day. 
 
 And from the blessed power that rolls 
 About, below, above. 
 We'll frame the measure of our souls: 
 They shall be tuned to love. 
 
 ■Then come, my Sister ! come, I pray, 
 With speed put on your woodland dress ; 
 
 — And bring no book: for this one day 
 We'll give to idleness. 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY, 
 
 WHO HAD BEEN EEPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG 
 WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 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, shalt see 
 
 Thy own delightful days, and be 
 
 A light to young and old. 
 
 There, healthy as a Shepherd-boy, 
 
 And treading among flowers of joy, 
 
 That at no season fade. 
 
 Thou, while thy Babes around thee cling, 
 
 Shalt show us how divine a thing 
 
 A Woman may be made. 
 
 Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die. 
 
 Nor leave thee when gray hairs are nigh 
 
 A melancholy slave ; 
 
 But an old age serene and bright, 
 
 And lovely as a Lapland night, 
 
 Shall lead thee to thy grave. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. 
 
 I HEARD a thousand blended notes. 
 While in a grove I sate reclined. 
 In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
 Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 
 
 To her fair works did Nature link 
 The human soul that through me ran; 
 And much it grieved my heart to think 
 What man has made of man. 
 
 Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, 
 The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; 
 And 'tis my faith that every flower 
 Enjoys the air it breathes. 
 
 The birds around me hopped and played ; 
 Their thoughts I cannot measure : — 
 But the least motion which they made, 
 It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 
 
 The budding twigs spread out their fan, 
 To catch the breezy air ; 
 And I must think, do all I can. 
 That there was pleasure there. 
 
 Prom Heaven if this belief be sent, 
 If such be Nature's holy plan. 
 Have I not reason to lament 
 What man has made of man t 
 
 SIMON LEE, 
 
 THE OLD HUNTSMAN, 
 
 WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED. 
 
 In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
 Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, 
 An Old Man dwells, a little man, 
 'T is said he once was tall. 
 Full five-and-thiny years he lived 
 A running Huntsman merry ; 
 And still the centre of his cheek 
 Is blooming as a cherry. 
 
 No man like him the horn could sound, 
 
 And hill and valley rang with glee 
 
 When Echo bandied, round and round, 
 
 The halloo of Simon Lee. 
 
 In those proud days, he little cared 
 
 For husbandry or tillage ; 
 
 To blither tasks did Simon rouse 
 
 The sleepers of the village. 
 
 He all the country could outrun, 
 Could leave both man and horse behind; 
 And often, ere the chase was done, 
 He reeled and was stone-blind. 
 And still there's something in the world 
 At which his heart rejoices ; 
 For when the chiming hounds are out. 
 He dearly loves their voices! 
 29* 
 
342 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 But, oh the heavy change! — bereft 
 
 Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see ! 
 
 Old Simon to the world is left 
 
 In liveried poverty. 
 
 His Master's dead, — and no one now 
 
 Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; 
 
 Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; 
 
 He is the sole survivor. 
 
 And he is lean and he is sick ; 
 His body, dwindled and awry. 
 Rests upon ancles swoln and thick; 
 His legs are thin and dry. 
 One prop he has, and only one, 
 His Wife, an aged woman. 
 Lives with him, near the waterfall. 
 Upon the village Common. 
 
 Beside their moss-grown hut of clay. 
 Not twenty paces from the door, 
 A scrap of land they have, but they 
 Are poorest of the poor. 
 This scrap of land he from the heath 
 Enclosed when he was stronger; 
 But what avails it now, the land 
 Which he can till no longer'! 
 
 Oft, working by her Husband's side, 
 Ruth does what Simon cannot do; 
 For she, with scanty cause for pride. 
 Is stouter of the two. 
 And, though you with your utmost skill 
 From labour could not wean them, 
 Alas! 'tis very little — all 
 Which they can do between tliem. 
 
 Few months of life has he in store, 
 
 As he to you will tell. 
 
 For still, the more he works, the more 
 
 Do his weak ancles swell. 
 
 My gentle Reader, I perceive 
 
 How patiently you 've waited. 
 
 And now I fear that you expect 
 
 Some tale will be related. 
 
 O Reader! had you in your mind 
 
 Such stores as silent thought can bring, 
 
 O gentle Reader! you would find 
 
 A tale in every thing.* 
 
 What more I have to say is short. 
 
 And you must kindly take it: 
 
 It is no tale; but should you think, 
 
 Perhaps a tale you '11 make it. 
 
 One summer-day I chanced to see 
 This Old Man doing all he could 
 To unearth the root of an old tree, 
 A stump of rotten wood. 
 
 •See Note 1, p. 372. 
 
 The mattock tottered in his hand; 
 So vain was his endeavour. 
 That at the root of the old tree 
 He might have worked for ever. 
 
 " You 're overtasked, good Simon Lee, 
 
 Give me your tool," to him I said ; 
 
 And at the word right gladly he 
 
 Received my proffered aid. 
 
 I struck, and with a single blow 
 
 The tangled root I severed, 
 
 At which the poor Old Man so long 
 
 And vainly had endeavoured. 
 
 The tears into his eyes were brought. 
 And thanks and praises seemed to run 
 So fast out of his heart, I thought 
 They never would have done. 
 — I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds 
 With coldness still returning; 
 Alas ! the gratitude of men 
 Hath oftener left me mourning. 
 
 INCIDENT AT BRUGES. 
 
 In Bruges town is many a street. 
 
 Whence busy life hath fled; 
 Where, without hurry, noiseless feet 
 
 The grass-grown pavement tread. 
 There heard we, halting in the shade 
 
 Flung from a Convent-tower, 
 A harp that tuneful prelude made 
 
 To a voice of thrilling power. 
 
 The measure, simple truth to tell, 
 
 Was fit for some gay throng ; 
 Though from the same grim turret fell 
 
 The shadow and the song. 
 When silent were both voice and chords 
 
 The strain seemed doubly dear, 
 Yet sad as sweet, for English words 
 
 Had fallen upon tlie ear. 
 
 It was a breezy hour of eve ; , 
 
 And pinnacle and spire 
 Quivered and seemed almost to heave. 
 
 Clothed with innocuous fire ; 
 But where we stood, tlie setting sun 
 
 Showed little of his state; 
 And, if the glory reached the Nun, 
 
 'T was through an iron grate. 
 
 Not always is the heart unwise, 
 
 Nor pity idly born, 
 If even a passing Stranger sighs 
 
 For them who do not mourn. 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 343 
 
 Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove, 
 
 Captive, whoe'er thou be ! 
 Oh ! what is beauty, what is love, 
 
 And opening life to thee? 
 
 Such feeling pressed upon my soul, 
 
 A feeling sanctified 
 By one soft trickling tear that stole 
 
 From the Maiden at my side ; 
 Less tribute could she pay than this, 
 
 Borne gaily o'er the sea, 
 Fresh from the beauty and the bliss 
 
 Of English liberty 1 
 
 THE WISHING-GATE. 
 
 In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of the high-way, leading 
 a Ambleside, is a gate, whicli, time out of mind, has been cail- 
 id the Wishing-gale, from a behef that wishes formed or in- 
 ihtlged there have a favourable issue. 
 
 Hope rules a land for ever green : 
 
 AD powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen 
 
 Are confident and gay ; 
 
 Clouds at her bidding disappear; 
 
 Points she to aught ? — the bliss draws near, 
 
 And Fancy smooths the way. 
 
 Not such the land of wishes — there 
 Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless prayer. 
 And thoughts with tilings at strife; 
 Yet how forlorn should ye depart. 
 Ye superstitions of the heart. 
 How poor were human life ! 
 
 When magic lore abjured its might. 
 Ye did not forfeit one dear right, 
 One tender claim abate ; 
 Witness this symbol of your sway, 
 Surviving near the public way. 
 The rustic Wishing-gate ! 
 
 Inquire not if the faery race 
 
 Shed kindly it^uence on the place, 
 
 Ere northward they retired ; 
 
 If here a warrior left a spell. 
 
 Panting for glory as he fell; 
 
 Or here a saint expired. 
 
 Enough that all around is fair. 
 Composed with Nature's finest care 
 And in her fondest love; 
 Peace to embosom and content. 
 To overawe the turbulent, 
 The selfish to reprove. 
 
 Yea! even the Stranger from afar, 
 Reclining on this moss-grown bar. 
 Unknowing and unknown, 
 The infection of the ground partakes, 
 Longing for his Beloved — who makes 
 All happiness her own. 
 
 Then why should conscious Spirits fear 
 The mystic stirrings that are here. 
 The ancient faith disclaim] 
 The local Genius ne'er befriends 
 Desires whose course in folly ends, 
 Whose just reward is shame. 
 
 Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn, 
 If some, by ceaseless pains outworn. 
 Here crave an easier lot ; 
 If some have thirsted to renew 
 A broken vow, or bind a true, 
 With firmer, holier knot. 
 
 And not in vain, when thoughts are cast 
 
 Upon the irrevocable past, 
 
 Some penitent sincere 
 
 May for a worthier future sigh. 
 
 While trickles from his downcast eye 
 
 No unavailing tear. 
 
 The Worldling, pining to be freed 
 From turmoil, who would turn or speed 
 The current of his fate. 
 Might stop before this favoured scene. 
 At Nature's call, nor blush to lean 
 Upon the Wishing-gate. 
 
 The Sage, who feels how blind, how weak 
 Is man, though loth such help to seek. 
 Yet, passing, here might pause. 
 And yearn for insight to allay 
 Misgiving, while the crimson day 
 In quietness withdraws; 
 
 Or when the church-clock's knell profound 
 
 To Time's first step across the bound 
 
 Of midnight makes reply ; 
 
 Time pressing on with starry crest. 
 
 To filial sleep upon the breast 
 
 Of dread eternity ! 
 
 INCIDENT 
 CHARACTERISTIC OF A FAVOURITE DOG. 
 
 On his morning rounds the Master 
 Goes to learn how all things fare ; 
 Searches pasture after pasture, 
 Sheep and cattle eyes with care ; 
 
344 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And, for silence or for talk, 
 
 He hath comrades in his walk; 
 
 Four dogs, each pair of 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. 
 
 Hath an instinct what to do ; 
 
 Her hope is near : no turn she makes ; 
 
 But, like an arrow, to the river takes. 
 
 Deep the River was, and crusted 
 
 Thinly by a one niglit'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 Swaxlow — 
 
 See them cleaving to the sport! 
 
 Mcsic 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. 
 
 Prom the brink her paws she stretches, 
 
 Very hands as you would say ! 
 
 And afflicting moans she fetches, 
 
 As he breaks the ice away. 
 
 For herself she hath no fears, — 
 
 Him alone she sees and hears, — 
 
 Makes efforts and complainings; nor gives o'er 
 
 Until her Fellow sank, and re-appeared no more. 
 
 TRIBUTE 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG. 
 
 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. 
 
 I grieved for thee, and wished thy end were past 
 
 And willingly have laid thee here at last: 
 
 For thou hadst lived till every thing 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. 
 
 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 I 
 
 For love, that comes to all — the holy sense, 
 
 Best gift of 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 
 
 The 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 ! 
 
 In the School of- 
 
 - is a Tablet, on which are inscribed, 
 
 in gilt letters, the Names of the several Persons who have been 
 Schoolmasters there since the Foundation of the School, with 
 the Time at which they entered upon and quitted their Office. 
 Opposite to one of those Names the Author wrote the following 
 Lines. 
 
 If Nature, for a favourite Child, 
 In thee hath tempered so her clay. 
 That every hour thy heart runs wild, 
 Yet never once doth go astray. 
 
 Read o'er these lines; and then review 
 This tablet, that thus hutubly rears 
 In such diversity of hue 
 Its history of two hundred years. 
 
 — When through this little wreck of fame, 
 Cipher and syllable! thine eye 
 Has travelled down to Matthew's name. 
 Pause with no common sympathy. 
 
 And, if a sleeping tear should wake. 
 Then be it neither checked nor stayed: 
 For Matthew a request I make. 
 Which for himself he had not made. 
 
 Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er. 
 Is silent as a standing pool ; 
 Far from the chimney's merry roar, 
 And murmur of the village school. 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 345 
 
 The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs 
 Of one tired out with fun and madness ; 
 The tears which came to Matthew's eyes 
 Were tears of light, the dew of gladness. 
 
 Yet, -sometimes, when the secret cup 
 Of still and serious thought went round, 
 It seemed as if he drank it up — 
 He felt with spirit so profound. 
 
 — Thou soul of God's best earthly mould ! 
 Thou happy Soul ! and can it be 
 That these two words of glittering gold 
 Are all that must remain of thee'! 
 
 THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. 
 
 We walked along, while bright and red 
 Uprose the morning sun ; 
 And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said, 
 " The will of God be done !" 
 
 A village Schoolmaster was he. 
 With hair of glittering gray ; 
 As blithe a man as you could see 
 On a spring holiday. 
 
 And on that morning, through the grass, 
 And by the steaming rills. 
 We travelled merrily, to pass 
 A day among the hills. 
 
 " Our work," said I, " was well begun ; 
 Then, from thy breast what thought, 
 Beneath so beautiful a sun. 
 So sad a sigh has brought 1" 
 
 A second time did Matthew stop ; 
 And fixing still his eye 
 Upon the eastern mountain-top, 
 To me he made reply : 
 
 "Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
 Brings fresh into my mind 
 A day like this which I have left 
 Full thirty years behind. 
 
 " And just above yon slope of corn 
 Such colours, and no other, 
 Were in the sky, that April morn. 
 Of this the very brother, 
 
 "With rod and line I sued the sport 
 Which that sweet season gave, 
 And, coming to the church, stopped short 
 Beside my daughter's grave. 
 2T 
 
 "Nine summers had she scarcely seen. 
 The pride of all the vale ; 
 And then she sang ; — she would have been 
 A very nightingale. 
 
 " Six feet in earth my Emma lay ; 
 And yet I loved her more, 
 For so it seemed, than till that day 
 I e'er had loved before. 
 
 "And, turning from her grave, I met, 
 Beside the church-yard Yew, 
 A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet 
 With points of morning dew. 
 
 " A basket on her head she bare ; 
 Her brow was smooth and white : 
 To see a child so very fair, 
 It was a pure delight ! 
 
 "No fountain from its rocky cave 
 E'er tripped with foot so free ; 
 She seemed as happy as a wave 
 That dances on the sea. 
 
 " There came from me a sigh of pain 
 Which I could ill confine ; 
 I looked at her, and looked again: 
 --And did not wish her mine." 
 
 Matthew is in his grave, yet now, 
 Melhinks, I see him stand, 
 As at that moment, with a bough 
 Of wilding in his hand. 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 A CONVERSATION. 
 
 We talked with open heart, and tongue 
 Affectionate and true, 
 A pair of Friends, though I was young, 
 And Matthew seventy-two. 
 
 We lay beneath a spreading oak, 
 Beside a mossy seat ; 
 And from the turf a fountain broke, 
 And gurgled at our feet. 
 
 " Now, Matthew !" said I, " let us match 
 This water's pleasant tune 
 With some old Border-song, or Catch, 
 That suits a summer's noon; 
 
 Or of the Church-clock and the chimes 
 Sing here beneath the shade. 
 That half-mad thing of witty rhymes 
 Which you last April made !" 
 
346 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 In silence Matthew lay, and eyed 
 The spring beneath the tree ; 
 And thus the dear old- man replied, 
 The gray-haired man of glee : 
 
 " Down to the vale this water steers. 
 How merrily it goes ! 
 'T will murmur on a thousand years, 
 And flow as now it flows. 
 
 "And here, on tliis delightful day, 
 I cannot choose but think 
 How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 
 Beside this Fountain's brink. 
 
 " My eyes are dim with childish tears, 
 My heart is idly stirred, 
 For the same sound is in my ears 
 Which in those days I heard. 
 
 "Thus fares it still in our decay: 
 And yet the wiser mind 
 Mourns less for what age takes away 
 Than what it leaves behind. 
 
 "The Blackbird in the summer trees, 
 The Lark upon the hill, 
 Let loose their carols when they please, 
 Are quiet when they will. 
 
 " With Nature never do they wage 
 A foolish strife ; they see 
 A happy youth, and their old age 
 Is beautiful and free : 
 
 " But we are pressed by heavy laws ; 
 And often, glad no more. 
 We wear a face of joy, because 
 We have been glad of yore. 
 
 " If there be one who need bemoan 
 His kindred laid in earth. 
 The household hearts that were his own. 
 It is the man of mirth. 
 
 "My days, my Friend, are almost gone. 
 My life has been approved. 
 And many love me ; but by none 
 Am I enough beloved." 
 
 " Now both himself and me he wrongs. 
 The man who thus complains ! 
 I live and sing my idle songs 
 Upon these happy plains. 
 
 " And, Matthew, for thy Children dead 
 I'll be a son to thee!" 
 At this he grasped my hand, and said, 
 "Alas! that cannot be." 
 
 We rose up from the fountain-side ; 
 And down the smooth descent 
 Of the green sheep-track did we glide; 
 And through the wood we went ; 
 
 And, ere we came to Leonard's rock, 
 He sang those witty rhymes 
 About the crazy old church clock. 
 And the bewildered chimes. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENINO. C| 
 
 How richly glows the water's breast 
 Before us, tinged with evening hues. 
 While, facing thus the crimson west, 
 The Boat her silent course pursues ! 
 And see how dark the backward stream ! 
 A little moment past so smiling ! 
 And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam. 
 Some other Loiterers beguiling. 
 
 Such views the youthful Bard allure; 
 But, heedless of the following gloom. 
 He deems their colours shall endure 
 Till peace go with him to the tomb. 
 — And let him nurse his fond deceit. 
 And what if he must die in sorrow! 
 Who would not cherish dreams so sweet. 
 Though grief and pain may come to-morrow ? 
 
 REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS, 
 
 COMPOSED UPON THE THAMES NEAR RICHMOND. 
 
 Glide gently, thus for ever glide, 
 O Thames ! that other Bards may see 
 As lovely visions by thy side 
 As now, fair River ! come to me. 
 O glide, fair Stream! for ever so, 
 Tliy quiet soul on all bestowing. 
 Till all our minds for ever flow 
 As thy deep waters now are flowing. 
 
 Vain thought! — Yet he as now thou art. 
 That in thy waters may be seen 
 The image of a poet's heart. 
 How bright, how solemn, how serene ! 
 Such as did once the Poet bless. 
 Who murmuring here a later* ditty. 
 Could find no refuge from distress 
 But in the milder grief of pity. 
 
 *CoIlins's Ode on the Death of Thomson, the last written, 
 I believe, of the poems which were pubhshed during his liie- 
 lime. This Ode is also alluded to in the next stanza. 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 Ml 
 
 Now let us, as we float along, 
 For him suspend the dashing oar ; 
 And pray that never child of Song 
 May know that Poet's sorrows more. 
 How calm ! how still ! the only sound, 
 The dripping of the oar suspended ! 
 — The evening darkness gathers round 
 By virtue's holiest Powers attended.* 
 
 If Thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven, 
 
 Shine, Poet, in thy place, and be content ! 
 
 The Star that from the zenith darts its beams, 
 
 Visible though it be to half the Earth, 
 
 Though half a sphere be conscious of its brightness, 
 
 Is yet of no diviner origin, 
 
 No purer essence, than the One that burns. 
 
 Like an untended watch-fire, on the ridg-e 
 
 Of some dark mountain ; or than those which seem 
 
 Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter lamps. 
 
 Among the branches of the leafless trees. 
 
 WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF MACPHERSON'S 
 OSSIAN. 
 
 Oft have I caught, upon a fitful breeze, 
 
 Fragments of far-off" melodies. 
 
 With ear not coveting the whole, 
 
 A part so charmed the pensive soul: 
 
 While a dark storm before my sight 
 
 Was yielding, on a mountain height 
 
 Loose vapours have I watched, that won 
 
 Prismatic colours from the sun ; 
 
 Nor felt a wish that Heaven would show 
 
 The image of its perfect bow. 
 
 What need, then, of these finished Strains? 
 
 Away with counterfeit Remains ! 
 
 An abbey in its lone recess, 
 
 A temple of the wilderness, 
 
 Wrecks though they be, announce with feeling 
 
 The majesty of honest dealing. 
 
 Spirit of Ossian! if imbound 
 
 In language thou may'st yet be found. 
 
 If aught (intrusted to the pen 
 
 Or floating on the tongues of men, 
 
 Albeit shattered and impaired) 
 
 Subsist thy dignity to guard. 
 
 In concert with memorial claim 
 
 Of old gray stone, and high-born name, 
 
 That cleaves to rock or pillared cave. 
 
 Where moans the blast, or beats the wave, 
 
 * [" Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore 
 
 When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, 
 And oft suspend the dashing oar, 
 To bid liis gentle spirit rest!" 
 
 Collins.— H. R.] 
 
 Let Truth, stern Arbitress of all, 
 Interpret that Original, 
 And for presumptuous wrongs atone; 
 Authentic words be given, or none ! 
 
 Time is not blind; — yet He, who spares 
 Pyramid pointing to the Stars, 
 Hath preyed with ruthless appetite 
 On all that marked the primal flight 
 Of the poetic ecstasy 
 Into the land of mystery. 
 No tongue is able to rehearse 
 One measure, Orpheus! of thy verse; 
 MussBus, stationed with his lyre 
 Supreme among the Elysian quire. 
 Is, for the dwellers upon earth, 
 Mute as a Lark ere morning's birth. 
 Why grieve for these, though past away 
 The Music, and extinct the Lay ] 
 When thousands, by severer doom. 
 Full early to the silent tomb 
 Have sunk, at Nature's call ; or strayed 
 From hope and promise, self-betrayed; 
 The garland withering on their brows; 
 Stung with remorse for broken vows; 
 Frantic — else how might they rejoice'! 
 And friendless, by their own sad choice. 
 
 Hail, Bards of mightier grasp ! on you 
 
 I chiefly call, the clbosen Few, 
 
 Who cast not off the acknowledged guide. 
 
 Who faltered not, nor turned aside ; 
 
 Whose lofty Genius could survive 
 
 Privation, under sorrow thrive ; 
 
 In whom the fiery Muse revered 
 
 The symbol of a snow-white beard, 
 
 Bedewed with meditative tears 
 
 Dropped from the lenient cloud of years. 
 
 Brothers in Soul ! though distant times 
 Produced you, nursed in various climes. 
 Ye, when the orb of life had waned, 
 A plenitude of love retained ; 
 Hence, while in you each sad regret 
 By corresponding hope was met. 
 Ye lingered among human kind. 
 Sweet voices for the passing wind ; 
 Departing sunbeams, loth to stop. 
 Though smiling on the last hill top ; 
 
 Such to the tender-hearted Maid 
 Even ere her joys begin to fide ; 
 Such, haply, to the rugged Chief 
 By Fortune crushed, or tamed by grief; 
 Appears, on Morven's lonely shore, 
 Dim-gleaming through imperfect lore, 
 
348 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 The Son of Fingal ; such was blind 
 Maeonides of ampler mind; 
 Such Milton, to the fountain head 
 Of Glory by Urania led ! 
 
 VERNAL ODE. 
 
 ' Rerum Natura tota est nusquam magts qtiam in minimis.' 
 
 Plin. Nat. Hist. 
 
 Beneath the concave of an April sky, 
 
 When all the fields with freshest green were dight, 
 
 Appeared, in presence of that spiritual eye 
 
 That aids or supersedes our grosser sight, 
 
 The form and rich habiliments of One 
 
 Whose countenance bore resemblance to the sun, 
 
 When it reveals, in evening majesty. 
 
 Features half lost amid their own pure light. 
 
 Poised like a weary cloud, in middle air 
 
 He hung, — then floated with angelic ease 
 
 (Softening that bright effulgence by degrees) 
 
 Till he had reached a summit sharp and bare. 
 
 Where oft the venturous heifer drinks the noon-tide 
 
 breeze. 
 Upon the apex of that lofty cone 
 Alighted, there the Stranger stood alone; 
 Fair as a gorgeous Fabric of the East 
 Suddenly raised by some Enchanter's power. 
 Where nothing was; and firm as some old Tower 
 Of Britain's realm, whose leafy crest 
 Waves high, embellished by a gleaming shower! 
 
 Beneath the shadow of his purple wings 
 Rested a golden Harp; — he touched the strings; 
 And, after prelude of unearthly sound 
 Poured through the echoing hills around, 
 
 He sang 
 
 " No wintry desolations, 
 " Scorching blight or noxious dew, 
 "Affect my native habitations; 
 " Buried in glory, far beyond the scope 
 " Of man's inquiring gaze, but imaged to his hope 
 " (Alas, how faintly !) in the hue 
 "Profound of night's ethereal blue; 
 "And in the aspect of each radiant orb; — 
 "Some fixed, some wandering with no timid curb; 
 " But wandering star and fixed, to mortal eye, 
 " Blended in absolute serenity, 
 " And free from semblance of decline ; — 
 "Fresh as if Evening brought their natal hour; 
 " Her darkness splendour gave, her silence power, 
 "To testify of Love and Grace divine. — 
 " And though to every draught of vital breath 
 " Renewed throughout the bounds of earth or ocean. 
 
 " The melancholy gates of Death 
 
 " Respond with sympathetic motion ; 
 
 " Though all that feeds on nether air, 
 
 ■' Howe'er magnificent or fair, 
 
 " Grows but to perish, and intrust 
 
 "Its ruins to their kindred dust; 
 
 " Yet, by the Almighty's ever-during care, 
 
 " Her procreant vigils Nature keeps- 
 
 " Amid the unfathomable deeps ; 
 
 " And saves the peopled fields of earth 
 
 " From dread of emptiness or dearth. 
 
 " Thus, in their stations, lifting tow'rd the sky 
 
 " The foliaged head in cloud-like majesty, 
 
 " The shadow-casting race of Trees survive : 
 
 " Thus, in the train of Spring, arrive 
 
 " Sweet Flowers ; — what living eye hath viewed 
 
 " Their myriads ■• — endlessly renewed, 
 
 " Wherever strikes the sun's glad ray ; 
 
 " Where'er the subtle waters stray ; 
 
 " Wherever sportive zephyrs bend 
 
 " Their course, or genial showers descend ! 
 
 " Mortals, rejoice ! the very Angels quit 
 
 " Their mansions unsusceptible of change, 
 
 "Amid your pleasant bowers to sit, 
 
 " And through your sweet vicissitudes to range !" 
 
 3. 
 
 O, nursed at happy distance from the cares 
 Of a too-anxious world, mild pastoral Muse ! 
 That, to the sparkling crown Urania wears, 
 And to her sister Clio's laurel wreath, 
 Prefer'st a garland culled from purple heath. 
 Or blooming thicket moist with morning dews; 
 Was such bright Spectacle vouchsafed to me 1 
 And was it granted to the simple ear 
 Of thy contented Votary 
 Such melody to hear ! 
 
 Him rather suits it, side by side with thee. 
 Wrapped in a fit of pleasing indolence, 
 Wliile thy tired lute hangs on the hawthorn tree, 
 To lie and listen, till o'er-drowsed sense 
 Sinks, hardly conscious of the influence, 
 To the soft murmur of the vagrant Bee. 
 — A slender sound! yet hoary Time 
 Doth to the Soul exalt it with the chime 
 Of all his years; — a company 
 Of ages coming, ages gone ; 
 (Nations from before them sweeping. 
 Regions in destruction steeping,) 
 But every awful note in unison 
 With that faint utterance, which tells 
 Of treasure sucked from buds and bells. 
 For the pure keeping of those waxen cells; 
 Where She, a statist prudent to confer 
 Upon the public weal; a warrior bold, — 
 Radiant all over with unburnislied gold, 
 And armed with living spear for mortal fight; 
 A cunning forager 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 349 
 
 That spreads no waste ; — a social builder ; one 
 In whom all busy ofBces unite 
 With all fine functions that aflbrd delight, 
 Safe through the winter storm in quiet dwells! 
 
 And is She brought within the power 
 
 Of vision ) — o'er this tempting flower 
 
 Hovering until the petals stay 
 
 Her flight, and take its voice avifay ! — 
 
 Observe each wing! — a tiny van! — 
 
 The structure of her laden thigh. 
 
 How fragile ! — yet of ancestry 
 
 Mysteriously remote and high ; 
 
 High as the imperial front of man. 
 
 The roseate bloom on woman's cheek; 
 
 The soaring eagle's curved beak 
 
 The white plumes of the floating swan; 
 
 Old as the tiger's paw, the lion's mane 
 
 Ere shaken by that mood of stern disdain 
 
 At which the desert trembles. — Humming Bee ! 
 
 Thy sting was needless then, perchance unknown ; 
 
 The seeds of malice were not sown ; 
 
 All creatures met in peace, from fierceness free, 
 
 And no pride blended with their dignity. 
 
 — Tears had not broken from their source; 
 
 Nor anguish strayed from her Tartarian den ; 
 
 The golden years maintained a course 
 
 Not undiversified, though smooth and even ; 
 
 We were not mocked with glimpse and shadow, — then 
 
 pright Seraphs mixed familiarly with men ; 
 
 And earth and stars composed a universal heaven ! 
 
 ODE TO LYCORIS. 
 
 MAY, 1817. 
 1. 
 An age hath been when Earth was proud 
 Of lustre too intense 
 To be sustained; and Mortals bowed 
 The front in self-defence. 
 Who then, if Dian's crescent gleamed, 
 Or Cupid's sparkling arrow streamed 
 While on the wing the Urchin played, 
 Could fearlessly approach the shade t 
 — Enough for one soft vernal day, 
 If I, a Bard of ebbing time. 
 And nurtured in a fickle clime. 
 May haunt this horned bay ; 
 Whose amorous water multiplies 
 The flitting halcyon's vivid dyes; 
 And smooths her liquid breast — to show 
 These swan-like specks of mountain snow. 
 White as the pair that slid along the plains 
 Of Heaven, when Venus held the reins I 
 
 2. 
 
 In youth we love the darksome lawn 
 
 Brushed by the owlet's wing ; 
 
 Then, Twilight is preferred to Dawn, 
 
 And Autumn to the Spring. 
 
 Sad fancies do we then afiect. 
 
 In luxury of disrespect 
 
 To our own prodigal excess 
 
 Of too familiar happiness. 
 
 Lycoris (if such name befit 
 
 Thee, thee my life's celestial sign I) 
 
 When Nature marks the year's decline. 
 
 Be ours to welcome it ; 
 
 Pleased with the harvest hope that runs 
 
 Before the path of milder suns ; 
 
 Pleased while the sylvan world displays 
 
 Its ripeness to the feeding gaze ; 
 
 Pleased when the sullen winds resound the knell 
 
 Of the resplendent miracle. 
 
 3. 
 
 But something whispers to my heart 
 
 That, as we downward tend, 
 
 Lycoris! life requires an art 
 
 To which our souls must bend ; 
 
 A skill — to balance and supply; 
 
 And, ere the flowing fount be dry, 
 
 As soon it must, a sense to sip. 
 
 Or drink, with no fastidious lip. 
 
 Frank greeting, then, to that blithe Guest 
 
 Diffusing smiles o'er land and sea 
 
 To aid the vernal Deity 
 
 Whose home is in the breast ! 
 
 May pensive Autumn ne'er present 
 
 A claim to her disparagement ! 
 
 While blossoms and the budding spray 
 
 Inspire us in our own decay ; 
 
 Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark gaol, 
 
 Be hopeful Spring the favourite cf the Soul ! 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Enough of climbing toil ! — Ambition treads 
 Here, as 'mid busier scenes, ground steep and rough, 
 Or slippery even to peril ! and each step. 
 As we for most uncertain recompense 
 Mount tow'rd the empire of the fickle clouds. 
 Each weary step, dwarfing the world below, 
 Induces, for its own familiar sights. 
 Unacceptable feelings of contempt. 
 With wonder mixed — that Man could e'er be tied. 
 In anxious bondage, to such nice array 
 And formal fellowship of petty things ! 
 — Oh ! 'tis the Jieart that magnifies this life. 
 Making a truth and beauty of her own ; 
 And moss-grown alleys, circumscribing shades, 
 30 
 
350 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And gurgling rills, assist her in the work 
 More efficaciously than realms outspread, 
 As in a map, before the adventurer's gaze — 
 Ocean and Earth contending for regard. 
 
 The umbrageous woods are left — how far beneath! 
 
 But lo ! where darkness seems to guard the mouth 
 
 Of yon wild cave, whose jagged brows are fringed 
 
 With flaccid threads of ivy, in the still 
 
 And sultry air, depending motionless. 
 
 Yet cool the space within, and not uncheered 
 
 (As whoso enters shall ere long perceive) 
 
 By stealthy influ.x of the timid day 
 
 Mingling with night, such twilight to compose 
 
 As Numa loved ; when, in the Egerian Grot, 
 
 From the sage Nymph appearing at his wisli. 
 
 He gained whate'er a regal mind might ask, 
 
 Or need, of council breathed through lips divine. 
 
 Long as the heat shall rage, let that dim cave 
 
 Protect us, there deciphering as we may 
 
 Diluvian records ; or the sighs of Earth 
 
 Interpreting ; or counting for old Time 
 
 His minutes, by reiterated drops. 
 
 Audible tears, from some invisible source 
 
 That deepens upon fancy — more and more 
 
 Drawn tow'rd the centre whence those sighs creep forth 
 
 To awe the lightness of humanity. 
 
 Or, shutting up thyself within thyself. 
 
 There let me see thee sink into a mood 
 
 Of gentler thought, protracted till thine eye 
 
 Be calm as water when the winds are gone, 
 
 And no one can tell whither. Dearest Friend ! 
 
 We two have known such happy hours together. 
 
 That, were power granted to replace them (fetched 
 
 From out the pensive shadows where they lie) 
 
 In the first warmth of their original sunshine, 
 
 Loth should I be to use it: passing sweet 
 
 Are the domains of tender memory ! 
 
 ODE 
 
 COMPOSED ON MAY MORNING. 
 
 Whixe from the purpling east departs 
 
 The Star that led the dawn, 
 Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts. 
 
 For May is on the lawn. 
 A quickening hope, a freshening glee, 
 
 Foreran the expected Power, 
 Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and tree. 
 
 Shakes off tliat pearly shower. 
 
 All Nature welcomes Her whose sway 
 
 Tempers the year's extremes; 
 W^ho scattereth lustres o'er noon-day, 
 
 Like morning's dewy gleams; 
 
 While mellow warble, sprightly trill, 
 
 The tremulous heart excite; 
 And hums the balmy air to still 
 
 The balance of delight. 
 
 Time was, blest Power! when Youths and Maids 
 
 At peep of dawn would rise. 
 And wander forth, in forest glades 
 
 Thy birth to solemnize. 
 Though mute the song — to grace the rite 
 
 Untouched the hawthorn bough. 
 Thy Spirit triumphs o'er the slight ; 
 
 Man changes, but not Thou ! 
 
 Thy feathered Lieges bill and wings 
 
 In love's disport employ ; 
 Warmed by thy influence, creeping Things 
 
 Awake to silent joy : 
 Queen art thou still for each gay Plant 
 
 Where the slim wild Deer roves; 
 And served in depths where Fishes haunt 
 
 Their own mysterious groves. 
 
 Cloud-piercing Peak, and trackless Heath, 
 
 Instinctive homage pay ; 
 Nor wants the dim-lit Cave a wreath 
 
 To honour Thee, sweet May ! 
 Where Cities fanned by thy brisk airs 
 
 Behold a smokeless sky, 
 Their puniest Flower-pot nursling dares 
 
 To open a bright eye. 
 
 And if, on this thy natal morn. 
 
 The Pole, from which thy name 
 Hath not departed, stands forlorn 
 
 Of song and dance and game. 
 Still from the village-green a vow 
 
 Aspires to thee addrest 
 Wherever peace is on the brow, 
 
 Or love within the breast. 
 
 Yes! where Love nestles thou canst teach 
 
 The soul to love the more ; 
 Hearts also shall thy lessons reach 
 
 That never loved before. 
 Stript is the haughty One of pride, 
 
 The bashful freed from fear. 
 While rising, like the ocean-tide, 
 
 In flows the joyous year. 
 
 Hush, feeble lyre ! weak words refuse 
 
 The service to prolong ! 
 To yon e.xulting Thrush the Muse 
 
 Intrusts the imperfect song; 
 His voice shall chant, in accents clear, 
 
 Throughout the live-long day. 
 Till the first silver Star appear. 
 
 The sovereignty of May. 
 
POEMS OP SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 351 
 
 TO MAY. 
 
 Heaven's bounteous love through me is spread 
 
 
 From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves. 
 
 Though many suns have risen and set 
 
 Drops on the mouldering turret's head, 
 
 Since tliou, blithe May, wert born, 
 
 And on your turf-clad graves !" 
 
 And Bards, who hailed thee, may forget 
 
 ■ 
 
 Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn ; 
 
 Such greeting heard, away with sighs 
 
 There are who to a birthday strain 
 
 For lilies that must fade. 
 
 Confine not harp and voice. 
 
 Or "the rathe primrose as it dies 
 
 But evermore throughout thy reign 
 
 Forsaken" in the shade ! 
 
 Are grateful and rejoice ! 
 
 Vernal fruitions and desires 
 
 
 Are linked in endless chase ; 
 
 Delicious odours ! music sweet, 
 
 While, as one kindly growth retires, 
 
 Too sweet to pass away! 
 
 Another takes its place. 
 
 Oh for a deathless song to meet 
 
 
 The soul's desire — a lay 
 
 And what if thou, sweet May, hast known 
 
 That, when a thousand years are told, 
 
 Mishap by worm and blight ; 
 
 Should praise thee, genial Power! 
 
 If expectations newly blown 
 
 Through summer heat, autumnal cold, 
 
 Have perished in thy sight ; 
 
 And winter's dreariest hour. 
 
 If loves and joys, while up they sprung, 
 
 
 Were caught as in a snare; 
 
 Earth, Sea, thy presence feel — nor less, 
 
 Such is the lot of all the young, 
 
 If yon ethereal blue 
 
 However bright and fair. 
 
 With its soft smile the truth express, 
 
 
 The Heavens have felt it too. 
 
 Lo! Streams that April could not check 
 
 The inmost heart of man if glad 
 
 Are patient of thy rule ; 
 
 Partakes a livelier cheer ; 
 
 Gurgling in foamy water-break. 
 
 And eyes that cannot but be sad 
 
 Loitering in glassy pool : 
 
 Let fall a brightened tear. 
 
 By thee, thee only, could be sent 
 
 
 Such gentle Mists as glide, 
 
 i Since thy return, through days and weeks 
 
 Curling with unconfirmed intent, 
 
 Of hope that grew by stealth. 
 
 On that green mountain's side. 
 
 j How many wan and faded cheeks 
 
 
 How delicate the leafy veil 
 
 Have kindled into health 
 
 The Old, by thee revived, have said, 
 
 " Another year is ours ;" 
 And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, 
 
 Through which yon House of God 
 
 Gleams 'mid the peace of this deep dale. 
 
 By few but shepherds trod ! 
 
 Have smiled upon thy flowers. 
 
 And lowly Huts, near beaten ways. 
 
 
 No sooner stand attired 
 
 Who tripping lisps a merry song 
 
 In thy fresh wreaths, than they for praise 
 
 Amid his playful peers? 
 
 Peep forth, and are admired. 
 
 The tender Infant who was long 
 
 . 
 
 A prisoner of fond fears ; 
 But now, when every sharp-edged blast 
 Is quiet in its sheath. 
 
 Season of fancy and of hope, 
 
 Permit not for one hour 
 A blossom- from thy crown to drop, ' , 
 
 His Mother leaves him free to taste 
 
 Nor add to it a flower ! 
 
 Earth's sweetness in thy breath. 
 
 Keep, lovely May, as if by touch 
 
 
 Of self-restraining art. 
 
 1 Thy help is with the Weed that creeps 
 
 This modest charm of not too much. 
 
 Along the humblest ground ; 
 
 Part seen, imagined part! 
 
 No Cliff so bare but on its steeps 
 
 
 Thy favours may be found ; 
 
 
 But most on some peculiar nook 
 
 DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS. 
 
 That our own hands have drest. 
 Thou and thy train are proud to look, , 
 
 
 " Not to the earth confined, 
 
 And seem to love it best. 
 And yet how pleased we wander forth, 
 
 "Ascend to heaven." 
 
 Where will they stop, those breathing Powers, 
 
 When May is whispering, "Come! 
 
 The Spirits of the new-born flowers 1 
 
 Choose from the bowers of virgin earth 
 
 They wander with the breeze, they wind 
 
 The happiest for j'our home; 
 
 [ 
 
 Where'er the streams a passage find ; 
 
 i 
 
 
352 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Up from their native ground they rise 
 
 In mute aerial harmonies ; 
 
 From humble violet, modest thyme, 
 
 Exhaled, the essential odours climb, 
 
 As if no space below the Sky 
 
 Their subtle flight could satisfy : 
 
 Heaven will not tax our thoughts with pride 
 
 If like ambition be their guide. 
 
 Roused by this kindliest of May-showers, 
 The spirit-quickener of the flowers, 
 That with moist virtue softly cleaves 
 The buds, and freshens the young leaves. 
 The Birds pour forth their souls in note 
 Of rapture from a thousand throats, 
 Here checked by too impetuous liaste. 
 While there the music runs to waste. 
 With bounty more and more enlarged. 
 Till the whole air is overcharged ; 
 Give ear, O Man ! to their appeal 
 And thirst for no inferior zeal. 
 Thou, who canst think, as well as feel. 
 
 Mount from the earth ; aspire ! aspire ! 
 So pleads the town's cathedral choir, 
 In strains that from their solemn height 
 Sink, to attain a loftier flight; 
 While incense from the altar breathes 
 Rich fragrance in embodied wreaths; 
 Or, flung from swinging censer, shrouds 
 The taper lights, and curls in clouds 
 Around angelic Forms, the still 
 Creation of the painter's skill, 
 That on the service wait concealed 
 One moment, and the next revealed. 
 — Cast off" your bonds, awake, arise, 
 And for no transient ecstasies! 
 What else can mean the visual plea 
 Of still or moving imagery ] 
 The iterated summons loud. 
 Not wasted on the attendant crowd, 
 Nor wholly lost upon the throng 
 Hurrying the busy streets along? 
 
 Alas ! the sanctities combined 
 
 By art to unsensiialise the mind. 
 
 Decay and languish; or, as creeds 
 
 And humours change, are spurned like weeds:* 
 
 The solemn rites, the awful forms. 
 
 Founder amid fanatic storms; 
 
 The priests are from their altars thrust, 
 
 The temples levelled with the dust : 
 
 Yet evermore, through years renewed 
 
 In undisturbed vicissitude 
 
 Of seasons balancing their flight 
 
 On the swift wings of day and night. 
 
 *See Note 2, p. 372. 
 
 Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door 
 
 Wide open for the scattered Poor. 
 
 Where flower-breathed incense to the skies 
 
 Is wafted in mute harmonies ; 
 
 And ground fresh cloven by the plough 
 
 Is fragrant with a humbler vow; 
 
 Where birds and brooks from leafy dells 
 
 Chime forth unwearied canticles. 
 
 And vapours magnify and spread 
 
 The glory of the sun's bright head ; 
 
 Still constant in her worship, still 
 
 Conforming to the Almighty Will, 
 
 Whether men sow or reap the fields, 
 
 Her admonitions Nature yields; 
 
 That not by bread alone we live. 
 
 Or what a hand of flesh can give ; 
 
 That every day should leave some part '^ 
 
 Free for a sabbath of the heart ; 
 
 So shall the seventh be truly blest. 
 
 From morn to eve, with hallowed rest. 
 
 THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK. 
 
 A Rock there is whose homely front 
 
 The passing Traveller slights; 
 Yet there the Glow-worms hang their lamps, 
 
 Like stars, at various heights ; 
 And one coy Primrose to that Rock 
 
 The vernal breeze invites. 
 
 What hideous warfare hath been waged, 
 
 What kingdoms overthrown. 
 Since first I spied that Primrose-tuft 
 
 And marked it for my own ; 
 A lasting link in Nature's chain 
 
 From highest heaven let down ! 
 
 The Flowers, still faithful to the stems, 
 
 Their fellowship renew; 
 The stems are faithful to the root, 
 
 That worketh out of view ; 
 And to the rock the root adheres. 
 
 In every fibre true. 
 
 Close clings to earth the living rock. 
 Though threatening still to fall ; 
 
 The earth is constant to her sphere ; 
 And God upholds them all : 
 
 So blooms this lonely Plant, nor dreads 
 Her annual funeral. 
 
 Here closed the meditative Strain; 
 
 But air breathed soft that day. 
 The hoary mountain-heights were cheered. 
 
 The sunny vale looked gay ; 
 And to the Primrose of the Rock 
 
 I gave this after-lay. 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 353 
 
 I sang, Let myriads of bright flowers, 
 Lilce Tliee, in field and grove 
 
 Revive unenvied, — migiitier far 
 Tlian tremblings that reprove 
 
 Our vernal tendencies to hope 
 In God's redeeming love: 
 
 That love which changed, for wan disease, 
 
 For sorrow that had bent 
 O'er hopeless dust, for withered age, 
 
 Their moral element. 
 And turned the thistles of a curse 
 
 To types beneficent. 
 
 Sin-blighted though we are, we too, 
 
 The reasoning Sons of Men, 
 From one oblivious winter called 
 
 Shall rise, and breathe again ; 
 And in eternal summer lose 
 
 Our threescore years and ten. 
 
 To humbleness of heart descends 
 
 This prescience from on high, 
 The faith that elevates the Just, 
 
 Before and when they die; 
 And makes each soul a separate heaven, 
 
 A court for Deity. 
 
 THOUGHT ON THE SEASONS. 
 
 Flattered with promise of escape 
 
 From every hurtful blast. 
 Spring takes, O sprightly May ! thy shape. 
 
 Her loveliest and her last. 
 
 Less fair is summer riding high 
 
 In fierce solstitial power, 
 Less fair than when a lenient sky 
 
 Brings on her parting hour. 
 
 When earth repays with golden sheaves 
 
 The labours of the plough, 
 And ripening fruits and forest leaves 
 
 All brighten on the bough. 
 
 What pensive beauty autumn shows. 
 
 Before she hears the sound 
 Of winter rushing in, to close 
 
 The emblematic round ! 
 
 Such be our Spring, our Summer such; 
 
 So may our Autumn blend 
 With hoary Winter, and life touch. 
 
 Through heaven-born hope, her end ! 
 2U 
 
 TO 
 
 Miss not the occasion ; by tlie forelock take 
 That subtile I*ower, the never-halting Time, 
 Lest a mere moment's putling-off should make 
 Mischance almost as heavy as a crime. 
 
 "Wait, prithee, wait!" this answer Lesbia threw 
 
 Forth to her Dove, and took no further heed ; 
 
 Her eye was busy, while her fingers flew 
 
 Across the harp, with soul-engrossing speed ; 
 
 But from that bondage when her thouglits were freec 
 
 She rose, and toward the close-shut casement drew, 
 
 Whence the poor unregarded Favourite, true 
 
 To old affections, had been heard to plead 
 
 With flapping wing for entrance. What a shriek 
 
 Forced from that voice so lately tuned to a strain 
 
 Of harmony ! — a shriek of terror, pain, 
 
 And self-reproach ! — for, from aloft, a Kite 
 
 Pounced, and the Dove, which from its ruthless beak 
 
 She could not rescue, perished in her sight ! 
 
 FIDELITY. 
 
 A BARKING sound the Shejjherd hears, 
 A cry as of a Dog or Fox ; 
 He halts — and searches with his eyea 
 Among the scattered rocks : 
 And now at distance can discern 
 A stirring in a brake of fern ; 
 And instantly a dog is seen. 
 Glancing through that covert green. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 [ * Tarn is a small Mere or Lake, mostly high up in the mountains. 
 30* 
 
354 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Thither the rainbow comes — the cloud — 
 And mists that spread the flying shroad ; 
 And sunbeams; and the sounding blast, 
 That, if it could, would hurry past; 
 But that enormous barrier binds it fast. 
 
 Not free from boding tiioughts, a while 
 The Shepherd stood : then makes his way 
 Towards the Dog, o'er rocks and stones, 
 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 hear 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. 
 
 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 flourished here through such long time 
 He knows, who gave that love sublime ; 
 And gave that strength of feeling, great 
 Above all human estimate. 
 
 THE GLEANER 
 
 {SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE.) 
 
 That happy gleam of vernal eyes, 
 Those locks from summer's golden skies, 
 
 That o'er thy brow are shed ; 
 That cheek — a kindling of the morn. 
 That lip — a rose-bud from the thorn, 
 
 I saw; — and Fancy sped 
 To scenes Arcadian, whispering, tlirough soft; air, 
 Of bliss that grows without a care, 
 Of happiness that never flies — 
 How can it where love never dies? 
 Of promise whi.--pering, where no blight 
 Can reach the innocent delight; 
 Where pity, to the mind conveyed 
 In pleasure, is the darkest shade 
 
 That Time, unwrinkled Grandsire, flings 
 
 From his smoothly-gliding wings. 
 
 What mortal form, what earthly face. 
 
 Inspired the pencil, lines to trace. 
 
 And mingle colours that should breed 
 
 Such rapture, nor want power to feed ; 
 
 For had thy charge been idle flowers, 
 
 Fair Damsel, o'er my captive mind, 
 
 To truth and sober reason blind, 
 
 'Mid that soft air, those long-lost bowers, 
 
 The sweet illusion might have hung, for hours. 
 
 — Thanks to this tell-tale sheaf of corn, 
 That touchingly bespeaks thee born 
 Life's daily tasks with them to share 
 Who, whether from their lowly bed 
 They rise, or rest the weary head. 
 Ponder the blessing they entreat 
 From Heaven, and feel what they repeat. 
 While they give utterance to the prayer 
 That asks for daily bread. 
 
 THE LABOURER'S NOON-DAY HYMN. 
 
 Up to the throne of God is borne 
 The voice of praise at early morn. 
 And he accepts the punctual hymn 
 Sung as the light of day grows dim. 
 
 Nor will he turn his ear aside 
 From holy oflerings at noontide : 
 Then here reposing let us raise 
 A song of gratitude and praise. 
 
 What though our burthen be not light 
 We need not toil from morn to night; 
 The respite of the mid-day hour 
 Is in the thankful Creature's power. 
 
 Blest are the moments, doubly blest. 
 That, drawn from this one hour of rest, 
 Are with a ready heart bestowed 
 Upon the service of our God ! 
 
 Why should we crave a hallowed spot 1 
 An altar is in each man's cot, 
 A Church in every grove that spreads 
 Its living roof above'our heads. 
 
 Look up to Heaven ! the industrious Sun 
 Already half his race hath run ; 
 He cannot halt nor go astray. 
 But our immortal Spirits may. 
 
 Lord ! since his rising in the East, 
 If we have faltered or transgressed, 
 Guide, from thy love's abundant source. 
 What yet remains of this day's course : 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 355 
 
 Help with thy grace, through life's short daj', 
 Our upward and our downward way ; 
 And glorify for us the west, 
 When we shall sink to final rest. 
 
 TO THE LADY , 
 
 ON SEEING THE FOUNDATION PREPARING FOR THE 
 ERECTION OF — CHAPEL, WESTMORELAND. 
 
 Blest is this Isle — our native Land; 
 Where battlement and moated gate 
 Are objects only for the hand 
 Of hoary Time to decorate ; 
 Where shady hamlet, town that breathes 
 Its busy smoke in social wreaths. 
 No rampart's stern defence require, 
 Nought but the heaven-directed Spire, 
 And steeple Tower (with pealing bells) 
 Far beard — our only Citadels. 
 
 Lady ! from a noble line 
 Of Chieftains sprung, who stoutly bore 
 The spear, yet gave to works divine 
 A bounteous help in days of yore, 
 (As records mouldering in the Dell 
 Of Nightshade* haply yet may tell) 
 Thee kindred aspirations moved 
 To build, within a Vale beloved, 
 For Him upon whose high behests 
 All peace depends, all safety rests. 
 
 How fondly will the woods embrace 
 This Daughter of thy pious care, 
 Lifting her front with modest grace 
 To make a fair recess more fair; 
 And to exalt the passing hour; 
 Or soothe it, with a healing power 
 Drawn from the Sacrifice fulfilled, 
 Before this rugged soil was tilled, 
 Or human habitation rose 
 To interrupt the deep repose ! 
 
 Well may the Villagers rejoice! 
 Nor heat, nor cold, nor weary ways, 
 Will be a hinderance to the voice 
 That would unite in prayer and praise; 
 More duly shall wild wandering Youth 
 Receive the curb of sacred truth, 
 Shall tottering Age, bent earthward, hear 
 The Promise, with uplifted ear; 
 And all shall welcome the new ray 
 Imparted to their Sabbath-day. 
 
 *Bckangs Ghyll — or the Vale of Nighlshade — in which 
 stands St. Mary's Abbey, in Low Fumess. 
 
 Nor deem the Poet's hope misplaced. 
 
 His fancy cheated — that can see 
 
 A shade upon the future cast. 
 
 Of Time's pathetic sanctity; 
 
 Can hear the monitory clock 
 
 Sound o'er the lake with gentle shock 
 
 At evening, when the ground beneath 
 
 Is ruflled o'er with cells of Death ; 
 
 Where happy generations lie. 
 
 Here tutored for Eternity. 
 
 Lives there a Man whose sole delights 
 Are trivial pomp and city noise. 
 Hardening a heart that loathes or slights 
 What every natural heart enjoys ? 
 Who never caught a noon-tide dream 
 From murmur of a running stream ; 
 Could strip, for aught the prospect yields 
 To him, their verdure from the fields; 
 And take the radiance from the clouds 
 In which the sun his setting shrouds. 
 
 A Soul so pitiably forlorn. 
 If such do on this earth abide, 
 May season apathy with scorn. 
 May turn indifference to pride, 
 And still be not unblest — -compared 
 With him who grovels, self-debarred 
 From all that lies within the scope 
 Of holy faith and Christian hope ; 
 Yea, strives for others to bedim 
 The glorious Light too pure for him. 
 
 Alas ! that such perverted zeal 
 
 Should spread on Britain's favoured ground! 
 
 That public order, private weal. 
 
 Should e'er have felt or feared a wound 
 
 From champions of the desperate law 
 
 Which from their own blind hearts they draw: 
 
 Who tempt their reason to deny 
 
 God, whom their passions dare defy, 
 
 And boast that they alone are free 
 
 Who reach this dire extremity ! 
 
 But turn we from these "bold bad" men; 
 The way, mild Lady ! that hath led 
 Down to their "dark opprobrious den," 
 Is all too rough for Thee to tread. 
 Softly as morning vapours glide 
 Down Rydal-cove from Fairfield's side, 
 Should move the tenour of his song 
 Who means to Charity no wrong; 
 Whose ofiiering gladly would accord 
 With this day's work, in thought and word. 
 
 Heaven prosper it ! may peace, and love, 
 And hope, and consolation, fall, 
 Through its meek influence, from above, 
 And penetrate the hearts of all ; 
 
356 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 All who, around the hallowed Fane, 
 Shall sojourn in this fair domain; 
 Grateful to Thee, while service pure, 
 And ancient ordinance, shall endure. 
 For opportunity bestowed 
 To kneel together, and adore their God! 
 
 ON T II E S A M E OCCASION. 
 
 Oh ! gather whencesoe'er ye safely may 
 The help which slackening Piety requires ; 
 Nor deem that he perforce must go astray 
 Who treads upon the Ibotmarks ol" his Sires. 
 
 Our Churches, invariably perhaps, stand cast and west, but 
 why is by few persons exacdy known ; nor, that the degree of 
 deviation from due east often noticeable in the ancient ones was 
 determined, in each parlicidar case, by the ponit in the horizon, 
 at which the sun rose upon the day of the saint to whom the 
 church was dedicated. These observances of our Ancestors, and 
 the causes of tliem, are the subject of" the following stanzas. 
 
 When in the antique age of bow and spear 
 And feudal rapine clothed with iron mail, 
 Came Ministers of peace, intent to rear 
 The mother Ciiurch in yon sequestered vale; 
 
 Then, to her Patron Saint a previous rite 
 Resounded with deep swell and solemn close, 
 Through unremitting vigils of the night. 
 Till from his couch the wished-for Sun uprose. 
 
 He rose, and straight — as by divine command, 
 They who had waited for that sign to trace. 
 Their work's foundation, gave with careful hand 
 To the high Altar its determined place ; 
 
 Mindful of Him who in the Orient born 
 There lived, and on the cross his life resigned. 
 And who, from out the regions of the Morn, 
 Issuing in pomp, shall come to judge Mankind. 
 
 So taught their creed ; — nor failed the eastern sky, 
 'Mid these inore awful feelings, to infuse 
 The sweet and natural hopes that shall not die. 
 Long as the Sun his gladsome course renews. 
 
 For us hath such prelusive vigil ceased; 
 
 Vet still we plant, like men of elder days, 
 
 Our Christian Altar faithful to the East, 
 
 Whence the tall window drinks the morning rays; 
 
 That obvious emblem giving to the eye 
 Of meek devotion, which erewhile it gave. 
 That syinbol of the dayspring from on high. 
 Triumphant o'er the darkness of the grave. 
 
 THE FORCE OF PRAYER*; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY. 
 
 A TRADITION. 
 
 "2CI;.it if' cioob for a OootteeS Dene?" 
 
 With these dark words begins my Tale; 
 
 And their meaning is, whence can comfort sprini' 
 
 When Prayer is of no avaii ! 
 
 " '25}(>it i5 ijcob for a bocttc6§ 6ene ?" 
 The Falconer to the Lady said : 
 And she made answer " endless sorrow !" 
 For she knew that her Son was dead. 
 
 She knew it by the Falconer's words. 
 And from the look of the Falconer's eye; 
 And from the love which was in her soul 
 For her youthful Romilly. 
 
 — Young Romilly through Barden woods 
 Is ranging high and low; 
 
 And holds a Greyhound in a leash. 
 To let slip upon buck or doe. 
 
 The Pair have reached that fearful chasm, 
 How tempting to bestride ! 
 For Lordly Wharf is there pent in 
 With rocks on either side. 
 
 This Striding-place is called The Strid, 
 A name which it took of yore: 
 A thousand years hath it borne that name, 
 And shall a thousand more. 
 
 And hither is young Romilly come, * 
 
 And what may now forbid 
 
 That he, perhaps for the hundredth time. 
 
 Shall bound across The Strid? 
 
 He sprang in glee, — for what cared he 
 
 That the River was strong, and the rocks were steepV 
 
 — But the Greyhound in the leash hung back, 
 And checked him in his leap. 
 
 The Boy is in the arms of Wharf, 
 And strangled by a merciless force; 
 For never more was young Romilly seen 
 Till he rose a lifeless Corse. 
 
 Now there is stillness in the Vale, ;, | 
 
 And deep, unspeaking sorrow: u ' 
 Wharf shall be to pitying hearts 
 
 A name more sad than Yarrow. I 
 
 If for a Lover the Lady wept, 
 
 A solace she might borrow 
 
 From death, and from the passion of death ; — 
 
 Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. 
 
 *See the While Doe of Rylstone, p. 273. 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 357 
 
 She weeps not for the wedding-day 
 Which was to be to-morrow: 
 Her hope was a further-looking; hope, 
 And hers is a Mother's sorrow. 
 
 He was a Tree that stood alone, 
 And proudly did its branches wave; 
 And the root of this delightful Tree 
 Was in her Husband's grave ! 
 
 Long, long in darkness did she sit, 
 And her first words were, " Let there be 
 In Bolton, on the field of Wharf, 
 A stately Priory !" 
 
 The stately Priory was reared; 
 And Wharf, as he moved along, 
 To Matins joined a mournful voice, 
 Nor failed at Even-song. 
 
 And the Lady prayed in heaviness 
 That looked not for relief! 
 But slowly did her succour come, 
 And a patience to her grief. 
 
 Oh ! there is never sorrow of heart 
 That shall lack a timely end. 
 If but to God we turn, and ask 
 Of Him to be our Friend. 
 
 A FACT, AND AN IMAGINATION; 
 
 OR, 
 
 I CANUTE AND ALFRED ON THE SEA-SHORE. 
 
 The Danish Conqueror on his royal chair. 
 Mustering a face of haughty sovereignty, 
 To aid a covert purpose, cried — " O ye 
 Approaching waters of the deep, that share 
 With this green isle my fortunes, come not where 
 Your Master's throne is set !" — Absurd decree ! 
 A mandate uttered to the foaming sea. 
 Is to its motion less than wanton air. 
 — Then Canute, rising from the invaded Throne, 
 Said to his servile Courtiers, " Poor the reach, 
 The undisguised extent, of mortal sway ! 
 jHe only is a king, and he alone 
 ! Deserves the name (this truth the billows preach) 
 Whose everlasting laws, sea, earth, and heaven obey." 
 This just reproof the prosperous Dane 
 Drew, from the influx of the Main, 
 For some whose rugged northern mouths would strain 
 At oriental flattery ; 
 
 And Canute (truth more worthy to be known) 
 From that time forth did for his brows disown 
 The ostentatious symbol of a Crown ; 
 [Esteeming- earthly royalty 
 j Contemptible and vain. 
 
 Now hear what one of elder days, 
 Rich theme of England's fondest praise, 
 
 Her darling Alfred, might have spoken ; 
 
 To cheer the remnant of his host 
 
 When he was driven from coast to coast. 
 
 Distressed and harassed, but with mind unbroken: 
 
 " My faithful Followers, lo ! the tide is spent ; 
 
 That rose, and steadily advanced to fill 
 
 The shores and channels, working Nature's will 
 
 Among the mazy streams that backward went. 
 
 And in the sluggish pools where ships are pent : 
 
 And now, its task performed, the Flood stands still 
 
 At the green base of many an inland hill. 
 
 In placid beauty and sublime content ! 
 
 Such the repose that Sage and Hero find ; 
 
 Such measured rest the sedulous and good 
 
 Of humbler name ; whose souls do, like the flood 
 
 Of Ocean, press right on ; or gently wind. 
 
 Neither to be diverted nor withstood. 
 
 Until they reach the bounds by Heaven assigned." 
 
 " A little onward lend thy guiding hand 
 To these dark steps, a little further on .'" 
 
 — What trick of memory to my voice hath brought 
 This mournful iteration ! For though Time, 
 
 The Conqueror, crowns the Conquered, on this brow 
 Planting his favourite silver diadem. 
 Nor he, nor minister of his — intent 
 To run before him, hath enrolled me yet. 
 Though not unmenaced, among those who lean 
 Upon a living statF, with borrowed sight. 
 
 — O my Antigone, beloved child ! 
 
 Should that day come — • but hark ! the birds salute 
 
 The cheerful dawn, brightening for me the east; 
 
 For me, thy natural Leader, once again 
 
 Impatient to conduct thee, not as erst 
 
 A tottering Infant, with compliant stoop 
 
 From flower to flower supported ; but to curb 
 
 Thy nymph-like step swift-bounding o'er the lawn, 
 
 Along the loose rocks, or the slippery verge 
 
 Of foaming torrent. — From thy orisons 
 
 Come forth; and, while the morning air is yet 
 
 Transparent as the soul of innocent youth. 
 
 Let me, thy happy Guide, now point thy way. 
 
 And now precede thee, winding to and fro. 
 
 Till we by perseverance gain the top 
 
 Of some smooth ridge, whose brink precipitous 
 
 Kindles intense desire for powers withheld 
 
 From this corporeal frame ; whereon who stands. 
 
 Is seized with strong incitement to push forth 
 
 His arms, as swimmers use, and plunge — dread 
 
 thought ! 
 For pastime plunge — into the " abrupt abyss," 
 Where Ravens spread their plumy vans, at ease ! 
 
 And yet more gladly thee would I conduct 
 Through woods and spacious forests, — to behold 
 There, how the Original of human art. 
 Heaven-prompted Nature, measures and erects 
 
358 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Her temples, fearless for the stately work, 
 Though waves in every breeze its high-arched roof. 
 And storms the pillars rock. But we such schools 
 Of reverential awe will chiefly seek 
 In the still summer noon, while beams of light, 
 Reposing here, and in the aisles beyond 
 Traceably gliding through the dusk, recall 
 To mind the living presences of Nuns ; 
 A gentle, pensive, white-robed sisterhood, 
 Whose saintly radiance mitigates the gloom 
 Of those terrestrial fabrics, where they serve, 
 To Christ, the Sun of Righteousness, espoused. 
 
 Now also shall the page of classic lore. 
 To these glad eyes from bondage freed, again 
 Lie open ; and the book of Holy Writ, 
 Again unfolded, passage clear shall yield 
 To heights more glorious still, and into shades 
 More awful, where, advancing hand in hand, 
 We may be taught, O Darling of my care ! 
 To calm the affections, elevate the soul. 
 And consecrate our lives to truth and love. 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1819. 
 
 The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields 
 Are hung, as if with golden shields. 
 Bright trophies of the sun ! 
 Like a fair sister of the sky. 
 Unruffled doth the blue Lake lie, 
 The Mountains looking on. 
 
 And, sooth to say, yon vocal Grove, 
 Albeit uninspired by love. 
 By love untaught to ring, 
 May well afford to mortal ear 
 An impulse more profoundly dear 
 Than music of the Spring. 
 
 For that from turbulence and heat 
 Proceeds, from some uneasy seat 
 In Nature's struggling frame. 
 Some region of impatient life ; 
 And jealousy, and quivering strife, 
 Therein a portion claim. 
 
 This, this is holy; — wliile I hear 
 These vespers of anotlier year. 
 This hymn of thanks and praise, 
 My spirit seems to mount above 
 The anxieties of human love, 
 And earth's precarious days. 
 
 But list! — though winter storms be nigh, 
 Uncliecked is tliat soft liarmony: 
 There lives Who can provide 
 For all his creatures; and in Him, 
 Even like the radiant Seraphim, 
 These Choristers confide. 
 
 UPON THE SAME OCCASION. 
 
 Departing Summer hath assumed 
 An aspect tenderly illumed. 
 The gentlest look of Spring ; 
 That calls from yonder leafy shade 
 Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, 
 A timely carolling. 
 
 No faint and hesitating trill. 
 Such tribute as to Winter chill 
 The lonely Redbreast pays 
 Clear, loud, and lively is the din. 
 From social warblers gathering in 
 Their harvest of sweet lays. 
 
 Nor doth the example fail to cheer 
 Me, conscious that my leaf is sere, 
 And yellow on the bough: — 
 Fall, rosy garlands, from my head ! 
 Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed 
 Around a younger brow ! 
 
 Yet will I temperately rejoice; 
 
 Wide is the range, and free the choice 
 
 Of undiscordant themes ; 
 
 Which, haply, kindred souls may prize 
 
 Not less than vernal ecstasies. 
 
 And passion's feverish dreams. 
 
 For deathless powers to verse belong, 
 And they like Demi-gods are strong 
 On whom the muses smile ; 
 But some their function have disclaimed. 
 Best pleased with what is aptliest framed 
 To enervate and defile. 
 
 Not such the initiatory strains 
 
 Committed to the silent plains 
 
 In Britain's earliest dawn 
 
 Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale, 
 
 While all-too-daringly the veil 
 
 Of Nature was withdrawn ! 
 
 Nor such the spirit-stirring note 
 Wiien the live chords AIceus smote. 
 Inflamed by sense of wrong; 
 Woe ! woe to Tyrants ! from the lyre 
 Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire 
 Of fierce vindictive song. 
 
 And not unhallowed was the page 
 By winged Love inscribed, to assuage 
 The pangs of vain pursuit ; 
 Love listening while the Lesbian Maid 
 With finest touch of passion swayed 
 Her own jEolian lute. 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 359 
 
 O ye, who patiently explore 
 The wreck of Herculanean lore, 
 What rapture ! could ye seize 
 Some Theban fragment, or unroll 
 One precious, tender-hearted scroll 
 Of pure Simonides. 
 
 That were, indeed, a genuine birth 
 Of poesy ; a bursting forth 
 Of Genius from the dust : 
 What Horace gloried to behold. 
 What Maro loved, shall we enfold? 
 Can haughty Time be just ! 
 
 THE PILLAR OF TRAJAN. 
 
 Where Towers are crushed, and unforbidden weeds 
 
 O'er mutilated arches shed their seeds; 
 
 And Temples, doomed to milder change, unfold 
 
 A new magnificence that vies with old ; 
 
 Firm in its pristine majesty hath stood 
 
 A votive Column, spared by fire and flood : — 
 
 And, though the passions of Man's fretful race 
 
 Have never ceased to eddy round its base. 
 
 Not injured more by touch of meddling hands 
 1 Than a lone Obelisk, 'mid Nubian sands. 
 
 Or aught in Syrian deserts left to save 
 j From death the memory of the Good and Brave. 
 
 Historic figures round the shaft embost 
 
 Ascend, with lineaments in air not lost: 
 j Still as he turns, the charmed Spectator sees 
 
 Group winding after group with dream-like ease; 
 
 Triumphs in sunbright gratitude displayed, 
 [Or softly stealing into modest shade. 
 ; — So, pleased with purple clusters to entwine 
 
 Some lofty elm-tree, mounts the daring vine; 
 
 The woodbine so, with spiral grace, and breathes 
 
 Wide-spreading odours from her flowery wreaths. 
 
 Borne by the Muse from rills in shepherds' ears 
 
 Murmuring but one smooth story for all years, 
 
 I gladly commune with the mind and heart 
 
 Of him who thus survives by classic art. 
 
 His actions witness, venerate his mien. 
 
 And study Trajan as by Pliny seen ; 
 
 Behold how fought the Chief whose conquering sword 
 
 Stretched far as Earth might own a single lord ; 
 
 In the delight of moral prudence schooled. 
 
 How feelingly at home the Sovereign ruled ; 
 
 Best of the good — in Pagan faith allied 
 
 To more than Man, by virtue deified. 
 
 Memorial Pillar ! 'mid the wrecks of Time 
 Preserve tliy charge with confidence sublime — 
 The exultations, pomps, and cares of Rome, 
 IWhence half the breathing world received its doom ; 
 
 Things that recoil from language ; that, if shown 
 
 By apter pencil, from the light had flown. 
 
 A Pontiff, Trajan here the Gods implores, 
 
 Tliere greets an Embassy from Indian shores; 
 
 Lo ! he harangues his cohorts — there the storm 
 
 Of battle meets him in authentic form ! 
 
 Unharnessed, naked, troops of Moorish horse 
 
 Sweep to the charge ; more high, the Dacian force, 
 
 To hoof and finger mailed*; — yet, high or low, 
 
 None bleed, and none lie prostrate but the foe ; 
 
 In every Roman, through all turns of fate, 
 
 Is Roman dignity inviolate ; 
 
 Spirit in him pre-eminent, who guides. 
 
 Supports, adorns, and over all presides; 
 
 Distinguished only by inherent State 
 
 From honoured Instruments that round him wait ; 
 
 Rise as he may, his grandeur scorns the test 
 
 Of outward symbol, nor will deign to rest 
 
 On aught by which another is deprest. 
 
 — Alas! that One thus disciplined could toil 
 
 To enslave whole Nations on their native soil ; 
 
 So emulous of Macedonian fame. 
 
 That, when his age was measured with his aim, 
 
 He drooped, 'mid else unclouded victories. 
 
 And turned his eagles back with deep-drawn sighs ; 
 
 O weakness of the Great ! O folly of the Wise ! 
 
 Where now the haughty Empire that was spread 
 With such fond hope ] her very speech is dead ; 
 Yet glorious Art the sweep of Time defies, 
 And Trajan still, through various enterprise. 
 Mounts, in this fine illusion, tow'rd the skies: 
 Still are we present with the imperial Chief, 
 Nor cease to gaze upon the bold Relief, 
 Till Rome, to silent marble unconfined. 
 Becomes with all her years a vision of the Mind. 
 
 DION. 
 
 (SEE PLUTARCH.) 
 1. 
 
 Fair is the Swan, whose majesty, prevailing 
 
 O'er breezeless water, on Locarno's lake. 
 
 Bears him on while proudly sailing 
 
 He leaves behind a moon-illumined wake: 
 
 Behold ! the mantling spirit of reserve 
 
 Fashions his neck into a goodly curve ; 
 
 An arch thrown back between luxuriant wings 
 
 Of whitest garniture, like fir-tree boughs 
 
 To which, on some unruffled morning, clings 
 
 A flaky weight of winter's purest snows ! 
 
 — Behold! — as with a gushing impulse heaves 
 
 That downy prow, and softly cleaves 
 
 The mirror of the crystal flood. 
 
 Vanish inverted hill, and shadowy wood, 
 
 * Here and infra, see Forsyth. 
 
360 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And pendent rocks, where'er, in gliding state, 
 Winds the mute Creature without visible Mate 
 Or Rival, save the Queen of Night 
 Showering down a silver light. 
 From heaven, upon her chosen favourite ! 
 
 So pure, so bright, so fitted to embrace, 
 
 Where'er he turned, a natural grace 
 
 Of haughtiness without pretence, 
 
 And to unfold a still magnificence, 
 
 Was princelj' Dion, in the power 
 
 And beauty of his happier hour. 
 
 Nor less the homage that was seen to wait 
 
 On Dion's virtues, when the lunar beam 
 
 Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere. 
 
 Fell round him in the grove of Academe, 
 
 Softening their inbred dignity austere; 
 
 That he, not too elate 
 
 With self-sufficing solitude. 
 But with majestic lowliness endued. 
 
 Might in the universal bosom reign. 
 And from affectionate observance gain 
 Help, under every change of adverse fate. 
 
 3. 
 
 Five thousand warriors — O the rapturous day ! 
 Each crowned with flosvers, and armed with spear and 
 
 shield. 
 Or ruder weapon which their course might yield. 
 To Syracuse advance in bright array. 
 Who leads them on 1 — The anxious People see 
 Long-exiled Dion marching at their head, 
 He also crowned with fiowers of Sicily, 
 And in a white, far-beaming, corslet clad ! 
 Pure transport undisturbed by doubt or fear 
 The Gazers feel ; and, rushing to the plain, 
 Salute those Strangers as a holy train 
 Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear) 
 That brought their precious liberty again. 
 Lo ! when the gates are entered, on each hand, 
 Down the long street, rich goblets filled with wine 
 
 In seemly order stand. 
 On tables set, as if for rites divine; — 
 And, as the great Deliverer marches by, 
 
 He looks on festal ground with fruits bestrewn; 
 And flowers are on his person thrown 
 
 In boundless prodigality; 
 Nor doth the general voice abstain from prayer. 
 Invoking Dion's tutelary care. 
 As if a very Deity he were ! 
 
 Mourn, hills and groves of Attica ! and mourn 
 
 lUyssus, bending o'er thy classic urn ! 
 
 Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads 
 
 Your once sweet memory, studious walks and shades ! 
 
 For him who to divinity aspired. 
 
 Not on the breath of popular applause. 
 
 But through dependence on the sacred laws 
 
 Framed in the schools where Wisdom dwelt retired, 
 
 Intent to trace the ideal path of right 
 
 (More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved with 
 
 stars) 
 Which Dion learned to measure with delight ; 
 But he hath overleaped the eternal bars ; 
 And, following guides whose craft holds no consent 
 With aught that breathes the ethereal element, 
 Hatli stained the robes of civil power with blood, 
 Unjustly shed, though for the public good. 
 Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain, 
 Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain; 
 And oft his cogitations sink as low 
 As, through the abysses of a joyless heart. 
 The heaviest plummet of despair can go ; 
 But whence that sudden check] that fearful start! 
 He hears an uncouth sound — 
 Anon his lifted eyes 
 Saw at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound, 
 A Shape of more than mortal size 
 And hideous aspect, stalking round and round ! 
 A woman's garb the Phantom wore. 
 And fiercely swept the marble floor, — 
 Like Auster whirling lo and fro. 
 His force on Caspian foam to try ; 
 Or Boreas when he scours the snow 
 That skins the plains of Thessaly, 
 Or when aloft on Msenalus he stops 
 His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops ! 
 
 So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping. 
 The sullen Spectre to her purpose bowed. 
 
 Sweeping — vehemently sweeping — 
 No pause admitted, no design avowed ! 
 "Avaunt, inexplicable Guest! — avaunt," 
 Exclaimed the Chieftain — " Let me rather see 
 The coronal that coiling vipers make ; 
 The torch that flames with many a lurid flake. 
 And the long train of doleful pageantry 
 Which they behold, whom vengeful Furies haunt ; 
 Who, while they struggle from the scourge to flee, 
 Move where the blasted soil is not unworn. 
 And, in their anguish, bear what other minds hav( 
 borne !" 
 
 6. 
 
 But Shapes that come not at an earthly call. 
 Will not depart when mortal voices bid ; 
 Lords of the visionary Eye, %vhose lid 
 Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall ! 
 Ye Gods, thought He, that servile Implement 
 Obeys a mystical intent! 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 361 
 
 I Your Minister would brush away 
 i The spots that to my soul adhere ; 
 
 But should she labour night and day, 
 
 They will not, cannot disappear; 
 
 Whence angry perturbations, — and that look 
 
 Which no Philosophy can brook ! 
 
 Ill-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built 
 
 Upon the ruins of thy glorious name ; 
 
 Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt, 
 
 Pursue thee with their deadly aim ! 
 
 matchless perfidy ! portentous lust 
 
 Of monstrous crime ! — that horror-striking blade, 
 
 Drawn in defiance of the Gods, hath laid 
 
 The noble Syracusan low in dust ! 
 
 Shudder'd the walls — the marble city wept — 
 
 And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh ; 
 
 But in calm peace the appointed Victim slept. 
 
 As he liad fallen, in magnanimity : 
 
 Of spirit too capacious to require 
 
 That Destiny her course should change ; too just 
 
 To his own native greatness to desire 
 
 That wretched boon, days lengthened by mistrust. 
 
 So were the hopeless troubles, that involved 
 
 The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. 
 
 Released from life and cares of princely state. 
 
 He left this moral grafted on his Fate, 
 
 "Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends 
 
 Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends. 
 
 Whose means are fair and spotless as his ends." 
 
 PRESENTIMENTS. 
 
 Presentiments ! they judge not right 
 Who deem that ye from open light 
 
 Retire in fear of shame ; 
 All heaven-born Instincts shun the touch 
 Of vulgar sense, and, being such, 
 
 Such privilege ye claim. 
 
 The tear whose source I could not guess. 
 The deep sigh that seemed fatherless. 
 
 Were mine in early days ; 
 And now, unforced by Time to part 
 With Fancy, I obey my heart, 
 
 And venture on your praise. 
 
 What though some busy Foes to good, 
 Too potent over nerve and blood, 
 
 Lurk near you, and combine 
 To taint the health which ye infuse, 
 This hides not from the moral Muse 
 
 Your origin divine. 
 
 2V 
 
 How oft from you, derided Powers ! 
 Comes Faith that in auspicious hours 
 
 Builds castles, not of air ; 
 Bodings unsanctioned by the will 
 Flow from your visionary skill. 
 
 And teach us to beware. 
 
 The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift. 
 That no philosophy can lift. 
 
 Shall vanish, if ye please. 
 Like morning mist; and, where it lay, 
 The spirits at your bidding play 
 
 In gaiety and ease. 
 
 Star-guided Contemplations move 
 
 Through space, though calm, not raised above 
 
 Prognostics that ye rule ; 
 The naked Indian of the Wild, 
 And haply, too, the cradled Child, 
 
 Are pupils of your school. 
 
 But who can fathom your intents, 
 Number their signs or instruments? 
 
 A rainbow, a sunbeam, 
 A subtle smell that Spring unbinds, 
 Dead pause abrupt of midnight winds, 
 
 An echo, or a dream. 
 
 The laughter of the Christmas hearth 
 With sighs of self-exhausted mirth 
 
 Ye feelingly reprove ; 
 And daily, in the conscious breast, 
 Your visitations are a test 
 
 And exercise of love. 
 
 When some great change gives boundless scope 
 To an exulting Nation's hope. 
 
 Oft, startled and made wise 
 By your low-breathed interpretings. 
 The simply-meek foretaste the springs 
 
 Of bitter contraries. 
 
 Ye daunt the proud array of War, 
 Pervade the lonely Ocean far 
 
 As sail hath been unfurled ; 
 For Dancers in the festive hall 
 What ghastly Partners hath your call 
 
 Fetched from the shadowy world ! 
 
 'T is said, that warnings ye dispense, 
 Emboldened by a keener sense ; 
 
 That men have lived for whom, 
 With dread precision, ye made clear 
 The hour that in a distant year 
 
 Should knell them to the tomb. 
 31 
 
362 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Unwelcome Insight ! Yet there are 
 Blest times wiien mystery is laid bare, 
 
 Truth shows a glorious face, 
 While on that Isthmus which commands 
 The councils of both worlds she stands, 
 
 Sage Spirits ! by your grace. 
 
 God, who instructs the Brutes to scent 
 All changes of the element, 
 
 Whose wisdom fixed the scale 
 Of Natures, for our wants provides 
 By higher, sometimes humbler, guides. 
 
 When lights of Reason fail. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF THE COUNTESS OF . 
 
 NOVEMBER 5, 1834. 
 
 Lady! a Pen, perhaps, with thy regard. 
 
 Among the Favoured, favoured not the least, 
 
 Left, 'mid the Records of this Book inscribed. 
 
 Deliberate traces, registers of thought 
 
 And feeling, suited to the place and time 
 
 That gave them birth : — months passed, and still 
 
 this hand, 
 That had not been too timid to imprint 
 Woids which the virtues of thy Lord inspired, 
 Was yet not bold enough to write of Tliee. 
 And why that scrupulous reserve 1 In sooth 
 The blameless cause lay in the Theme itself. 
 Flowers are there many that delight to strive 
 With the sharp wind, and seem to court the shower, 
 Yet are by nature careless of the sun 
 Whether he shine on them or not ; and some. 
 Where'er he moves along the unclouded sky. 
 Turn a broad front full on his flattering beams: 
 Others do rather from their notice shrink. 
 Loving the dewy shade, — a humble Band, 
 Modest and sweet, a Progeny of earth. 
 Congenial with thy mind and character, 
 Iligh-born Augusta! 
 
 Towers, and stately Groves, 
 Bear witness for me ; thou, too. Mountain-stream ! 
 From thy most secret haunts; and ye Parterres, 
 Which she is pleased and proud to call her own ; 
 Witness how oft upon my noble Friend 
 Mute offerings, tribute from an inward sense 
 Of admiration and respectful love, 
 Have waited, till the affections could no more 
 Endure that silence, and broke out in song; 
 Snatches of music taken up and dropt 
 Like those self-solacing, those under-notes 
 Trilled by the redbreast, when autumnal leaves 
 
 Are thin upon the bough. Mine, only mine, 
 The pleasure was, and no one heard the praise, 
 Checked, in the moment of its issue checked ; 
 And reprehended by a fancied blush 
 From the pure qualities that called it forth. 
 
 Thus Virtue lives debarred from Virtue's meed; 
 
 Thus, Lady, is reliredness a veil 
 
 That, while it only spreads a soflening charm 
 
 O'er features looked at by discerning eyes. 
 
 Hides half their beauty from the common gaze ; 
 
 And thus, even on the exposed and breezy hill 
 
 Of lofly station, female goodness walks. 
 
 When side by side with lunar gentleness. 
 
 As in a cloister. Yet the grateful Poor 
 
 (Such the immunities of low estate. 
 
 Plain Nature's enviable privilege. 
 
 Her sacred recompense for many wants) 
 
 Open their hearts before Thee, pouring out 
 
 All that they think and feel, with tears of joy ; 
 
 And benedictions not unheard in Heaven : 
 
 And friend in the ear of friend, where speech is free 
 
 To follow truth, is eloquent as they. 
 
 Then let the Book receive in these prompt lines 
 A just memorial ; and thine eyes consent 
 To read that they, who mark thy course, behold 
 A life declining with the golden light 
 Of summer, in the season of sere leaves ; 
 See cheerfulness undamped by stealing Time; 
 See studied kindness flow with easy stream. 
 Illustrated with inborn courtesy ; 
 And an habitual disregard of self 
 Balanced by vigilance for others' weal. 
 
 And shall the verse not tell of lighter gifts 
 With these ennobling attributes conjoined 
 And blended, in peculiar harmony. 
 By Youth's surviving spirit! What agile grace! 
 A nyrnph-like liberty, in nymph-like form. 
 Beheld with wonder ; whether floor or path 
 Thou tread, or on the managed steed art borne, 
 Fleet as the shadows, over down or field. 
 Driven by strong winds at play among the clouds. 
 
 Yet one word more — one farewell word — a wish 
 Which came, but it has passed into a prayer. 
 That, as thy sun in brightness is declining. 
 So, at an hour yet distant for their sakes 
 Whose tender love, here faltering on the way 
 Of a diviner love, will be forgiven, — 
 So may it set in peace, to rise again 
 For everlasting glory won by faith. 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 363 
 
 To 
 
 UPON THE BIRTH OF HER FIRST-BORN CHILD, 
 MARCH, 1833. 
 
 " Tiim porro puer, ut sKvis projectus ab undis 
 Navita; nudus humi jacet," &c. — Lucretius. 
 
 LrKE a shipvvreck'd Sailor tost 
 By rough waves on a perilous coast, 
 Lies the Babe, in helplessness 
 And in tenderest nakedness, 
 Flung by labouring nature forth 
 Upon the mercies of the earth. 
 Can its eyes beseech 1 no more 
 Than the hands are free to implore : 
 Voice but serves for one brief cry, 
 Plaint was if! or prophecy 
 Of sorrow that will surely come ? 
 Omen of man's grievous doom ! 
 
 But, O Mother! by the close 
 Duly granted to thy throes ; 
 By the silent thanks now tending 
 Incense-like to Heaven, descending' 
 Now to mingle and to move 
 With the gush of earthly love, 
 As a debt to that frail Creature, 
 Instrument of struggling Nature 
 For the blissful calm, the peace 
 Known but to this one release ; 
 Can the pitying spirit doubt 
 That for human-kind springs out 
 From the penalty a sense 
 Of more than mortal recompense 1 
 
 As a floating summer cloud. 
 Though of gorgeous drapery proud, 
 To the sun-burnt traveller. 
 Or the stooping labourer, 
 Ofttimes makes its bounty known 
 By its shadow round him thrown ; 
 So, by chequerings of sad cheer. 
 Heavenly guardians, brooding near, 
 Of their presence tell — too bright 
 Haply for corporeal siglit ! 
 Ministers of grace divine. 
 Feelingly their brows incline 
 O'er this seeming Castaway, 
 Breathing, in the light of day. 
 Something like the faintest breath 
 That has power to baffle death — 
 Beautiful, while very weakness 
 Captivates like passive meekness ! 
 
 And, sweet Mother ! under warrant 
 
 Of the universal Parent, 
 
 Who repays in season due 
 
 Them who have, like thee, been true 
 
 To the filial chain let down 
 From his everlasting throne. 
 Angels hovering round thy couch, 
 With their softest whispers vouch, 
 That, whatever griefs may fret, 
 Cares entangle, sins beset 
 This thy first-born, and with tears 
 Stain her cheek in future years, 
 Heavenly succour, not denied 
 To the Babe, whate'er betide, 
 Will to the Woman b# supplied ! 
 
 Mother ! blest be thy calm ease ; 
 
 Blest the starry promises. 
 
 And the firmament benign 
 
 Hallowed be it, where they shine ! 
 
 Yes, for them whose souls have scope 
 
 Ample for a winged hope. 
 
 And can earthward bend an ear 
 
 For needful listening, pledge is here. 
 
 That, if thy new-born Charge shall tread 
 
 In thy footsteps, and be led 
 
 By that other Guide, whose light 
 
 Of manly virtues, mildly bright, 
 
 Gave him first the wished-for part 
 
 In thy gentle virgin heart, 
 
 Then, amid the storms of life 
 
 Presignified by that dread strife 
 
 Whence ye have escaped together. 
 
 She may look for serene weather ; 
 
 In all trials sure to find 
 
 Comfort for a faithful mind ; 
 
 Kindlier issues, holier rest. 
 
 Than even now await her, prest. 
 
 Conscious Nursling, to thy breast ! 
 
 THE WARNING, 
 
 A SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING. 
 
 MARCH, 1833. 
 
 List, the winds of March are blowing; 
 
 Her ground-flowers shrink, afraid of showing 
 
 Their meek heads to the nipping air, 
 
 Which ye feel not, happy pair ! 
 
 Sunk into a kindly sleep 
 
 We, meanwhile, our hope will keep ; 
 
 And if Time leagued with adverse Change 
 
 (Too busy fear !) shall cross its range, 
 
 Whatsoever check they bring. 
 
 Anxious duty hindering, 
 
 To like hope our prayers will cling. 
 
 Thus, while the ruminating spirit feeds 
 Upon each home event as life proceeds. 
 Affections pure and holy in their source 
 Gain a fresh impulse, run a livelier course ; 
 
364 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Hopes that within the Father's heart prevail, 
 Are in the experienced Grandsire's slow lo fail ; 
 And if the harp pleased his gay youth, it rings 
 To his grave touch with no unready strings, 
 While thoughts press on, and feelings overflow, 
 And quick words round him fall like flakes of snow. 
 
 Thanks to the Powers that yet maintain their sway, 
 And have renewed the tributary Laj'. 
 Truths of the heart flock in with eager pace. 
 And Fancy greets them with a fond embrace ; 
 Swift as the rising sun his beams extends 
 She shoots the tidings forth to distant friends; 
 Their gifts she hails (deemed precious, as tliey prove 
 For the unconscious Babe an unbclated love !) 
 But from this peaceful centre of delight 
 Vague sympathies have urged her to take flight. 
 She rivals the fleet Swallow, making rings 
 In the smooth Lake where'er he dips his wings: 
 
 — Rapt into upper regions, like the Bee 
 
 That sucks from mountain heath her honey fee ; 
 
 Or, like the warbling Lark intent to shroud 
 
 His head in sunbeams or a bowery cloud. 
 
 She soars — and here and there her pinions rest 
 
 On proud towers, like this humble cottage, blest 
 
 With a new visitant, an infant guest — 
 
 Towers where red streamers flout the breezy sky 
 
 In pomp foreseen by her creative eye, 
 
 When feasts shall crosvd the Hall, and steeple bells 
 
 Glad proclamation make, and heights and dells 
 
 Catch the blithe music, as it sinks or swells; 
 
 And harboured ships, whose pride is on the sea, 
 
 Shall hoist their topmast flags in sign of glee, 
 
 Honouring the hope of noble ancestry. 
 
 But who, (though neither reckoning ills assigned 
 
 By Nature, nor reviewing in the mind 
 
 The track that was, and is, and must be, worn 
 
 With weary feet by all of woman born) — 
 
 Shall now by such a gift with joy be moved, 
 
 Nor feel the fulness of that joy reproved ! 
 
 Not He, whose last faint memory will command 
 
 The truth that Britain was his native land ; 
 
 Whose infant soul was tutored to confide 
 
 In the cleansed faith for which her martyrs died ; 
 
 Whose boyish ear the voice of her renown 
 
 With rapture thrilled ; whose Youth revered the crown 
 
 Of Saxon liberty that Alfred wore, 
 
 Alfred, dear Babe, thy great Progenitor! 
 
 — Not He, who from her mellowed practice drew 
 His social sense of just, and fair, and true; 
 
 And saw, thereafter, on the soil of France 
 Rash Polity begin her maniac dance. 
 Foundations broken up, the deeps run wild. 
 Nor grieved to see, (himself not unbeguiled) — * 
 Woke from the dream, the dreamer to upbraid, 
 And learn how sanguine expectations fade 
 When novel trusts by folly are betrayed, — 
 * See "French Revolution," p. 154. 
 
 To see presumption, turning pale, refrain 
 
 From further havoc, but repent in vain, — 
 
 Good aims lie down, and perish in the road 
 
 Where guilt had urgeil them on, with ceaseless goad, ; 
 
 Till undiscriminating Ruin swept 
 
 The Land, and Wrong perpetual vigils kept: ; 
 
 With proof before her that on public ends 
 
 Domestic virtue vitally depends. 
 
 Can such a one, dear Babe ! though glad and proud 
 
 To welcome Thee, repel the fears that crowd 
 
 Into his English breast, and spare to quake 
 
 Not for his own, but for thy innocent sake] 
 
 Too late — or, should the providence of God 
 
 Lead, through blind ways by sin and sorrow trod, 
 
 Justice and peace to a secure abode. 
 
 Too soon — thou com'st into this breathing world; 
 
 Ensigns of mimic outrage are unfurled. 
 
 Who shall preserve or prop the tottering Realm 1 
 
 What hand suffice to govern the state-helm 1 
 
 If, in the aims of men, the surest test 
 
 Of good or bad (whate'er be sought for or profest) 
 
 Lie in the means required, or ways ordained. 
 
 For compassing the end, else never gained ; j 
 
 Yet governors and governed both are blind ^ 
 
 To this plain truth, or fling it to the wind; 
 
 If to expedience principle must bow ; 
 
 Past, future, shrinking up beneath the incumbent Now; i 
 
 If cowardly concession still must feed 
 
 The thirst for power in men who ne'er concede; 
 
 If generous Loyalty must stand in awe 
 
 Of subtle Treason, with his mask of law ; 
 
 Or with bravado insolent and hard. 
 
 Provoking punishment, to win reward ; 
 
 If office help the factious to conspire, ' 
 
 And they who should extinguish, fan the fire — 
 
 Then, will the sceptre be a straw, the crown 
 
 Sit loosely, like the thistle's crest of down ; 
 
 To be blown off" at will, by Power that spares it 
 
 In cunning patience, from the head that wears it. 
 
 Lost people, trained to theoretic feud ; 
 
 Lost, above all, ye labouring multitude ! 
 
 Bewildered whether ye, by slanderous tongues 
 
 Deceived, mistake calamities for wrongs ; 
 
 And over fancied usurpations brood, 
 
 Oft snapping at revenge in sullen mood ; 
 
 Or, from long stress of real injuries, fly i 
 
 To desperation for a remedy : 
 
 In bursts of outrage spread your judgments wide. 
 
 And to your wrath cry out, " Be thou our guide;" 
 
 Or, bound by oaths, come forth to tread earth's floor 
 
 In marshalled thousands, darkening street and moor 
 
 With the worst shape mock-patience ever wore ; 
 
 Or, to the giddy top of self-esteem 
 
 By Flatterers carried, mount into a dream 
 
 Of boundless suff'rage, at whose sage behest 
 
 Justice shall rule, disorder be supprest, ^ 
 
 And every man sit down as Plenty's Guest ! 
 
 I 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 365 
 
 for a bridle bitted with remorse 
 
 To stop your Leaders in their headstrong course! 
 
 Oh may the Almighty scatter with his grace 
 
 These mists, and lead you to a safer place, 
 
 By paths no human wisdom can foretrace ! 
 
 May He pour round you, from worlds far above 
 
 Man's feverish passions, his pure light of love, 
 
 That quietly restores the natural mien 
 
 To hope, and makes truth willing to be seen 
 
 Else shall your blood-stained hands in frenzy reap 
 
 Fields gaily sown when promises were cheap. 
 
 Why is the Past belied with wicked art. 
 
 The Future made to play so false a part. 
 
 Among a people famed for strength of mind, 
 
 Foremost in freedom, noblest of mankind? 
 
 We act as if we joyed in the sad tune 
 
 Storms make in rising, valued in the moon 
 
 Nought but her changes. Thus, ungrateful Nation ! 
 
 If thou persist, and, scorning moderation. 
 
 Spread for thyself the snares of tribulation. 
 
 Whom, then, shall meekness guard 1 What saving 
 
 skill 
 Lie in forbearance, strength in standing still 1 
 — Soon shall the Widow (for the speed of Time 
 Nought equals when the hours are winged with crime) 
 Widow, or Wife, implore on tremulous knee. 
 From him who judged her Lord, a like decree ; 
 The skies will weep o'er old men desolate : 
 Ye Little-ones ! Earth shudders at your fate. 
 Outcasts and homeless orphans 
 
 But turn, my soul, and from the sleeping Pair 
 Learn thou the beauty of omniscient care ! 
 Be strong in faith, bid anxious thoughts lie still ; 
 Seek for the good and cherish it — the ill 
 Oppose, or bear with a submissive will. 
 
 If this great world of joy and pain 
 
 Revolve in one sure track ; 
 If Freedom, set, will rise again. 
 
 And Virtue, flown, come back; 
 Woe to the purblind crew who fill 
 
 The heart with each day's care ; 
 Nor gain, from past or future, skill 
 
 To bear, and to forbear ! 
 
 HUMANITY. 
 
 (WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1829.) 
 
 Not from his fellows only man may learn 
 Rights to compare and duties to discern : 
 All creatures and all objects, in degree, 
 Are friends and patrons of humanity. — MS. 
 
 What though the Accused, upon his own appeal 
 [To righteous Gods when Man has ceased to feel, 
 
 Or at a doubting Judge's stern command, 
 
 Before the Stone of Power no longer stand — 
 
 To take his sentence from the balanced Block, 
 
 As, at his touch, it rocks, or seems to rock ;* 
 
 Though, in the depths of sunless groves, no more 
 
 The Druid-priest the hallowed Oak adore ; 
 
 Yet, for the Initiate, rocks and whispering trees 
 
 Do still perform mysterious offices ! 
 
 And still in beast and bird a function dwells, 
 
 That, while we look and listen, sometimes tells 
 
 Upon the heart, in more authentic guise 
 
 Than Oracles, or winged Auguries, 
 
 Spake to the Science of the ancient wise. 
 
 Not uninspired appear their simplest ways ; 
 
 Their voices mount symbolical of praise — 
 
 To mix with hymns that Spirits make and hear ; 
 
 And to fallen Man their innocence is dear. 
 
 Enraptured Art draws from those sacred springs 
 
 Streams that reflect the poetry of things ! 
 
 Where Christian Martyrs stand in hues portrayed, 
 
 That, might a wish avail, would never fade. 
 
 Borne in their hands the Lily and the Palm 
 
 Shed round the Altar a celestial calm ; 
 
 There, too, behold the Lamb and guileless Dove 
 
 Prest in the tenderness of virgin love 
 
 To saintly bosoms ! — Glorious is the blending 
 
 Of right Affections, climbing or descending 
 
 Along a scale of light and life, with cares 
 
 Alternate ; carrying holy thoughts and prayers 
 
 Up to the sovereign seat of the Most High ; 
 
 Descending to the worm in charity ;f 
 
 Like those good Angels whom a dream of night 
 
 Gave, in the Field of Luz, to Jacob's sight; 
 
 All, while he slept, treading the pendent stairs 
 
 Earthward or heavenward, radiant Messengers, 
 
 That, with a perfect will in one accord 
 
 Of strict obedience, served the Almighty Lord ; 
 
 And with untired humility forbore 
 
 The ready service of the wings they wore. 
 
 What a fair World were ours for Verse to paint. 
 
 If Power could live at ease with self-restraint ! 
 
 Opinion bow before the naked sense 
 
 Of the great Vision, — faith in Providence ; 
 
 Merciful over all existence, just 
 
 To the least particle of sentient dust ; 
 
 And, fixing, by immutable decrees, 
 
 SeedtitTie and harvest for his purposes ! 
 
 Then would be closed the restless oblique eye 
 
 That looks for evil like a treacherous spy ; 
 
 Disputes would then relax, like stormy winds 
 
 That into breezes sink ; impetuous minds 
 
 * T!ie Rocking-Stones, alluded to, are supposed to have been 
 used, by our British ancestors, both for judicial and religions pur- 
 poses. Such stones are not uncommonly found, at this day, both 
 in Great Britain and in Ireland. 
 
 t The author is indebted, here, to a passage in one of Mr. Dig- 
 by's valuable works. 
 
 31* 
 
366 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 By discipline endeavour to grow meek 
 
 As truth herself, whom they profess to seek. 
 
 Then Genius, shunning fellowship with Pride, 
 
 Would braid his golden locks at Wisdom's side ; 
 
 Love ebb and flow untroubled by caprice ; 
 
 And not alone harsh tyranny would cease, 
 
 But unoffending creatures find release 
 
 From qualified oppression, whose defence 
 
 Rests on a hollow plea of recompense ; 
 
 Thought-tempered wrongs, for each humane respect 
 
 Oft worse to bear, or deadlier in effect. 
 
 Witness those glances of indignant scorn 
 
 From some high-minded Slave, impelled to spurn 
 
 The kindness that would make him less forlorn ; 
 
 Or, if the soul to bondage be subdued, 
 
 His look of pitiable gratitude ! 
 
 Alas for thee, bright Galaxy of Isles, 
 Where day departs in pomp, returns with smiles — 
 To greet the flowers and fruitage of a land. 
 As the sun mounts, by sea-born breezes fanned ; 
 A land whose azure mountain-tops are seats 
 For Gods in council, whose green vales. Retreats 
 Fit for the Shades of Heroes, mingling there 
 To breathe Elysian peace in upper air. 
 
 Though cold as winter, gloomy as the grave, 
 
 Stone walls a Prisoner make, but not a Slave. 
 
 Shall Man assume a properly in Man ? 
 
 Lay on the moral Will a withering ban ■! 
 
 Shame that our laws at distance should protect 
 
 Enormities, which they at home reject ! 
 
 " Slaves cannot breathe in England" — a proud boast ! 
 
 And yet a mockery ! if, from coast to coast, 
 
 Though fettered slave be none, her floors and soil 
 
 Groan underneath a weight of slavish toil, 
 
 For the poor Many, measured out by rules 
 
 Fetched with cupidity from heartless schools, 
 
 That to an Idol, falsely called " the Wealth 
 
 Of Nations," sacrifice a People's health. 
 
 Body and mind and soul ; a thirst so keen 
 
 Is ever urging on tlie vast machine 
 
 Of sleepless Labour, 'mid whose dizzy wheels 
 
 The Power least prized is that which thinks and feels.* 
 
 Then, for the pastimes of this delicate age. 
 
 And all the heavy or light vassalage 
 
 Which for their sakes we fasten, as may suit 
 
 Our varying moods, on human kind or brute, 
 
 'T were well in little, as in great, to pause. 
 
 Lest Fancy trifle with eternal laws. 
 
 There are to whom even garden, grove, and field, 
 
 Perpetual lessons of forbearance yield; 
 
 Who would not lightly violate the grace 
 
 The lowliest flower possesses in its place ; 
 
 Nor shorten the sweet life, too fugitive. 
 
 Which nothing less than Infinite Power could give. 
 
 * See Appendix VI, part 2, page 546. 
 
 LINES 
 
 SUGGESTED Wi A PORTRAIT FROM THE PEi\CIL 
 OF F. STONE. 
 
 Beguiled into forgetfulness of care 
 
 Due to the day's unfinished task, of pen 
 
 Or book regardless, and of that fair scene 
 
 In Nature's prodigality displayed 
 
 Before my window, oftentimes and long 
 
 I gaze upon a portrait whose mild gleam 
 
 Of beauty never ceases to enrich 
 
 The common light; whose stillness charms the air. 
 
 Or seems to charm it, into like repose 
 
 Whose silence, for the pleasure of the ear, 
 
 Surpasses sweetest music. There she sits 
 
 With emblematic purity attired 
 
 In a white vest, white as her marble neck 
 
 7s, and the pillar of the throat would be 
 
 But for the shadow by tlie drooping chin 
 
 Cast into that recess — the tender shade, 
 
 The shade and light, both there and every where, 
 
 And through the very atmosphere she breathes, 
 
 Broad, clear, and toned harmoniously, with skill 
 
 That might from nature have been learnt in the hour 
 
 When the lone Shepherd sees the morning spread 
 
 Upon the mountains. Look at her, whoe'er 
 
 Thou be, that kindling with a poet's soul 
 
 Hast loved the painter's true Promethean craft 
 
 Intensely — from Imagination take 
 
 The treasure, what mine eyes behold see thou, 
 
 Even though the Atlantic Ocean roll between. 
 
 A silver line, that runs from brow to crown, 
 
 And in the middle parts the braided hair. 
 
 Just serves to show how delicate a soil 
 
 The golden harvest grows in ; and those eyes. 
 
 Soft and capacious as a cloudless sky 
 
 Whose azure depth their colour emulates, 
 
 Must needs be conversant with vpicard looks, 
 
 Prayer's voiceless service ; but now, seeking nought 
 
 And shunning nouglit, their own peculiar life 
 
 Of motion they renounce, and with the head 
 
 Partake its inclination towards earth 
 
 In humble grace, and quiet pensiveness 
 
 Caught at the point where it stops short of sadness. 
 
 Offspring of soul-bewitching Art, make me 
 Thy confidant! say, whence derived tliat air 
 Of calm abstraction'! Can the ruling thought 
 Be with some lover far away, or one 
 Crossed by misfortune, or of doubted faith? 
 Inapt conjecture ! Childhood here, a moon 
 Crescent in simple loveliness serene, 
 Has but approached the gates of womanhood. 
 Not entered them ; her heart is yet unpierced 
 By tlie blind Archer-god, her fancy free : 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 ^67 
 
 The fount of feeling, if unsought elsewhere, 
 Will not be found. 
 
 Her right hand, as it lies 
 Across the slender wrist of the left arm 
 Upon her lap reposing, holds — but mark 
 How slackly, for the absent mind permits 
 No firmer grasp — a little wild-flower, joined 
 As in a posy, with a few pale ears 
 Of yellowing corn, the same that overtopped 
 And in their common birthplace sheltered it 
 Till they were plucked together; a blue flovver 
 
 .Called by the thrifty husbandman a weed; 
 But Ceres, in her garland, might have worn 
 That ornament, unblamed. The floweret, held 
 In scarcely conscious fingers, was, she knows, 
 (Her Father told her so) in Youth's gay dawn 
 Her Mother's favourite ; and the orphan Girl, 
 
 ' In her own dawn — a dawn less gay and bright, 
 Loves it while there in solitary peace 
 She sits, for that departed Mother's sake. 
 
 i — Not from a source less sacred is derived 
 
 1 (Surely I do not err) that pensive air 
 
 i Of calm abstraction through the face diffused 
 
 i And the whole person. 
 
 Words have something told 
 More than the pencil can, and verily 
 More than is needed, but the precious Art 
 Forgives their interference — Art divine, 
 That both creates and fixes, in despite 
 i;Of Death and Time, the marvels it hath wrought. 
 
 Strange contrasts have we in this world of ours ! 
 That posture, and the look of filial love 
 Thinking of past and gone, with what is left 
 ; Dearly united, might be swept away 
 From this fair Portrait's fleshly Archetype, 
 Even by an innocent fancy's slightest freak 
 Banished, nor ever, haply, be restored 
 To their lost place, or meet in harmony 
 So 'exquisite ; but here do they abide. 
 Enshrined for ages. Is not then the Art 
 Godlike, a humble branch of the divine, 
 In visible quest of immortality. 
 
 Stretched forth with trembling hope ? In every realm. 
 From high Gibraltar to Siberian plains. 
 Thousands, in each variety of tongue 
 That Europe knows, would echo this appeal ; 
 One above all, a Monk who waits on God 
 In the magnific Convent built of yore 
 To sanctify the Escurial palace.* He, 
 Guiding, from cell to cell and room to room, 
 A British Painter (eminent for truth 
 
 In character, and depth of feeling, shown 
 
 By labours that have touched the hearts of kings, 
 
 And are endeared to simple cottagers) 
 
 Left not unvisited a glorious work. 
 
 Our Lord's Last Supper, beautiful as when first 
 
 The appropriate Picture, fresh from Titian's hand. 
 
 Graced the Refectory : and there, while both 
 
 Stood with eyes fixed upon that Masterpiece, 
 
 The hoary Father in the Stranger's ear 
 
 Breathed out these words : — " Here daily do we sit, 
 
 Thanks given to God for daily bread, and here 
 
 Pondering the mischiefs of these restless Times, 
 
 And thinking of my Brethren, dead, dispersed, 
 
 Or changed and changing, I not seldom gaze 
 
 Upon this solemn Company unmoved 
 
 By shock of circumstance, or lapse of years. 
 
 Until I cannot but believe that they — 
 
 They are in truth the Substance, we the Shadows."-j- 
 
 So spake the mild Jeronymite, his grief 
 Melting away within him like a dream 
 Ere he had ceased to gaze, perhaps to speak : 
 And I, grown old, but in a happier land. 
 Domestic Portrait ! have to verse consigned 
 In thy calm presence those heart-moving words: 
 Words that can soothe, more than they agitate ; 
 Whose spirit, like the angel that went down 
 Into Bethesda's pool, with healing virtue 
 Informs the fountain in the human breast 
 That by the visitation was disturbed. 
 
 But why this stealing tearl Companion mute, 
 
 On thee I look, not sorrowing ; fare thee well, 
 My song's Inspirer, once again, farewell ! 
 
 *The pile of buildings, composing the palace and convent of 
 San Lorenzo, has, in common usage, lost its proper name in that 
 of the Escurial, a village at the foot of the hill upon which the 
 splendid edifice, built by Philip the Second, stands. It need 
 scarcely be added, that Willde is the painter alluded to. 
 
 THE FOREGOING SUBJECT RESUMED. 
 
 Among a grave fraternity of Monks, 
 
 For One, hut surely not for One alone, 
 
 Triumphs, in that great work, the Painter's skill. 
 
 Humbling the body, to exalt the soul ; 
 
 Yet representing, amid wreck and wrong 
 
 And dissolution and decay, the warm 
 
 And breathing life of fiesh, as if already 
 
 Clothed with impassive majesty, and graced 
 
 With no mean earnest of a heritage 
 
 Assigned to it in future worlds. Thou, too, 
 
 With thy memorial flower, meek Portraiture ! 
 
 From whose serene companionship I passed. 
 
 Pursued by thoughts that haunt me still ; thou also — 
 
 Though but a simple object, into light 
 
 Called forth by those affections that endear 
 
 The private hearth ; though keeping thy sole seat 
 
 In singleness, and little tried by time, 
 
 Creation, as it were, of yesterday — 
 
 With a congenial function art endued 
 
 For each and all of us, together joined, I 
 
 t See Note 3, p. 372. 
 
368 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 In course of nature, under a low roof 
 
 By charities and duties that proceed 
 
 Out of the bosom of a wiser vow. 
 
 To a like salutary sense of awe, 
 
 Or sacred wonder, growing with the power 
 
 Of meditation that attempts to weigh. 
 
 In faithful scales, things and their opposites, 
 
 Can thy enduring quiet gently raise 
 
 A household small and sensitive, — whose love, 
 
 Dependent as in part its blessings are 
 
 Upon frail ties dissolving or dissolved 
 
 On earth, will be revived, we trust, in heaven. 
 
 In the class enlitled " Musings," in Mr. Soulhey's Minor 
 Poems, is one upon his own miniature Picture, talvcn in Child- 
 hood, and another upon a landscape painted by Caspar Poussin. 
 It is possible that every word of the above verses, though 
 similar in subject, might have been written had the author been 
 unacquainted with those beautiful eifiisions of poetic senti- 
 ment. But, for his own satisfaction, he must be allowed thus 
 publicly to acknowledge the pleasure those two poems of his 
 Friend have given him, and the grateful influence they have 
 upon his mind as often as he reads them, or thinks of diem.* 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 A PEN — to register; a key — 
 That winds through secret wards; 
 Are well assigned to Memory 
 By allegoric Bards. 
 
 As aptly, also, might be given 
 
 A Pencil to her hand ; 
 
 That, softening objects, sometimes even 
 
 Outstrips the heart's demand ; 
 
 That smooths foregone distress, the lines 
 Of lingering care subdues. 
 Long-vanished happiness refines, 
 And clothes in brighter hues: 
 
 Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works 
 Those Spectres to dilate 
 That startle Conscience, as she lurks 
 Within her lonely seat. 
 
 O ! that our lives, which flee so fast, 
 In purity were such. 
 That not an image of the past 
 Should fear that pencil's touch ! 
 
 Retirement then might hourly look 
 Upon a soothing scene. 
 Age steal to his allotted nook, 
 Contented and serene ; 
 
 * See Nolo 4, p. 373. 
 
 With heart as calm as Lakes that sleep, 
 In frosty moonlight glistening ; 
 Or mountain Rivers, where they creep 
 Along a channel smooth and deep. 
 To their own far-off murmurs listening. 
 
 ODE TO DUTY. 
 
 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! 
 
 Duty ! if that name thou love 
 Who art a Light to guide, a Rod 
 To check the erring, and reprove ; 
 Thou, who art victory and law 
 When empty terrors overawe ; 
 From vain temptations dost set free ; 
 
 And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity! 
 
 There are who ask not if thine eye 
 Be on them ; who, in love and truth, 
 Where no misgiving is, rely 
 Upon the genial sense of youth :* 
 Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot ; 
 Who do thy work, and know it not : 
 Long may the kindly impulse last ! 
 But Thou, if they should totter, teach them to stani 
 fast! 
 
 Serene will be our days and bright, 
 
 And happy will our nature be, 
 
 When love is an unerring light, 
 
 And joy its own security. i 
 
 And they a blissful course may hoH 
 
 Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 
 
 Live in the spirit of this creed ; 
 
 Yet find that other strength, according to their need. 
 
 I, loving freedom, and untried; 
 
 No sport of every random gust, 
 
 Yet being to myself a guide, 
 
 Too blindly have reposed my trust : 
 
 And oft, when in my heart was heard 
 
 Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
 
 The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 
 
 But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 
 
 Through no disturbance of my soul, 
 Or strong compunction in me wrought, 
 
 1 supplicate for thy control ; 
 But in the quietness of thought : 
 Me tliis unchartered freedom tires; 
 I feel the weight of chance-desires : 
 
 My hopes no more must change their name, 
 I long for a repose that ever is the same. 
 
 t See Note 5, p. 373. 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 369 
 
 Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
 The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
 Nor Itnow we any thing so fair 
 As is the smile upon thy face : 
 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds; 
 And Fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
 Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong ; 
 And the most ancient Heavens, through Thee, are 
 ftesh and strong. 
 
 To humbler functions, awful Power ! 
 
 I call thee : I myself commend 
 
 Unto thy guidance from this hour; 
 
 Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 
 
 Give unto me, made lowly wise. 
 
 The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
 
 The confidence of reason give ; 
 
 And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live !* 
 
 EVENING VOLUNTARIES. 
 
 1. 
 
 C/U,M is the fragrant air, and loth to lose 
 Day's gratefial warmth, though moist with falling dews. 
 Look for the stars, you '11 say that there are none ; 
 Look up a second time, and, one by one. 
 You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, 
 And wonder how they could elude the sight. 
 The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers. 
 Warbled a while with faint and fainter powers. 
 But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers : 
 j Nor does the Village Church-clock's iron tone 
 ; The time's and season's influence disown ; 
 i Nine beats distinctly to each other bound 
 I In drowsy sequence ; how unlike the sound 
 i That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear 
 
 On fireside Listeners, doubting what they hear ! 
 j The Shepherd, bent on rising with the sun. 
 Had closed his door before the day was done. 
 And now with thankful heart to bed doth creep, 
 And join his little Children in their sleep. 
 i The Bat, lured forth where trees the lane o'ershade, 
 j Flits and reflits along the close arcade ; 
 i Far-heard the Dor-hawk chases the white Moth 
 With burring note, which Industry and Sloth 
 Might both be pleased with, for it suits them both. 
 Wheels and the tread of hoofs are heard no more 
 One Boat there was, but it will touch the shore 
 With the next dipping of its slackened oar ; 
 Faint sound, that, for the gayest of the gay 
 Might give to serious thought a moment's sway 
 As a last token of Man's toilsome day ! 
 
 ♦ See Note 6, p. 373. 
 2 W 
 
 II. 
 
 Not in the lucid intervals of life 
 
 That come but as a curse to Party-strife ; 
 
 Not in some hour when Pleasure with a sigh 
 
 Of languor puts his rosy garland by ; 
 
 Not in the breathing-times of that poor Slave 
 
 Who daily piles up wealth in Mammon's cave, 
 
 Is Nature felt, or can be ; nor do words. 
 
 Which practised Talent readily affords, 
 
 Prove that her hand has touched responsive chords ; 
 
 Nor has her gentle beauty power to move 
 
 With genuine rapture and with fervent love 
 
 The soul of Genius, if he dares to take 
 
 Life's rule from passion craved for passion's sake; 
 
 Untaught that meekness is the cherished bent 
 
 Of all the truly Great and all the Innocent. 
 
 But who is innocent 7 By grace divine, 
 
 Not otherwise, O Nature ! we are thine, 
 
 Through good and evil thine, in just degree 
 
 Of rational and manly sympathy. 
 
 To all that Earth from pensive hearts is stealing. 
 
 And Heaven is now to gladdened eyes revealing. 
 
 Add every charm the Universe can show 
 
 Through every change its aspects undergo. 
 
 Care may be respited, but not repealed ; 
 
 No perfect cure grows on that bounded field. 
 
 Vain is the pleasure, a false calm the peace. 
 
 If He, through whom alone our conflicts cease, 
 
 Our virtuous hopes without relapse advance. 
 
 Come not to speed the Soul's deliverance; 
 
 To the distempered Intellect refuse 
 
 His gracious help, or give what we abuse. 
 
 IIL 
 
 (BY THE SIDE OF RYDAL MERE.) 
 
 The Linnet's warble, sinking towards a close, 
 Hints to the Thrush 't is time for their repose ; 
 The shrill-voiced Thrush is heedless, and again 
 The Monitor revives his own sweet strain; 
 But both will soon be mastered, and the copse 
 Be left as silent as the mountain-tops. 
 Ere some commanding Star dismiss to rest 
 The throng of Rooks, that now, from twig or nest, 
 (After a steady flight on home-bound wings. 
 And a last game of mazy hoverings 
 Around their ancient grove) with cawing noise 
 Disturb the liquid music's equipoise. 
 O Nightingale ! Who ever heard thy song 
 Might here be moved, till Fancy grows so strong 
 That listening sense is pardonably cheated 
 Where wood or stream by thee was never greeted. 
 Surely, from fairest spots of favoured lands. 
 Were not some gifts withheld by jealous hands, 
 
370 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 This hour of deepening darkness here would be, 
 As a fresh morning for new harmony, 
 And Lays as prompt would hail the dawn of night; 
 A dawn she has both beautiful and bright. 
 When the East kindles with the full moon's light. 
 
 Wanderer by spring with gradual progress led, 
 For sway profoundly felt as widely spread; 
 To king, to peasant, to rough sailor, dear, 
 And to the soldier's trumpet-wearied ear ; 
 How welcome wouldst thou be to this green Vale 
 Fairer than Tempe ! Yet, sweet Nightingale ! 
 From the warm breeze that bears thee on alight 
 At will, and stay thy migratory flight; 
 Build, at thy choice, or sing, by pool or fount. 
 Who shall complain, or call thee to account ■? 
 The wisest, happiest, of our kind are they 
 That ever walk content with Nature's way, 
 God's goodness measuring bounty as it may ; 
 For whom the gravest thought of what they miss, 
 Chastening the fulness of a present bliss, 
 Is with that wholesome office satisfied, 
 While unrepining sadness is allied 
 In thankful bosoms to a modest pride. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Soft as a cloud is yon blue Ridge — the mere 
 Seems firm as solid crystal, breathless, clear, 
 And motionless; and, to the gazer's eye, 
 Deeper than Ocean, in the immensity 
 Of its vague mountains and unreal sky! 
 But, from the process in that still retreat, 
 Turn to minuter changes at our feet; 
 Observe how dewy Twilight has withdrawn 
 The crowd of daisies from the shaven lawn, 
 And has restored to view its tender green, 
 That, while the sun rode high, was lost beneath their 
 dazzling sheen. 
 
 An emblem this of what the sober Hour 
 
 Can do for minds disposed to feel its power ! 
 
 Thus oft, when we in vain have wished away 
 
 The petty pleasures of the garish day. 
 
 Meek Eve shuts up the whole usurping host 
 
 (Unbashful dwarfs each glittering at his post) 
 
 And leaves the disencumbered spirit free 
 
 To reassume a staid simplicity. 
 
 'Tis well — but what are helps of time and place. 
 
 When wisdom stands in need of nature's grace; 
 
 Why do good thoughts, invoked or not, descend. 
 
 Like Angels from their bowers, our virtues to befriend ; 
 
 If yet To-morrow, unbelied, may say, 
 
 "I come to open out, for fresh display. 
 
 The elastic vanities of yesterday V 
 
 The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill, 
 And sky that danced among those leaves, are still ; 
 Rest smooths the way for sleep ; in field and bower 
 Soft shades and dews liave slied their blended power 
 On drooping eyelid and the closing flower; 
 Sound is there none at which the faintest heart 
 Might leap, the weakest nerve of superstition start; 
 Save when the Owlet's unexpected scream 
 Pierces the ethereal vault ; and 'mid the gleam 
 Of unsubstantial imagery — the dream. 
 From the hushed vale's realities, transferred 
 To the still lake, the imaginative Bird 
 Seems, 'raid inverted mountains, not unheard. 
 
 Grave Creature ! whether, while the moon shines bright : 
 
 On thy wings opened wide for smoothest flight. 
 
 Thou art discovered in a roofless tower. 
 
 Rising from what may once have been a Lady's bower: ■ 
 
 Or spied where thou sit'st moping in thy mew 
 
 At the dim centre of a churchyard yew ; 
 
 Or, from a rifted crag or ivy tod 
 
 Deep in a forest, thy secure abode, 
 
 Thou giv'st, for pastime's sake, by shriek or shout, 
 
 A puzzling notice of thy whereabout; 
 
 May the night never come, the day be seen, 
 
 When I shall scorn thy voice or mock thy mien ! 
 
 In classic ages men perceived a soul 
 
 Of sapience in thy aspect, headless Owl ! 
 
 Thee Athens reverenced in the studious grove; 
 
 And, near the golden sceptre grasped by Jove, 
 
 His Eagle's favourite perch, while round him sate 
 
 The Gods revolving the decrees of Fate, 
 
 Thou, too, wert present at Minerva's side — 
 
 Hark to that second larum ! far and wide 
 
 The elements have heard, and rock and cave replied. J 
 
 VI. 
 
 The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire. 
 Flung back from distant climes a streaming fire, 
 Whose blaze is now subdued to tender gleams, 
 Prelude of night's approach with soothing dreams. 
 Look round; — of all the clouds not one is moving; 
 'T is the still hour of thinking, feeling, loving. 
 Silent, and steadfast as the vaulted sky. 
 The boundless plain of waters seems to lie : — 
 Comes that low sound from breezes rustling o'er 
 The grass-crowned headland that conceals the shore ! 
 No : 't is the earth-voice of the miglity sea. 
 Whispering how meek and gentle he can be ! 
 
 Thou Power supreme! who, arming to rebuke 
 Offenders, dost put off the gracious look, 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 371 
 
 And clothe thyself with terrors like the flood 
 
 Of ocean roused into his fiercest mood, 
 
 Whatever discipline thy will ordain 
 
 For the brief course that must for me remain ; 
 
 Teach me with quick-eared spirit to rejoice 
 
 In admonitions of thy softest voice ! 
 
 Whate'er the path these mortal feet may trace, 
 
 Breathe through my soul the blessing of thy grace. 
 
 Glad, through a perfect love, a faith sincere 
 
 Drawn from the wisdom that begins with fear; 
 
 Glad to expand, and, for a season, free 
 
 From finite cares, to rest absorbed in Thee ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 (BY THE SEA SIDE.) 
 
 ' Thk sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to rest, 
 And the wild storm hath somewhere found a nest ; 
 Air slumbers — wave with wave no longer strives. 
 Only a heaving of the deep survives, 
 A tell-tale motion ! soon will it be laid, 
 And by the tide alone the water swayed. 
 Stealthy wilhdrawings, interminglings mild 
 Of light with shade in beauty reconciled — 
 Such is the prospect far as sight can range, 
 The soothing recompense, the welcome change. 
 Where now the ships that drove before the blast. 
 Threatened by angry breakers as they passed ; 
 And by a train of flying clouds bemocked ; 
 Or, in the hollow surge, at anchor rocked 
 As on a bed of Death 1 Some lodge in peace. 
 Saved by His care who bade the tempest cease ; 
 And some, too heedless of past danger, court 
 Fresh gales to waft them to the far-off" port ; 
 But near, or hanging sea and sky between, 
 Not one of all those winged Powers is seen. 
 Seen in her course nor 'mid this quiet heard ; 
 Yet oh ! how gladly would the air be stirred 
 By some acknowledgment of thante and praise. 
 Soft in its temper as those vesper lays 
 Sung to the virgin while accordant oars 
 Urge the slow bark along Calabrian shores ; 
 A sea-born service through the mountains felt. 
 Till into one loved vision all things melt : 
 Or like those hymns that soothe with graver sound 
 The gulfy coast of Norway iron-bound ; 
 And, from the wide and open Baltic, rise 
 With punctual care, Lutherian harmonies. 
 Hush, not a voice is here ! but why repine, 
 Now when the star of eve comes forth to shine 
 On British waters with that look benign? 
 Ye mariners, that plough your onward way, 
 Or in the haven rest, or sheltering bay. 
 May silent thanks at least to God be given 
 With a full heart, " our thoughts are heard in heaven !" 
 
 vm. 
 
 [The former of the two following Pieces appeared, many 
 years ago, among the Author's poems, from which, in subse- 
 quent editions, it was excluded. It is here reprinled, at the 
 request of a friend who was present when the lines were 
 thrown off as an impromptu. 
 
 For printing the lalter, some reason should be given, as not a 
 word of it is original ; it is simply a fine stanza of Akenside, 
 connected with a still liner from Beattie, by a couplet of Thom- 
 son. This practice, in which the author sometimes indulges, of 
 linking together, in his owTi mind, favourite passages from dif 
 ferent authors, seems in itself unobjectionable : but, as the 
 puhlisJuvg such compilations might lead lo confusion in litera- 
 ture, he should deem himself inexcusable in giving tjiis speci- 
 men, were it not from a hope that it might open to others a. 
 harmless source of private gratification.] 
 
 The sun has long been set, 
 
 Tlie 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 1 
 
 IX. 
 
 Throned in the Sun's descending car 
 What Power unseen diffuses far 
 This tenderness of mind ? 
 What Genius smiles on yonder flood T 
 What God in whispers from the wood 
 Bids every thought be kind ? 
 
 O ever pleasing Solitude, 
 Companion of the wise and good. 
 Thy shades, thy silence, now be mine, 
 
 Thy charms my only theme ; 
 My haunt the hollow cliff" whose Pine 
 
 Waves o'er the gloomy stream ; 
 Whence the scared Owl on pinions gray 
 
 Breaks from the rustling boughs. 
 And down the lone vale sails away 
 
 To more profound repose ! 
 
372 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 NOTES 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 Note 1, p. 342. 
 
 " Simon Lee." 
 
 " O Reader ! had you in your mind 
 Such stores as silent thought can bring," &c. 
 
 [The same feeling, or something closely resembling 
 it, seems to be indicated in each of the following 
 quotations, especially in the exquisite phrase of Shak- 
 speare : 
 
 "When to the i^essiojis of sweel silent thought 
 I summon up remembrancp of things past. — 
 
 Siiakspeare's Sonnets, No. XXX. 
 
 "Farewell, selfe-pleasing thoughts, which qiiiomess brings 
 foorth." Spenser: Epitaph on Sir PhiUp Sidney. 
 
 Is there not in this concurrence — obviously casual — 
 Shakspe.are — Spenser — Wordsworth, proof of a 
 trait of the temperament of poetic genius ? 
 
 This simple stanza appears too to have touched a 
 chord in the heart of Coleridge, who in one of his let- 
 ters thus refers to it : " To have formed the habit of 
 looking at every thing, not for what it is relative to 
 the purposes and associations of men in general, but 
 for the truths which it is suited to represent — to con- 
 template objects as words and pregnant symbols — the 
 advantages of this are so many, and so important, so 
 eminently calculated to excite and evolve the power 
 of sound and connected reasoning, of distinct and clear 
 conception, and of genial feeling, that there are few 
 of Wordsworth's finest passages — and who, of living 
 poets, can lay claim to half the number 1 — that I repeat 
 EG often as that homely quatrain, 
 
 " Reader ! had you in your mind 
 
 Such stores as silent thought can bring j 
 O gentle Reader ! you would find 
 A tale in every thing." 
 
 H. R-l 
 
 Note 2, p. 352. 
 " Devotional Incitements." 
 " Alas ! the sanctities combined 
 By art to unsensualize the mind 
 Decay and languish ; or as creeds 
 And humours change, are spurned like weeds:" 
 
 [This subject is finely drawn by Daniel; 
 
 "Sacred Religion ! mother of form and fear ! 
 How gorgeously sometimes dost thou sit decked ! 
 What pompous vestures do we make thee wear, 
 What stately piles we prodigal erect ! 
 How sweet perfumed thou art; how shining clear I 
 How solemnly observed ; with what respect ! 
 
 Another lime all plain, all quite thread-bare; 
 Thou must have all within, and nought witliout ; 
 Sit poorly without light, disrobed : no care 
 Of outward grace, to amuse the poor devout ; 
 Powerless, unfoUowed : scarce men can spare 
 The necessary rites lo set thee out. 
 
 Either truth, goodness, virtue are not still 
 
 The self-same which they are, and always one, 
 
 But alter to the project of our will ; 
 
 Or we our actions make them wait upon. 
 
 Putting them in the livery of our skill, 
 
 And cast them off again when we have done." 
 
 Da\iel: — ' Musophilus.' — H. K.] 
 
 Note 3, p. 367. 
 
 " Lines on a Portrait." 
 
 " They are in truth the Substance, we the Shadtjws." 
 
 [This incident is thus narrated by the author or au- 
 thors of that 'rare' book 'The Doctor,' with one of 
 the rich comments, which distinguish the work: 
 
 " When Wilkie was in the Escurial, looking at Ti- 
 tian's famous picture of the Last Supper, in the Refec- 
 tory there, an old Jeronimite said to him, 'I have sale 
 daily in sight of tliat picture for now nearly three-score 
 years ; during that time my companions have droptolT, 
 one after another, — all who were my Seniors, all who 
 were my contemporaries, and many, or most of those 
 who were younger than myself; more than one gene- 
 ration has passed away, and there the figures in the 
 picture have remained unchanged ! I look at them till 
 I sometimes think that they are the realities, and we 
 but shadows !' 
 
 "I wish I could record the name of the Monk by whom 
 that natural feeling was so feelingly and strikingly ex- 
 pressed. 
 
 " The shows of things are better than themselves," 
 says the author of the tragedy of Nero, whose name, 
 also, I could wish had been forth.coming; and the clas- 
 sical reader will remember the lines of Sophocles: — 
 
 'O^iw yup ti^ai ovSiv (iv~tti aX'\o, TrXfjy 
 
 These are reflections which should make us think 
 "Of that same time when no more change shall be, 
 But steadfast rest of all things, firmly stayd 
 Upon the pillars of Eternity, 
 That is contraire to mutability ; 
 For all that moveth doth in change delight: 
 But thenceforth all shall rest eternally 
 With Him that is the God of Sabaoth hight, 
 O that great Sabaoth God grant me that Sabbath's sight" 
 
 SrE.NStR. 
 
 " The Doctor," Vol. III. p. 235. — H. R] 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 373 
 
 Note 4, p. 368. 
 "Lines on a Portrait," 
 
 [The following; is one of the poems by Mr. Southey, 
 which are referred to : 
 
 "ON MY OWN MINIATURE PICTURE 
 TAKEN AT TWO YEARS OP AGE. 
 
 " And I was once like this ? that glowing cheek 
 Was mine, those pleasure-sparkling eyes ; that brow 
 Smooth as the level lake, when not a breeze 
 Dies o'er the sleeping surface ! — Twenty years 
 Have wrought strange alteration ! Of the friends 
 Who once so dearly prized this miniature. 
 And loved it for its likeness, some are gone 
 To their last home ; and some estranged in heart, 
 Beholding me, with quick averted glance 
 Pass on the other side ! But still these hues 
 Remain unaltered, and these features wear 
 The look of Infancy and Innocence. 
 I search myself in vain, and find no trace 
 Of what I was : those lightly arching lines 
 Dark and o'erhanging now ; and that sweet face 
 Settled in these strong lineaments I — There were 
 Who formed high hopes and flattering ones of thee, 
 Young Robert ! for thine eye was quick to speak 
 Each opening feeling : should they not have known. 
 If the rich rainbow on the morning cloud 
 Reflects its radiant dyes, the husbandman 
 Beholds the ominous glory, and foresees 
 Impending storms ! — They augured happily. 
 That thou didst love each wild and wond'rous tale 
 Of faery fiction, and thine infant tongue 
 Lisped with delight the godlike deeds of Greece 
 And rising Rome ; therefore they deemed, forsooth. 
 That thou should'st tread Preferment's pleasant path. 
 lU-judging ones! they let thy little feet 
 Stray in the pleasant paths of Poesy, 
 And when thou shouldst have prest amid the crowd. 
 There didst thou love to linger out the day. 
 Loitering beneath the laurel's barren shade. 
 
 Spirit or Spenser! was the wanderer wrong? 1796." 
 
 Soutiiey's Poetical Works. 
 I cannot deny myself the gratification of introducing 
 Into this group of poems suggested by paintings an- 
 ,'ther, also from the pen of one of Mr. Wordsworth's 
 riends — one, to whom I am confident he would de- 
 ight in seeing any tribute paid in connection with his 
 wn writings. I have therefore less hesitation in in- 
 lerting here the following lines by Mary Lamb, inclu- 
 jled among the poems of her brother, the late Charles 
 pamb, and at the same time of using these pages to 
 ppress a grateful admiration of an individual who has 
 lixhibited one of the most beautiful examples of the deli- 
 cacy of female authorship to be met with in the records 
 i'f English literature. In a few unambitious poems min- 
 jrled among her brother's— as indeed her very existence 
 leems to have been blended with his— and in that most 
 rraceful children's classic, ' Mrs. Leicester's School', 
 here are tokens of a spirit as lofty in its purity as it is 
 
 gentle and unassuming. She is endeared too by a more 
 than sisterly devotion, which paused only at his grave, 
 to one of the most winning writers in the language, 
 whose intellectual efforts were probably best encour- 
 aged by her who cheered the loneliness of his hearth. 
 
 " LINES 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OP TWO FEMALES, 
 
 BY LEONARDO DA VINCE. 
 
 " The Lady Blanch, regardless of all her lovers' fears, 
 To the Urs'line Convent hastens, and long the Abbess hears, 
 "O Blanch, my child, repent ye of the courtly life ye lead." 
 Blanch looked on a rose-bud and little seemed to heed. 
 She looked on the rose-bud, she looked round, and thought 
 On all her heart had whispered, and all the Nun had taught, 
 *' I am worshipped by lovers, and brightly shines my fame, 
 "All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanch's name. 
 "Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud from the tree. 
 " My queen-like graces shining when my beauty's gone from me. 
 " But when the sculptured marble is raised o'er my head, 
 "And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among Ihe noble dead, 
 " This saintly lady -Abbess hath made me justly fear, 
 "It notliing will avail me that I were worshipped here." 
 
 Mary Lamb ; Poetical Works of Charles Lamb. — H. R.] 
 
 Note 5, p. 368. 
 " Ode to Duly:'' 
 " TTie genial sense of Youth :" 
 [ — "diffidence or veneration. Such virtues are the 
 sacred attributes of Youth : its appropriate calling is 
 not to distinguish in the fear of being deceived or de- 
 graded, not to analyze with scrupulous minuteness, but 
 to accumulate in genial confidence; its instinct, its 
 safety, its benefit, its glory, is to love, to admire, to 
 
 feel, and to labour. " Colisridge : ' The Friend,' 
 
 Vol. III. p. 62. — H. R.] 
 
 Note 6, p. 369. 
 " Ode to Duty. 
 "And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live .'" 
 [" A living Teacher, to be spoken of with gratitude as 
 of a benefactor, having, in his character of philosophi- 
 cal Poet, thought of morality as implying in its es- 
 sence voluntary obedience, and producing the effect of 
 order, transfers, in the transport of imagination, the 
 law of moral to physical natures, and having contem- 
 plated, through the medium of that order, all modes 
 of existence as subservient to one spirit, concludes his 
 address to the power of Duty in the following words : 
 To humbler functions, awful Power ! 
 I call thee : I myself commend 
 Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 
 Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 
 Give unto me, made lowly wise 
 The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
 The confidence of reason give .' 
 
 Arid in the light of Truth thy Bondman let me live !" — W. W 
 Coleridge : ' The Friend,' Vol. IIL p. 64. 11. R.] 
 33 
 
POEMS 
 
 [lEFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF OLD AGE. 
 
 EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 S75 
 
POEMS 
 
 REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF OLD AGE. 
 
 THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. 
 
 The class of Beggars, to which the old Man here described 
 belongs, will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and, 
 mostly, old and infirm persons, who confined themselves to a 
 stated round in their neighbourhood, and had certain tixed days, 
 which, at different houses, they regularly received alms, 
 sometimes in money, but mostly in provisions. 
 
 I SAW an aged Beggar in my walk ; 
 
 And he was seated, by the highway side, 
 
 On a low structure of rude masonry 
 
 Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they 
 
 Who lead their horses down the steep rough road 
 
 May thence remount at ease. The aged Man 
 
 Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone 
 
 That overlays the pile ; and, from a bag 
 
 All white with flour, the dole of village dames, 
 
 He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one ; 
 
 And scanned them with a fixed and serious look 
 
 bf idle computation. In the sun. 
 
 Upon the second step of that small pile. 
 
 Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills, 
 
 He sat, and ate his food in solitude r 
 
 And ever, scattered from his palsied hand, 
 
 That, still attempting to prevent the waste. 
 
 Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers 
 
 Fell on the ground ; and the small mountain birds, 
 
 i^fot venturing yet to peck their destined meal, 
 
 [Approached within the length of half his staff. 
 
 Him from my childhood have I known ; and then 
 He was so old, he seems not older now ; 
 He travels on, a solitary Man, 
 So helpless in appearance, that for him 
 The sauntering Horseman-traveller does not throw 
 With careless hand his alms upon the ground, 
 But stops, — that he may safely lodge the coin 
 Within the old Man's hat ; nor quits him so, 
 jBut still, when he has given his horse the rein, 
 Watches the aged Beggar with a look 
 Sidelong — and half-reverted. She who tends 
 The Toll-gate, when in summer at her door 
 'he turns her wheel, if on the road she sees 
 The aged Beggar coming, quits her work, 
 \nd lifts the latch for him that he may pass. 
 2X 
 
 The Post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake 
 
 The aged Beggar in the woody lane, 
 
 Shouts to him from behind ; and, if thus warned 
 
 The old Man does not change his course, the Boy 
 
 Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside. 
 
 And passes gently by — without a curse 
 
 Upon his lips, or anger at his heart. 
 
 He travels on, a solitary Man ; 
 
 His age has no companion. On the ground 
 
 His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along, 
 
 They move along the ground ; and, evermore. 
 
 Instead of common and habitual sight 
 
 Of fields with rural worlis, of hill and dale, 
 
 And the blue sky, one little span of earth 
 
 Is all his prospect. Tlius, from day to day. 
 
 Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground, 
 
 He plies his weary journey ; seeing still, 
 
 And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw, 
 
 Some scattered leaf, or marks wliich, in one track. 
 
 The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left 
 
 Impressed on the white road, — in the same line, 
 
 At distance still the same. Poor Traveller! 
 
 His staff trails with him ; scarcely do his feet 
 
 Disturb the summer dust : he is so still 
 
 In look and motion, that the cottage curs. 
 
 Ere he have passed the door, will turn away, 
 
 Weary of barking at him. Boys and Girls, 
 
 The vacant and the busy. Maids and Youths, 
 
 And Urchins newly breeched — all pass him by : 
 
 Him even the slow-paced Waggon leaves behind. 
 
 But deem not this Man useless. — Statesmen ! ye 
 WIio are so restless in your wisdom, ye 
 Who have a broom still ready in your hands 
 To rid the world of nuisances ; ye proud, 
 Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate 
 Your talents, power, and wisdom, deem him not 
 A burthen of the earth. 'T is Nature's law 
 That none, the meanest of created things, 
 Of forms created the most vile and brute, 
 The dullest or most noxious, should exist 
 Divorced from good — a spirit and pulse of good, 
 A life and soul, to every mode of being 
 Inseparably linked. While thus he creeps 
 From door to door, the Villagers in him 
 Behold a record which together binds 
 
 32 * '"' 
 
378 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Past deeds and offices of charity, 
 
 Else unremernbered, and so keeps alive 
 
 The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of j'ears, 
 
 And that half-wisdom half-experience gives. 
 
 Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign 
 
 To selfishness and cold oblivious cares. 
 
 Among the farms and solitary huts, 
 
 Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages, 
 
 Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds, 
 
 The mild necessity of use compels 
 
 To acts of love ; and habit does the work 
 
 Of reason ; yet prepares that after-joy 
 
 Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, 
 
 By that sweet taste of pleasure un pursued, 
 
 Doth find herself insensibly disposed 
 
 To virtue and tiiie goodness. Some there are. 
 
 By their good works exalted, lofty minds 
 
 And meditative, authors of delight 
 
 And happiness, which to the end of time 
 
 Will live, and spread, and kindle: even such minds 
 
 In childhood, from this solitary Being, 
 
 Or from like Wanderer, haply have received 
 
 (A thing more precious far than all that books 
 
 Or the solicitudes of love can do!) 
 
 That first mild touch of sympathy and thought. 
 
 In which they found their kindred with a world 
 
 Where want and sorrow were. The easy Man 
 
 Who sits at his own door, — and, like the pear 
 
 That overhangs his head from the green wall, 
 
 Feeds in the sunshine ; the robust and young. 
 
 The prosperous and unthinking, they who live 
 
 Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove 
 
 Of their own kindred ; — all behold in him 
 
 A silent monitor, which on their minds 
 
 Must needs impress a transitory thought 
 
 Of self-congratulation, to the heart 
 
 Of each recalling his peculiar boons. 
 
 His charters and exemptions; and, perchance 
 
 Though he to no one give the fortitude 
 
 And circumspection needful to preserve 
 
 His present blessings, and to husband up 
 
 The respite of the season, he, at least, 
 
 And 't is no vulgar service, makes them felt. 
 
 Yet further. Many, I believe, there are 
 
 Who live a life of virtuous decency. 
 Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel 
 No self-reproach ; who of the moral law 
 Established in the land where they abide 
 Are strict observers ; and not negligent. 
 In acts of love to those with whom they dwell, 
 Their kindred, and the children of their blood. 
 Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace ! 
 — But of the poor man ask, the abject poor ; 
 Go, and demand of him, if there be here 
 
 In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, 
 
 And these inevitable charities. 
 
 Wherewith to satisfy the human soull 
 
 No — Man is dear to Man ; the poorest poor 
 
 Long for some moments in a weary life 
 
 When they can know and feel that they have been, 
 
 Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out 
 
 Of some small blessings; have been kind to such 
 
 As needed kindness, for this single cause. 
 
 That we have all of us one human heart. 
 
 — Such pleasure is to one kind Being known. 
 
 My Neighbour, when with punctual care, each week 
 
 Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself 
 
 By her own wants, she from her store of meal 
 
 Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip 
 
 Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door 
 
 Returning with exhilarated heart. 
 
 Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven. 
 
 Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! 
 And while in that vast solitude to which 
 The tide of things has borne him, he appears 
 To breathe and live but for himself alone, 
 Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about 
 The good which the benignant law of Heaven 
 Has hung around him : and, while life is his. 
 Still let him prompt the unlettered Villagers 
 To tender offices and pensive thoughts. 
 — Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! 
 And, long as he can wander, let him breathe 
 The freshness of the valleys; let his blood 
 Struggle with frosty air and winter snows ; 
 And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath 
 Beat his gray locks against his withered face 
 Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness 
 Gives the last human interest to his heart. 
 May never House, misnamed of Indcstky, 
 Make him a captive ! for that pent-up din. 
 Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air, 
 Be his the natural silence of old age ! 
 Let him be free of mountain solitudes; 
 And have around him, whether heard or not, 
 The pleasant melody of woodland birds. 
 Few are his pleasures : if his eyes have now 
 Been doomed so long to settle on the earth 
 That not without some effort they behold 
 The countenance of the horizontal sun, 
 Rising or setting, let the light at least 
 Find a free entrance to their languid orbs. 
 And let him, where and when he will, sit down 
 Beneath the trees, or by the grassy bank 
 Of highway side, and with the little birds 
 Share his chance-gathered meal ; and, finally, 
 As in the eye of Nature he has lived, 
 So in the eye of Nature let him die ! 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 379 
 
 THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE. 
 
 'Tis 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. 
 
 He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town ; 
 His staff is a sceptre — his gray hairs a crown ; 
 Erect as a sunflower he stands, and the streak 
 Of the unfaded rose still enlivens his cheek. 
 
 'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn, — 'mid the joy 
 , Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a Boy ; 
 There fashioned that countenance, which, in 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 ; 
 i 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 : 
 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 
 1 rounds, 
 
 ' Knocked here — and knocked there, pounds still add- 
 ing to pounds. 
 
 I He paid what he could with this ill-gotten pelf, 
 ! And something, it might be, reserved for himself: 
 ; Then, (what is too true) without hinting a word, 
 j 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 ; 
 t 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 gray hairs he went from the brook and the 
 
 green ; 
 And there, with small wealth but his legs and his hands, 
 As lonely he stood as a Crow on 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 fiir over the sea ; 
 And Nature, while through tlie 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. 
 
 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 fruit 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 will 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 the 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. 
 
 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. 
 
380 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 THE SMALL CELANDINE, 
 
 There is a Flower, the Lesser Celandine, 
 That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain ; 
 And, the first moment that the sun may shine. 
 Bright as the sun itself, 't is out again ! 
 
 When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, 
 Or blasts the green field and the trees distressed, 
 Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm, 
 In close self-shelter, like a Thing at rest. 
 
 But lately, one rough day, this Flower I passed 
 And recognised it, though an altered Form, 
 Now standing forth an offering to the Blast, 
 And buffeted at will by Rain and Storm. 
 
 I stopped, and said with inly-muttered voice, 
 " It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold : 
 This neither is its courage nor its choice. 
 But its necessity in being old. 
 
 The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; 
 It cannot help itself in its decay ; 
 Stiff in its members, withered, changed of hue." 
 And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray. 
 
 To be a Prodigal's Favourite — then, worse truth, 
 A Miser's Pensioner — behold our lot ! 
 O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth 
 Age might but take the things Youth needed not ! 
 
 With chips is the Carpenter strewing his floor) 
 Is a cart-load of turf at an old Woman's doorl 
 Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide ! 
 And his Grandson 's as busy at work by his side. 
 
 THE TWO THIEVES ; 
 OR, THE LAST STAGE OF AVARICK. 
 
 O NOW that the genius of Bewick were mine. 
 
 And the skill which he learned on the banks of the 
 
 Tyne! 
 Then the Muses might deal with me just as they 
 
 chose, 
 For I 'd take my last leave both of verse and of prose. 
 
 What feats would I work with my magical hand ! 
 Book-learning and books should be banished the land: 
 And, for hunger and thirst, and such troublesome calls. 
 Every Ale-house should then have a feast on its walls. 
 
 The Traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair ; 
 Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would he 
 
 care ! 
 For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and his Sheaves, 
 Oh, what would they be to my tale of two Thieves 1 
 
 The One, yet unbreeched, is not three birthdays old, 
 His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told ; 
 There are ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather 
 Between them, and both go a-stealing together. 
 
 Old Daniel begins, he stops short — and his eye. 
 Through the lost look of dotage, is cunning and sly. 
 'T is a look which at this time is hardly his own. 
 But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown. 
 
 He once had a heart which was moved by the wires 
 Of manifold pleasures and many desires : 
 And what if he cherished his purse 1 'T was no more 
 Than treading a path trod by thousands before. 
 
 'T was a path trod by thousands ; but Daniel is one 
 Who went something farther than others have gone, 
 And now with old Daniel you see how it fares; 
 You see to what end he has brought his gray hairs. 
 
 The pair sally forth hand in hand : ere the sun 
 Has peered o'er the beeches, their work is begun : 
 And yet, into whatever sin they may fall. 
 This Child but half knows it, and that not at all. 
 
 They hunt through the streets with deliberate tread, 
 And each, in his turn, is both leader and led ; 
 And, wherever they carry their plots and their wiles. 
 Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles. 
 
 Neither checked by the rich nor the needy, they roam; 
 The gray-headed Sire has a daughter at home. 
 Who will gladly repair all the damage that's done; 
 And three, were it asked, would be rendered for one. 
 
 Old Man '. whom so oft I with pity have eyed, 
 I love thee, and love the sweet Boy at thy side : 
 Long yet may'st thou live ! for a teacher we see 
 That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee. 
 
 ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY. 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 The little hedgerow birds. 
 That peck along the road, regard him not. 
 He travels on, and in his face, his step. 
 His gait, is one expression ; every limb. 
 His look and bending figure, all bespeak 
 A man who does not move with pain, but moves 
 With thought. — He is insensibly subdued 
 To settled quiet : he is one by whom 
 All effort seems forgotten ; one to whom 
 Long patience hath such mild composure given. 
 That patience now doth seem a thing of which 
 He hath no need. He is by nature led 
 To peace so perfect, that the young behold 
 With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels. 
 
EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 EPITAPHS 
 TRANSLATED FROM CHIABRERA. 
 
 1. 
 
 Perhaps some needful service of the State 
 
 Drew Titus from the depth of studious bowers, 
 
 And doomed him to contend in faithless courts, 
 
 Where gold determines between right and wrong. 
 
 Yet did at length his loyalty of heart, 
 
 And his pure native genius, lead him back 
 
 To wait upon the bright and gracious Muses, 
 
 Whom he had early loved. And not in vain 
 
 Such course he held ! Bologna's learned schools 
 
 Were gladdened by the Sage's voice, and hung 
 
 With fondness on those sweet Nestorian strains. 
 
 There pleasure crowned his days ; and all his thoughts 
 
 A roseate fragrance breathed.* — O human life, 
 
 IThat never art secure from dolorous change ! 
 
 Behold a high injunction suddenly 
 
 To Arno's side conducts him, and he charmed 
 
 A Tuscan audience : but full soon was called 
 
 To the perpetual silence of the grave. 
 
 Mourn, Italy, the loss of him who stood 
 
 A Champion steadfast and invincible. 
 
 To quell the rage of literary War ! 
 
 Thou who movest onward with a mind 
 
 1 Intent upon thy way, pause, though in haste ! 
 I'T will be no fruitless moment. I was born 
 i Within Savona's walls, of gentle blood. 
 On Tiber's banks my youth was dedicate 
 To sacred studies; and the Roman Shepherd 
 |Gave to my charge Urbino's numerous Flock. 
 jMuch did I watch, much laboured, nor had power 
 To escape from many and strange indignities; 
 Was smitten by the great ones of the World, 
 iBut did not fall ; for Virtue braves all shocks, 
 
 * Ivi vivea giocondo e i suoi pen.sieri 
 Erano tutti rose. 
 
 1 The Translaior had not skill lo come nearer to his original. 
 
 Upon herself resting immoveably. 
 
 Me did a kindlier fortune then invite 
 
 To serve the glorious Henry, King of France, 
 
 And in his hands I saw a high reward 
 
 Stretched out for my acceptance — hut Death came. 
 
 Now, Reader, learn from this my fate — how false. 
 
 How treacherous to her promise, is the World, 
 
 And trust in God — to whose eternal doom 
 
 Must bend the sceptred Potentates of Earth. 
 
 There never breathed a man who, when his life 
 
 Was closing, might not of that life relate 
 
 Toils long and hard. — The Warrior will report 
 
 Of wounds, and bright swords flashing in the field, 
 
 And blast of trumpets. He who hath been doomed 
 
 To bow his forehead in the courts of kings. 
 
 Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate. 
 
 Envy and heart-inquietude, derived 
 
 From intricate cabals of treacherous friends. 
 
 I, who on Shipboard lived from earliest youth, 
 
 Could represent the countenance horrible 
 
 Of the ve.xed waters, and the indignant rage 
 
 Of Auster and Bootes. Forty years 
 
 Over the well-steered Galleys did I rule: — 
 
 From huge Pelorus to the Atlantic pillars, 
 
 Rises no mountain to mine eyes unknown ; 
 
 And the broad gulfs I traversed oft — and — oft : 
 
 Of every cloud which in the Heavens might stir 
 
 I knew the force ; and hence the rough sea's pride 
 
 Availed not to my Vessel's overthrow. 
 
 What noble pomp and frequent have not I 
 
 On regal decks beheld ! yet in the end 
 
 I learnt that one poor moment can suffice 
 
 To equalise the lofty and the low. 
 
 We sail the sea of life — a Calm One finds. 
 
 And One a Tempest — and, the voyage o'er, 
 
 Death is the quiet haven of us all. 
 
 If more of my condition ye would know, 
 
 Savona was my birth-place, and I sprang 
 
 Of noble parents: si.Kty years and three 
 
 Lived I then yielded to a slow disease. 
 
382 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 4. 
 
 Destined to war from very infancy 
 Was.I, Roberto Dati, and I took 
 In Malta the white symbol of the Cross. 
 Nor in life's vigorous season did I shun 
 Hazard or toil ; among the Sands was seen 
 Of Libya, and not seldom, on the Banks 
 Of wide Hungarian Danube, 'twas my lot 
 To hear the sanguinary trumpet sounded. 
 So lived I, and repined not at such fate ; 
 This only grieves me, for it seems a wrong, 
 That stripped of arms I to my end am brought 
 On the soft down of my paternal home. 
 Yet haply Arno shall be spared all cause 
 To blush for me. Thou, loiter not nor halt 
 In thy appointed way, and bear in mind 
 How fleeting and how frail is human life ! 
 
 Not without heavy grief of heart did He 
 
 On whom the duty fell (for at that time 
 
 The Father sojourned in a distant Land) 
 
 Deposit in the hollow of this Tomb 
 
 A Brother's Child, most tenderly beloved ! 
 
 Francesco was the name the Youth had borne, 
 
 PozzoBONNELLi his illustrious Hou.=e; 
 
 And, when beneath this stone the Corse was laid, 
 
 The eyes of all Savona streanped with tears. 
 
 Alas ! the twentieth April of his life 
 
 Had scarcely flowered : and at this early time. 
 
 By genuine virtue he inspired a hope 
 
 That greatly clieered liis Country : to his Kin 
 
 He promised comfort ; and the flattering thoughts 
 
 His Friends had in their fondness entertained,* 
 
 He suffpred not to languish or decay. 
 
 Now is there not good reason to break forth 
 
 Into a passionate lament t — O Soul ! 
 
 Short while a Pilgrim in our nether world. 
 
 Do thou enjoy the calm empyreal air; 
 
 And round this earthly tomb let roses rise. 
 
 An everlasting spring ! in memory 
 
 Of that delightful frafrrance wliich was once 
 
 From thy mild manners, quietly exhaled. 
 
 6. 
 
 Pause, courteous Spirit! — Balbi supplicates 
 That Thou, witli no reluctant voice, for him 
 Here laid in mortal darkness, wonldst prefer 
 A prayer to the Redeemer of the world. 
 
 • In justice to the Autlinr. I subjiiin the original : 
 
 e degli amici 
 
 Non lasciava languire i bei pension. 
 
 This to the Dead by sacred right belongs ; 
 
 All else is nothing — Did occasion suit 
 
 To tell his worth, the marble of this tomb 
 
 Would ill suffice : for Plato's lore sublime, 
 
 And all the wisdom of the Stagyrite, 
 
 Enriched and beautified his studious mind: 
 
 With Archimedes also he conversed 
 
 As with a chosen Friend, nor did he leave 
 
 Those laureat wreaths ungathered which the Nymphs 
 
 Twine on the top of Pindus. — Finally, 
 
 Himself above each lower thought uplifting, 
 
 His ears he closed to listen to the Song 
 
 Which Sion's Kings did consecrate of old; 
 
 And fixed his Pindus upon Lebanon. 
 
 A blessed Man I who of protracted days 
 
 Made not, as thousands do, a vulgar sleep; 
 
 But truly did He live his life. — Urbino, 
 
 Take pride in him ! — O passenger, farewell ! 
 
 n. 
 
 LINES 
 
 Composed at Grasmere, during a walk one Evening, after s 
 stormy day, the Author having just read in a Newspaper tha 
 the dissolution of Mr. Fox was hourly expected. 
 
 Loot) is the Vale ! the Voice is up 
 
 With which she speaks when storms are gone, 
 
 A mighty Unison of streatns ! 
 
 Of all her Voices, One ! 
 
 Loud is the Vale ; — this inland Depth 
 In peace is roaring like the Sea ; 
 Yon star upon the mountain-top 
 Is listening quietly. 
 
 Sad was I, even to pain deprest, 
 Importunate and heavy load !f 
 The Comforter hath found me here, 
 Upon this lonely road ; 
 
 And many thousands now are sad — 
 Wait the fulfilment of their fear; 
 For he must die who is their stay, 
 Their glory disappear. 
 
 A Power is passing from the earth 
 To breathless Nature's dark abyss; 
 But when the Mighty pass away 
 What is it more than this. 
 
 That Man, who is from God sent forth. 
 Doth yet again to God return'! — 
 Such ebb and flow must ever be. 
 Then wherefore should we mourn 1 
 
 t Importuna e grave salma. 
 
 Michael Angelo. 
 
EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 383 
 
 III. 
 LINES 
 
 Written November 13, 1814, on a blank leaf in a copy of the 
 Author's Poem " The Excursion," upon hearing of the Death 
 1 of the late Vicar of Kendal. 
 
 !To public notice, with reluctance strong, 
 Did I deliver this unfitiished Song; 
 Yet for one happy issue ; — and I look 
 With self-congratulation on the Book 
 Which pious, learned Miirfitt savir and read ; — 
 Upon my thoughts his saintly Spirit fed ; 
 He conned the new-born Lay with grateful heart — 
 Foreboding not how soon he must depart ; 
 Unweeting that to him the joy was given 
 Which good Men take with them from Earth to 
 Heaven. 
 
 IV. 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS, 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OP PEELE CASTLE, IN A 
 STORM, PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT. 
 
 I WAS thy Neighbour once, thou rugged Pile ! 
 Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee : 
 I saw thee every day ; and all the while 
 iThy 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, hut 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. 
 
 Ah ! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's hand, 
 To express what then I saw ; and add the gleam, 
 The light that never was, on sea or land. 
 The consecration, and the Poet's dream ; 
 
 I would have planted thee, thou Hoary Pile ! 
 Amid a world how different from this ! 
 Beside a sea that could not cease to smile ; 
 On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 
 
 I 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, 
 jSuch Picture would I at that time have made 
 iAnd seen the soul of truth in every part; 
 [A faith, a trust, that could not be betrayed. 
 
 So once it would have been, — 't is so no more ; 
 I have submitted to a new control : 
 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 ! 
 Such happiness, vv'herever it be known, 
 Is to be pitied ; for 'tis surely blind. 
 
 But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer. 
 And frequent sights of what is to be borne ! 
 Such sights, or worse, as are before me here. — 
 Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 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. 
 
384 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 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, 
 
 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; — 
 
 Prom her long course returns : — 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. 
 Towards a safer shore — how near. 
 Yet not to be attained ! 
 
 " Silence !" the brave Commander cried ; 
 To that calm word a shriek replied, 
 It was the last death-shriek. 
 
 — A few appear by morning light. 
 Preserved upon the tall mast's height ; 
 Oft in my soul I see that sight; 
 
 But one dear remnant of the night — 
 For him in vain I seek. 
 
 Si.x 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, 
 
 A meek man and a brave ! 
 
 The birds shall sing and ocean make 
 
 A mournful murmur for his sake 
 
 And Thou, sweet Flower, shalt sleep and wake 
 
 Upon his senseless grave.* 
 
 VI. 
 
 * Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone 
 Wi' the auld moone in hir arme." 
 
 Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, Percy^s Rdigves. >■ 
 
 Once I could hail (howe'er serene the sky) 
 
 The Moon re-entering her montlily round. 
 
 No faculty yet given me to espy 
 
 The dusky Shape within her arms imbound, 
 
 That thin memento of effulgence lost 
 
 Which some have named her Predecessor's Ghost. 
 
 Young, like the Crescent that above me shone. 
 Nought I perceived within it dull or dim ; 
 All that appeared was suitable to One 
 Whose fancy had a thousand fields to skim ; 
 To e.xpectations spreading with wild growth, 
 And hope that kept with me her plighted troth. 
 
 I saw (ambition quickening at the view) 
 A silver boat launched on a boundless flood; 
 A pearly crest, like Dian's when it threw 
 Its brightest splendour round a leafy wood ; 
 But not a hint from under-ground, no sign 
 Fit for the glimmering brow of Proserpine. 
 
 Or was it Dian's self that seemed to move 
 Before me? — nothing blemished the fair sight; 
 On her I looked whom jocund Fairies love, 
 Cynthia, who puts the little stars to flight. 
 And by that thinning magnifies the great, 
 For exaltation of her sovereign state. 
 
 And when I learned to mark the Spectral-shape 
 As each new Moon obeyed the call of Time, 
 If gloom fell on me, swift was my escape ; 
 Such happy privilege hath Life's gay Prime, 
 To see or not to see, as best may please 
 A buoyant Spirit, and a heart at ease. 
 
 Now, dazzling Stranger ! when thou meet'st my glance, 
 Thy dark Associate ever I discern ; 
 Euiblem of thoughts too eager to advance 
 While I salute my joys, thouglits sad or stern; 
 Shades of past bliss, or phantoms that to gain 
 Their fill of promised lustre wait in vain. 
 
 'See page 330. 
 
EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 So changes mortal Life with fleeting years ; 
 jA mournful change, should Reason fail to bring 
 !The timely insight that can temper fears, 
 |And from vicissitude remove its sting; 
 IWhile Faith aspires to seats in. that Domain 
 Where joys are perfect, neither wax nor wane. 
 
 VII. 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS. 
 1824. 
 
 FOE a dirge! But why complain? 
 
 Ask rather a triumphal strain 
 
 When Fermor's race is run; 
 
 A garland of immortal boughs 
 
 To bind around the Christian's brows, 
 
 Whose glorious work is done, 
 
 We pay a high and holy debt; 
 No tears of passionate regret 
 Shall stain this votive lay ; 
 Ill-worthy, Beaumont! were the grief 
 That flings itself on wild relief 
 When Saints have passed away. 
 
 Sad doom, at Sorrow's shrine to kneel, 
 
 For ever covetous to feel, 
 
 And impotent to bear: 
 
 Such once was hers — to think and think 
 
 On severed love, and only sink 
 
 Prom anguish to despair ! 
 
 But nature to its inmost part 
 
 Had Faith refined, and to her heart 
 
 A peaceful cradle given : 
 
 Calm as the dew-drop's, free to rest 
 
 Within a breeze-fanned rose's breast 
 
 Till it exhales to heaven. 
 
 Was ever Spirit that could bend 
 So graciously 1 — that could descend, 
 Another's need to suit. 
 So promptly from her lofty throne 1 — 
 In works of love, in these alone, 
 How restless, how minute ! 
 
 Pale was her hue ; yet mortal cheek 
 Ne'er kindled with a livelier streak 
 When aught had suffered wrong, — 
 When aught that breathes had felt a wound; 
 Such look the Oppressor might confound, 
 However proud and strong. 
 2Y 
 
 But hushed be every thought that springs 
 From out the bitterness of things; 
 Her quiet is secure ; 
 No thorns can pierce her tender feet, 
 Whose life was, like the violet, sweet, 
 As climbing jasmine, pure ; — 
 
 As snowdrop on an infant's grave. 
 
 Or lily heaving with the wave 
 
 That feeds it and defends ; 
 
 As Vesper, ere the star hath kissed 
 
 The mountain top, or breathed the mist 
 
 That from the vale ascends. 
 
 Thou takest not away, O Death ! 
 Thou strik'st — and absence perisheth, 
 Indifference is no more ; 
 The future brightens on our sight; 
 For on the past hath fallen a light 
 That tempts us to adore. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 INVOCATION TO THE EARTH. 
 
 FEBRUARY, 1816 
 
 1. 
 
 " Rest, rest, perturbed Earth ! 
 " O rest, thou doleful Mother of Mankind !" 
 A Spirit sang in tones more plaintive than the wind: 
 " From regions where no evil thing has birth 
 " I come — thy stains to wash away, 
 "Thy cherished fetters to unbind, 
 "To open thy sad eyes upon a milder day. 
 "The Heavens are thronged with martyrs that have 
 risen 
 
 " From out thy noisome prison ; 
 
 " The penal caverns groan 
 " With tens of thousands rent from off tlie tree 
 " Of hopeful life, — by Battle's whirlwind blown 
 "Into the deserts of Eternity. 
 "Unpitied havoc! Victims unlamented ! 
 " But not on high, where madness is resented, 
 " And murder causes some sad tears to flow, 
 "Though, from the widely-sweeping blow, 
 "The choirs of Angels spread, triumphantly aug- 
 mented. 
 
 2. 
 
 " False Parent of Mankind I 
 
 " Obdurate, proud, and blind, 
 "I sprinkle thee with soft celestial dews, 
 "Thy lost maternal heart to re-infuse ! 
 "Scattering this far-fetched- moisture from my wings, 
 "Upon the act a blessing I implore, 
 " Of which the rivers in their secret springs, 
 " The rivers stained so oft with human gore, 
 "Are conscious; — may the like return no more! 
 33 
 
386 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 "May Discord — for a Seraph's care 
 "Shall be attended with a bolder prayer^ 
 "May she, who once disturbed the seats of bliss 
 
 "These mortal spheres above, 
 " Be chained for ever to the black abyss ! 
 " And thou, O rescued Earth, by peace and love, 
 " And merciful desires, thy sanctity approve !" 
 
 The Spirit ended his mysterious rite. 
 And the pure vision closed in darkness infinite. 
 
 IX. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 ON THE LATE GENERAL FAST, 
 MARCH 21, 1832. 
 
 Reluctant call it was, the Rite delayed ; 
 
 And in the senate some there were, who doffed 
 
 The last of their humanity, and scoffed 
 
 At providential judgment, — undismayed 
 
 By their own daring. But the People prayed 
 
 As with one voice ; their flinty heart grew soft 
 
 With penitential sorrow, and aloft 
 
 Their spirit mounted, crying, God us aid ! 
 
 Oh that with soul-aspirings more intense 
 
 And heart-humiliations more profound 
 
 This People, long so happy, so renowned 
 
 For liberty, would seek from God defence 
 
 Against far heavier ill — the Pestilence 
 
 Of Revolution, impiously unbound ! 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 By a blest Husband guided, Mary came 
 From nearest kindred, ****** her new name ; 
 She came, though meek of soul, in seemly pride 
 Of happiness and hope, a youthful Bride. 
 O dread reverse ! if aught be so, which proves 
 That God will chasten whom he dearly loves. 
 Faith bore her up through pains in mercy given. 
 And troubles that were each a step to Heaven: 
 Two Babes were laid in earth before she died; 
 A third now slumbers at the Mother's side; 
 Its Sister-Twin survives, whose smiles afford 
 A trembling solace to her widowed Lord. 
 
 Reader ! if to thy bosom cling the pain 
 
 Of recent sorrow combated in vain ; 
 
 Or if thy cherished grief have failed to thwart 
 
 Time still intent on his insidious part 
 
 Lulling the Mourner's best good thoughts asleep, 
 
 Pilfering regrets we would, but cannot, keep; 
 
 Bear with Him — judge Him gently who makes known 
 
 His bitter loss by this memorial Stone ; 
 And pray that in his faithful breast the grace 
 Of resignation find a hallowed place. 
 
 ELEGIAC MUSD^GS 
 
 IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON HALL, THE SEAT OP 
 THE LATE SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART. 
 
 In these grounds stands the Parish Church, wherein is a mu* i 
 ral monument, the Inscription upon which, in deference to the 
 earnest request of the deceased, is confined to name, dales, and : 
 these words; — "Enter not into judgment with thy servant, i 
 Lord!" 
 
 With copious eulogy in prose and rhyme 
 
 Graven on the tomb we struggle against Time, 
 
 Alas ! how feebly ! but our feelings rise 
 
 And still we struggle when a good man dies : 
 
 Such offering Beaumont dreaded and forbade 
 
 A spirit meek in self-abasement clad. 
 
 Yet here at least, though few have numbered days 
 
 That shunned so modestly the light of praise. 
 
 His graceful manners, and the temperate ray 
 
 Of that arch fancy which would round him play, 
 
 Brightening a converse never known to swerve 
 
 From courtesy and delicate reserve ; 
 
 That sense — the bland philosophy of life 
 
 Which checked discussion ere it warmed to strife; 
 
 Those fine accomplishments, and varied powers, 
 
 Might have their record among sylvan bowers. 
 
 — Oh, fled for ever ! vanished like a blast 
 
 That shook the leaves in myriads as it passed ; 
 
 Gone from this world of earth, air, sea, and sky, 
 
 From all its spirit-moving imagery. 
 
 Intensely studied with a Painter's eye, 
 
 A Poet's heart ; and, for congenial view. 
 
 Portrayed with happiest pencil, not untrue 
 
 To common recognitions while the line 
 
 Flowed in a course of sympathy divine — 
 
 Oh ! severed too abruptly from delights 
 
 That all the seasons shared with equal rights — 
 
 Rapt in the grace of undismantled age. 
 
 From soul-felt music, and the treasured page. 
 
 Lit by that evening lamp which loved to shed 
 
 Its mellow lustre round thy honoured head, 
 
 While Friends beheld thee give with eye, voice, mien. 
 
 More than theatric force to Shakspeare's scene — 
 
 Rebuke us not ! — The mandate is obeyed 
 
 That said, " Let praise be mute where I am laid ;" 
 
 The holier deprecation, given in trust 
 
 To the cold Marble, waits upon thy dust; 
 
 Yet have we found how slowly genuine grief 
 
 From silent admiration wins relief 
 
 Too long abashed thy Name is like a Rose 
 
 That doth " within itself its sweetness close ;" 
 
EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 387 
 
 A drooping Daisy changed into a cup 
 
 In whicli lier bright-eyed beauty is shut up. 
 
 Within these Groves, where still are flitting by 
 
 Shades of the Past, oft noticed with a sigh, 
 
 'Shall stand a votive Tablet, haply free, 
 
 When towers and temples fall, to speak of Thee ! 
 
 If sculptured emblems of our mortal doom 
 
 Recall not there the wisdom of the Tomb, 
 
 Green ivy, risen from out the cheerful earth. 
 
 Shall frirjge the lettered stone ; and herbs spring forth, 
 
 Whose fragrance, by soft dews and rain unbound. 
 
 Shall penetrate the heart without a wound ; 
 
 While truth and love their purposes fulfil. 
 
 Commemorating genius, talent, skill. 
 
 That could not lie concealed where Thou wert known ; 
 
 Thy virtues He must judge, and He alone, 
 
 The God upon whose mercy they are thrown. 
 
 xn. 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD,* 
 
 An extempore effusion upon reading in a newspaper a notice 
 of the death of the Poet, James Hogg. 
 
 When first, descending from the moorlands, 
 I saw the stream of Yarrow glide 
 Along a bare and open valley. 
 The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide. 
 
 When last along its banks I wandered, 
 Thro' groves that had begun to shed 
 Their golden leaves upon the pathways, 
 My steps the Border Minstrel led. 
 
 The mighty minstrel breathes no longer, 
 Mid mouldering ruins low he lies ; 
 (And death upon the braes of Yarrow, 
 |Has closed the Shepherd-Poet's eyes. 
 
 Nor has the rolling year twice measured, 
 From sign to sign, his steadfast course. 
 Since every mortal power of Coleridge 
 Was frozen at its marvellous source. 
 
 The rapt one, of the Godlike forehead. 
 The heaven-eyed creature, sleeps in earth ; 
 And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, 
 Has vanished from his lonely hearth. 
 
 Like clouds that rakef the mountain summits. 
 Or waves that own no curbing hand, 
 
 * [These lines, published since the last volume of Mr. Words- 
 wortli's Poems, are here copied from a London periodical, ' The 
 Mirror,' Vol. 26.— H. R.] 
 
 tThis expression is borrowed from a sonnet by Mr. G. Bell, 
 the author of a small volume of poems lately printed at Penrith. 
 Speaking of Sliiddaw, he says, " Yon dark cloud ' rakes,' and 
 
 How fast has brother followed brother 
 From sunshine to the sunless land ! 
 
 Yet I, whose lids from infant slumbers 
 Were earlier raised, remain to hear 
 A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
 " Who next will drop and disappear 1" 
 
 Our haughty life is crowned with darkness. 
 Like London with its own black wreath, 
 On which, with thee, O Crabbe, forth-looking 
 I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath : 
 
 As if but yesterday departed. 
 Thou, too, art gone before ; yet why 
 For ripe fruit seasonably gathered 
 Should frail survivors heave a sigh 1 
 
 No more of old romantic sorrows 
 For slaughtered youth and love-lorn maid, 
 With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten, 
 And Ettrick mourns with her their Shepherd dead ! 
 Rydai. JVIount, Navemier 30, 1835. 
 
 ODE. 
 
 INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 
 
 FROM 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 The Child is Father of the Man ; 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 
 See page 27. 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream. 
 The earth, and every common sight. 
 To me did seem 
 Apparelled in celestial light, 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
 It is not now as it hath been of yore ; 
 Turn wheresoe'er I may. 
 By night or day, 
 The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 
 
 2. 
 
 The Rainbow comes and goes. 
 And lovely is the Rose, 
 
 shrouds its noble brow." These poems, thoijgh incorrect often 
 in expression and metre, do honour to tiieir unpretending author, 
 and may be added to the number of proofs daily occurring, that 
 a finer perception of the appearances of nature is spreading 
 through the humbler classes of society. 
 
388 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 The Moon doth with delight 
 Look round her when the heavens are bare; 
 
 Waters on a starry night 
 
 Are beautiful and fair; 
 The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
 But yet 1 know, where'er I go, 
 That there hath past away a glory from the earth. 
 
 3. 
 
 Now, while the Birds thus sing a joyous song, 
 
 And while the young Lambs bound 
 
 As to the tabor's sound, 
 
 To me alone there came a thought of grief: 
 
 A timely utterance gave tliat thought relief. 
 
 And I again am strong : 
 The Cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; 
 No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; 
 I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, 
 The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep. 
 And all the earth is gay ; 
 Land and sea 
 Give themselves up to jollify, 
 
 And with the heart of May 
 Doth every Beast keep holiday; — 
 Thou Child of Joy, 
 Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou ha;)py 
 Sliepherd Boy ! 
 
 4. 
 
 Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 
 
 Ye to each other make; I see 
 The heavens laugh with you in your Jubilee ; 
 My heart is at your festival. 
 My head hath its coronal, 
 The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 
 Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 
 While the Earth herself is adorning 
 
 This sweet May-morning, 
 And the Children are pulling 
 
 On every side, 
 In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
 Fre.sh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, 
 And the Babe leaps up on his mother's arm : — 
 I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 
 — But there 's a Tree, of many one, 
 A single Field which I have looked upon, 
 Both of them speak of something that is gone : 
 The Pansy at my feet 
 Doth the same tale repeat: 
 Whither is fled the visionary gleam "! 
 Where is it now the glory and the dream ? 
 
 5. 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
 The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 
 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
 And Cometh from afar 
 
 Not in entire forgetful ness, 
 
 And not in utter nakedness, 
 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 From God, who is our home: 
 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 Upon the growing Boy, 
 
 But He beholds the light, and whence it flows. 
 He sees it in his joy ; 
 
 The Youth, who daily farther from the East 
 Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 
 And by the vision splendid 
 Is on his way attended ; 
 
 At length the Man perceives it die away, 
 
 And fade into the light of common day. 
 
 6. 
 
 Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
 Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
 And, even with something of a Mother's mind 
 
 And no unworthy aim. 
 
 The homely Nurse doth all she can 
 To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 
 
 Forget the glories he hath known. 
 And that imperial palace whence he came. 
 
 Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 
 A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! 
 See, where 'mid work of his own liand he lies. 
 Fretted by sallies of his Mother's kisses. 
 With light upon him from his Father's eyes ! 
 See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
 Some fragment from his dream of human life. 
 Shaped by himself with newly-learned art 
 
 A wedding or a festival, 
 
 A mourning or a funeral; 
 
 And this hath now his heart. 
 
 And unto this lie frames his song: 
 Then will be fit his tongue 
 To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 
 
 But it will not be long 
 
 Ere this be thrown aside, 
 
 And with new joy and pride 
 The little Actor cons another part ; 
 Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" 
 With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
 That Life brings with her in her Equipage ; 
 
 As if his whole vocation 
 
 Were endless imitation. 
 
 Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 
 
 Tiiy Soul's immensity ; 
 Thou best Philosoplier, wlio yet dost keep 
 Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind. 
 That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
 Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, — 
 
EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 389 
 
 Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 
 
 On whom those truths do rest, 
 Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
 In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; 
 Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
 Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 
 A Presence which is not to be put by ; 
 Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 
 Of heaven-born freedom on thy Being's height, 
 Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
 Tlie Years to bring the inevitable yoke. 
 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
 Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 
 And custom lie upon thee with a weight. 
 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life !* 
 
 9. 
 
 O joy! that in our embers 
 Is something that doth live, 
 That nature yet remembers 
 What was so fugitive! 
 The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
 Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
 For that which is most worthy to be blest; 
 Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
 Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest. 
 With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast :- 
 Not for these I raise 
 The song of thanks and praise ; 
 But for those obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and outward things. 
 Fallings from us, vanishings ; 
 Blank misgivings of a Creature 
 Moving about in worlds not realized, 
 Hiffh instincts before which onr mortal Nature 
 Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised: 
 But for those first affections. 
 Those shadowy recollections. 
 Which, be they what they may, 
 Are yet the fountain light of all our day. 
 Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 
 
 Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
 Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake. 
 
 To perish never ; 
 Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 
 
 *See 'The Excursion,' Book IV. 
 "Alas ! the endowment of immor'''J Power" &c. page 424- 
 
 Nor Man nor Boy, 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy. 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 
 
 Hence, in a season of calm weather 
 Though inland far we be. 
 Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
 Which brought us hither, 
 
 Can in a moment travel thither. 
 And see the Children sport upon the shore, 
 And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 
 
 10. 
 
 Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 
 And let the young Lambs bound 
 As to the tabor's sound ! 
 
 We in thought will join your throng. 
 
 Ye that pipe and ye that play. 
 Ye that through your hearts to-day 
 Feel the gladness of the May ! 
 
 What though the radiance which was once so bright 
 
 Be DOW for ever taken from my sight. 
 
 Though nothing can bring back the hour 
 
 Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 
 We will grieve not, rather find 
 Strength in what remains behind, 
 In the primal sympathy 
 Which having been must ever be, 
 In the soothing thoughts that spring 
 Out of human suffering. 
 In the faith that looks through death, 
 
 In years that bring the philosophic mind. 
 
 11. 
 
 And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 
 
 Think not of any severing of our loves ! 
 
 Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 
 
 I only have relinquished one delight 
 
 To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
 
 I love the Brooks which down their channels fret. 
 
 Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 
 
 The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 
 
 Is lovely yet ; 
 The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 
 Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
 That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
 Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
 Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,' 
 To me the meanest flower tliat blows can give 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 
 33* 
 
THE EXCURSION, 
 
 BEING A PORTION OF 
 
 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 3&1 
 
TO 
 
 THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 WILLIAM, EARL OF LONSDALE, K.G. &c.&o. 
 
 Oft, through thy fair domains, illustrious Peer ! 
 In youth I roamed, on youthful pleasures bent ; 
 And mused in rocky cell or sylvan tent, 
 Beside swift-flowing Lowther's current clear. 
 — Now, by thy care befriended, I appear 
 Before thee, Loksdale, and this Work present, 
 A token (may it prove a monument !) 
 Of high respect and gratitude sincere. 
 Gladly would I have waited till my task 
 Had reached its close ; but Life is insecure. 
 And Hope full oft fallacious as a dream : 
 Therefore, for what is here produced I ask 
 Thy favour ; trusting that thou wilt not deem 
 The Offering, though imperfect, premature. 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Etdal Mount WESTMORELiND, 
 
 July 29, 1814. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The Title-page announces that this is only a Portion 
 I of a Poem ; and the Reader must be here apprised that 
 I it belongs to the second part of a long and laborious 
 Work, which is to consist of three parts. — The Author 
 will candidly acknowledge that, if the first of these had 
 been completed, and in such a manner as to satisfy 
 his own mind, he should have preferred the natural 
 order of publication, and have given that to the world 
 first ; but, as the second division of the Work was de- 
 signed to refer more to passing events, and to an existing 
 state of things, than the others were meant to do, more 
 continuous exertion was naturally bestowed upon it, and 
 greater progress made here than in the rest of the 
 Poem ; and as this part does not depend upon the pre- 
 ceding, to a degree which will materially injure its own 
 peculiar interest, the Author, complying with the 
 earnest entreaties of some valued Friends, presents the 
 following pages to the Public. 
 
 It may be proper to state whence the Poem, of which 
 The Excursion is a part, derives its Title of The 
 Recluse. — Several years ago, when the Author re- 
 hired to his native Mountains, with the hope of being 
 ^enabled to construct a literary Work that might live, 
 iit was a reasonable thing that he should take a review 
 jof his own Mind, and examine how far Nature and 
 Education had qualified him for such employment. As 
 subsidiary to this preparation, he undertook to record, 
 {in Verse, the origin and progress of his own powers, 
 I'as far as he was acquainted with them. That Work, 
 addressed to a dear Friend, most distinguished for his 
 knowledge and genius, and to whom the Author's In- 
 tellect is deeply indebted, has been long finished; and 
 [the result of the investigation which gave rise to it 
 was a determination to compose a philosophical Poem, 
 ! containing views of Man, Nature, and Society; and to 
 be entitled, The Recluse; as having for its principal 
 subject the sensations and opinions of a Poet living in 
 retirement. — The preparatory Poem is biographical, 
 and conducts the history of the Author's mind to the 
 [point when he was emboldened to hope that his facul- 
 ties were sufficiently matured for entering upon the 
 arduous labour which he had proposed to himself; and 
 the two Works have the same kind of relation to each 
 other, if he may so express himself, as the Ante-chapel 
 has to the body of a Gothic Church. Continuing this 
 2Z 
 
 allusion, he may be permitted to add, that his minor 
 Pieces, which have been long before the Public, when 
 they shall be properly arranged ;* will be found by the 
 attentive Reader to have such connection with the 
 main Work as may give them claim to be likened to 
 the little cells, Oratories, and sepulchral Recesses, or- 
 dinarily included in those Edifices. 
 
 The Author would not have deemed himself justi- 
 fied in saying, upon this occasion, so much of per- 
 formances either unfinished, or unpublished, if he had 
 not thought that the labour bestowed by him upon 
 what he has heretofore and now laid before the Pub- 
 lic, entitled him to candid attention for such a state- 
 ment as he thinks necessary to throw light upon his 
 endeavours to please, and he would hope, to benefit his 
 countrymen. — Nothing further need he added, than 
 that the first and third parts of The Recluse will con- 
 sist chiefly of meditations in the Author's own Per- 
 son ; and that in the intermediate part (The Excursion) 
 the intervention of Characters speaking is employed, 
 and something of a dramatic form adopted. 
 
 It is not the Author's intention formally to announce 
 a system : it was more animating to him to proceed in 
 a different course ; and if he shall succeed in convey inn- 
 to the mind clear thoughts, lively images, and strong 
 feelings, the Reader will have no difficulty in extract- 
 ing the system f<)r himself. And in the meantime the 
 following passage, taken from the conclusion of the 
 first book of The Recluse, may be acceptable as a 
 kind of Prospectus of the design and scope of tlie 
 whole Poem. 
 
 " On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, 
 Musing in Solitude, I oft perceive 
 Fair trains of imagery before me rise, 
 Accompanied by feelings of delight 
 Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed ; 
 And I am conscious of affecting thouglits 
 And dear remembrances, whose presence soothes 
 Or elevates the Mind, intent to weigh 
 The good and evil of our mortal state. 
 — To these emotions, whencesoe'er they come, 
 Whether from breath of outward circumstance, 
 Or from the Soul — an impulse to herself, 
 
 ' [See Preface, page ix — H. R.] 
 
394 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 I would give utterance in numerous Verse. 
 
 Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and Hope — 
 
 And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith ; 
 
 Of blessed consolations in distress ; 
 
 Of moral strength, and intellectual Povifer ; 
 
 Of joy in widest commonalty spread ; 
 
 Of the individual Mind that keeps her own 
 
 Inviolate retirement, subject there 
 
 To Conscience only, and the law supreme 
 
 Of that Intelligence which governs all; 
 
 I sing — ' fit audience let me find, though few !' 
 
 " So prayed, more gaining than he asked, the Bard, 
 
 Holiest of Men, — Urania, I sliall need 
 
 Thy guidance, or a greater Muse, if such 
 
 Descend to earth or dwell in highest heaven ! 
 
 For I must tread on sliadowy ground, must sink 
 
 Deep — and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds 
 
 To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil. 
 
 All strength —all terror, single or in bands, 
 
 That ever was put forth in personal form ; 
 
 Jehovah — with his thunder and the choir 
 
 Of shouting Angels, and the empyreal thrones — 
 
 I pass them unalarmed. Not Chaos, not 
 
 The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, 
 
 Nor aueht of blinder vacancy — scooped out 
 
 By help of dreams, can breed such fear and awe 
 
 As fall upon us often when we look 
 
 Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man, 
 
 My liaunt, and the main region of my Song. 
 
 Beauty — a living Presence of the earth, 
 
 Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms 
 
 Which craft of delicate Spirits hath composed 
 
 From earth's materials — waits upon my steps ; 
 
 Pitches her tents before me as I move. 
 
 An hourly neighbour. Paradise, and groves 
 
 Elysian, Fortunate Fields — like those of old 
 
 Sousht in the Atlantic Main, why should they be 
 
 A history only of departed things. 
 
 Or a mere fiction of what never was t 
 
 For the discerning intellect of Man, 
 
 When wedded to this goodly universe 
 
 In love and holy passion, shall find these 
 
 A simple produce of the common day. 
 
 — I, long before the blissful hour arrives. 
 
 Would chant, in lonely peace, the spousal verse 
 
 Of this great consummation ; — and, by words 
 
 Which speak of nothing more than what we are. 
 
 Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep 
 
 Of Death, and win the vacant and the vain 
 
 To noble raptures ; while my voice proclaims 
 
 How exquisitely the individual Mind 
 
 (And the progressive powers perhaps no less 
 
 Of the whole species) to the e.xternal World 
 
 Is fitted : — and how exquisitely, too. 
 
 Theme this but little heard of among Men, 
 
 The external World is fitted to the Mind ; 
 
 And the creation (by no lower name 
 
 Can it be called) which they with blended might 
 
 Accomplish : — this is our high argument. 
 
 — Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft 
 Must turn elsewhere — to travel near the tribes 
 And fellowships of men, and see ill sights 
 
 Of madding passions mutually inflamed ; 
 Must hear Humanity in fields and groves 
 Pipe solitary anguish ; or must hang 
 Brooding above the fierce confederate storm 
 Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore 
 Within the walls of Cities; may these sounds 
 Have their authentic comment, — that even these 
 Hearing, 1 be not downcast or forlorn ! 
 
 — Descend, prophetic Spirit ! that inspires! 
 The human Soul of universal earth. 
 Dreaming on things to come ;* and dost possess 
 A metropolitan Temple in the hearts 
 
 Of mighty Poets ; upon me bestow 
 
 A gift of genuine insight; that my Song 
 
 With star-like virtue in its place may shine; 
 
 Shedding benignant influence, — and secure, 
 
 Itself, from all malevolent eflfect 
 
 Of those mutations that extend their sway 
 
 Throughout the nether sphere ! — And if with this 
 
 I mix more lowly matter; with the thing 
 
 Contemplated, describe the Mind and Man 
 
 Contemplating, and who, and what he was, 
 
 The transitory Being that beheld 
 
 This Vision, — when and where, and how he lived J— 
 
 Be not this labour useless. If such theme 
 
 May sort with highest objects, then, dread Power, 
 
 Whose gracious favour is the primal source 
 
 Of all illumination, may my Life 
 
 Express the image of a better time, 
 
 More wise desires, and simpler manners ; — nurse 
 
 My heart in genuine freedom :— All pure thoughts 
 
 Be with me ; — so shall thy unfailing love 
 
 Guide and support, and cheer me to the end !" 
 
 * Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic Soul 
 Of the wide world dreaming OQ things to come. 
 
 Shakspeabe's Sunnett. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 BOOK THE FIRST. 
 THE WANDERER. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 A summer forenoon — The Author reaches a ruined Cottage upon a Common, and there meets with a revered 
 Friend, the Wanderer, of whom he gives an account — The Wanderer, while resting under the shade of the Trees 
 that surround the Cottage, relates the History of its last Inhabitant. 
 
 'T WAS summer, and the sun had mounted high : 
 
 Southward the landscape indistinctly glared 
 
 Through a pale steam ; but all the northern downs, 
 
 In clearest air ascending, showed far off 
 
 A surface dappled o'er with shadows flung 
 
 From brooding clouds ; shadows that lay in spots 
 
 Determined and unmoved, with steady beams 
 
 Of bright and pleasant sunshine interposed ; 
 
 Pleasant to him who on the soft cool moss 
 
 Extends his careless limbs along the front 
 
 Of some huge cave, whose rocky ceiling casts 
 
 A twilight of its own, an ample shade, 
 
 Where the Wren warbles ; while the dreaming Man, 
 
 Half conscious of the soothing melody. 
 
 With side-long eye looks out upon the scene, 
 
 By power of that impending covert thrown 
 
 To finer distance. Other lot was mine ; 
 
 ' Yet with good hope that soon I should obtain 
 As grateful resting-place, and livelier joy. 
 Across a bare wide Common I was toiling 
 
 ■ With languid steps that by the slippery ground 
 Were baflled ; nor could my weak arm disperse 
 The host of insects gathering round my face, 
 And ever with me as I paced along. 
 
 I 
 
 - Upon that open level stood a Grove, 
 The wished-for port to which my course was bound. 
 Thither I came, and there, amid the gloom 
 Spread by a brotherhood of lofty elms. 
 Appeared a roofless Hut ; four naked walls 
 That stared upon each other! I looked round, 
 And to ray wish and to my hope espied 
 Him whom I sought ; a Man of reverend age. 
 But stout and hale, for travel unimpaired. 
 
 There was he seen upon the Cottage bench, 
 Recumbent in the shade, as if asleep ; 
 An iron-pointed staS" lay at his side. 
 
 Him had I marked the day before — alone 
 
 And stationed in the public way, with face 
 
 Turned toward the sun then setting, while that staff 
 
 Aflbrded to the Figure of the Man 
 
 Detained for contemplation or repose. 
 
 Graceful support ; his countenance meanwhile 
 
 Was hidden from my view, and he remained 
 
 Unrecognised ; but, stricken by the sight. 
 
 With slackened footsteps I advanced, and soon 
 
 A glad congratulation we exclianged 
 
 At such unthought-of meeting. — For the night 
 
 We parted, nothing willingly ; and now 
 
 He by appointment waited for me here. 
 
 Beneath the shelter of these clustering elms. 
 
 We were tried Friends : amid a pleasant vale, 
 
 In the antique market village where were passed 
 
 My school-days, an apartment he had owned. 
 
 To which at intervals the Wanderer drew. 
 
 And found a kind of home or harbour there. 
 
 He loved me ;" from a swarm of rosy Boys 
 
 Singled out me, as he in sport would say. 
 
 For my grave looks — too thoughtful for my years. 
 
 As I grew up, it was my best delight 
 
 To be his chosen Comrade. Many a time, 
 
 On holidays, we rambled through the woods : 
 
 We sate — we walked ; he pleased me with report 
 
 Of things which he had seen ; and often touched 
 
 Abstrusest matter, reasonings of the mind. 
 
 Turned inward ; or at my request would sing 
 
396 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Old songs — the product of his native hills; 
 
 A skilful distribution of sweet sounds, 
 
 Feeding the soul, and eagerly imbibed 
 
 As cool refreshing Water, by the care 
 
 Of the industrious husbandman, ditfused 
 
 Through a parched meadow-ground, in time of drought. 
 
 Still deeper welcome found his pure discourse: 
 
 How precious when in riper days I learned 
 
 To weigh with care his words, and to rejoice 
 
 In the plain presence of his dignity ! 
 
 Oh ! many are the Poets that are sown 
 
 By Nature ; Men endowed with highest gifts. 
 
 The vision and the faculty divine; 
 
 Yet wanting the accomplishment of Verse 
 
 (Which, in the docile season of their youth. 
 
 It was denied them to acquire, through lack 
 
 Of culture and the inspiring aid of books, 
 
 Or haply by a temper too severe, 
 
 Or a nice backwardness afraid of shame) 
 
 Nor having e'er, as life advanced, been led 
 
 By circumstance to take unto the height 
 
 The measure of themselves, these favoured Beings, 
 
 All hut a scattered few, live out their time. 
 
 Husbanding that which they possess within, 
 
 And go to the grave, unthought of Strongest minds 
 
 Are often those of whom the noisy world 
 
 Hears least; else surely this Man had not left 
 
 His graces unrevealed and unproclaimed. 
 
 But, as the mind was filled with inward light, 
 
 So not without distinction had he lived. 
 
 Beloved and honoured — far as he was known. 
 
 And some small portion of his eloquent speech, 
 
 And something that may serve to set in view 
 
 The feeling pleasures of his loneliness, 
 
 His observations, and the thoughts his mind 
 
 Had dealt with — I will here record in verse; 
 
 Which, if with truth it correspond, and sink 
 
 Or rise as venerable Nature leads. 
 
 The high and tender Muses shall accept 
 
 With gracious smile, deliberately pleased, 
 
 And listening Time reward with sacred praise. 
 
 Among the hills of Athol he was born ; 
 
 Where, on a small hereditary Farm, 
 
 An unproductive slip of rugged ground. 
 
 His Parents, with their numerous Offspring, dwelt ; 
 
 A virtuous Household, though exceeding poor! 
 
 Pure Livers were they all, austere and grave. 
 
 And fearing God ; the very Children taught 
 
 Stern self-respect, a reverence for God's word, 
 
 And an habitual piety, maintained 
 
 With strictness scarcely known on English ground. 
 
 From his sixth year, the Boy of whom I speak. 
 In summer, tended cattle on the Hills; 
 But, through the inclement and the perilous days 
 Of long-continuing winter, he repaired, 
 
 Equipped with satchel, to a School, that stood 
 
 Sole Building on a mountain's dreary edge, 
 
 Remote from view of City spire, or sound 
 
 Of Minster clock ! From that bleak Tenement 
 
 He, many an evening, to his distant home 
 
 In solitude returning, saw the Hills 
 
 Grow larger in the darkness, all alone 
 
 Beheld the stars come out above his head. 
 
 And travelled through the wood, with no one near 
 
 To whom he might confess the things he saw. 
 
 So the foundations of his mind were laid. 
 
 In such communion, not from terror free. 
 
 While yet a Child, and long before his time. 
 
 He had perceived the presence and the power 
 
 Of greatness ; and deep feelings had impressed 
 
 Great objects on his mind, with portraiture 
 
 And colour so distinct, that on his mind 
 
 They lay like substances, and almost seemed 
 
 To haunt the bodily sense. He had received 
 
 A precious gift ; for, as he grew in years. 
 
 With these impressions would he still compare 
 
 All his remembrances, thoughts, shapes, and forms; 
 
 And, being still unsatisfied with aught 
 
 Of dimmer character, he thence attained 
 
 An active power to fasten images 
 
 Upon his brain ; and on their pictured lines 
 
 Intensely brooded, even till they acquired 
 
 The liveliness of dreams. Nor did he fail. 
 
 While yet a Child, with a Child's eagerness 
 
 Incessantly to turn his ear and eye 
 
 On all things which the moving seasons brought 
 
 To feed such appetite : nor this alone 
 
 Appeased his yearning : — in the after day 
 
 Of Boyhood, many an hour in caves forlorn, 
 
 And 'mid the hollow depths of naked crags 
 
 He sate, and even in their fixed lineaments. 
 
 Or from the power of a peculiar eye. 
 
 Or by creative feeling overborne, 
 
 Or by predominance of thought oppressed. 
 
 Even in their fixed and steady lineaments 
 
 He traced an ebbing and a flowing mind, 
 
 Expression ever varying ! . 
 
 Thus informed. 
 He had small need of books ; for many a Tale 
 Traditionary, round the mountains hung. 
 And many a Legend, peopling the dark woods. 
 Nourished Imagination in her growth. 
 And gave the Mind that apprehensive power 
 By which she is made quick to recognise 
 The moral properties and scope of things. 
 But eagerly he read, and read again, 
 Whate'er the Minister's old Shelf supplied; 
 The life and death of IMartyrs, who sustained. 
 With will inflexible, those fearfiil pangs 
 Triumphantly displayed in records left 
 Of Persecution, and the Covenant — Times 
 Whose echo rings through Scotland to this hour ! 
 
r 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 39T 
 
 ;And there, by lucky hap, had been preserved 
 
 A stragrgling volume, torn and incomplete, 
 
 That left half-told the preternatural tale, 
 
 Romance of Giants, chronicle of Fiends, 
 
 Profuse in garniture of wooden cuts 
 
 Strange and uneoutli ; dire faces, figures dire,^ 
 
 ISharp-knee'd, sharp-elbowed, and lean-ankled too, 
 
 iWith long and ghostly shanks — forms which once seen 
 
 Could never be forgotten ! 
 
 In his heart, 
 iWhere Fear sate thus, a cherished visitant, 
 'Was wanting yet the pure delight of love 
 [By sound diffused, or by the breathing air, 
 Or by the silent looks of happy things, 
 :0r flowing from the universal face 
 Of earth and sky. But he had felt the povirer 
 iOf Nature, and already was prepared, 
 iBy his intense conceptions, to receive 
 'Deeply the lesson deep of love which he, 
 iWhom Nature, by whatever means, has taught 
 To feel intensely, cannot but receive. 
 
 3uch was the Boy — but for the growing Youth 
 What soul was his, when, from the naked top 
 3f some bold headland, he beheld the sun 
 lise up, and bathe the world in light! He looked — 
 3cean and earth, the solid frame of earth 
 \nd ocean's liquid mass, beneath him lay 
 n gladness and deep joy. The clouds were touched, 
 \nd in their silent faces did he read 
 Jnutterable love. Sound needed none, 
 "for any voice of joy ; his spirit drank 
 The spectacle : sensation, soul, and form 
 iUl melted into him ; they swallowed up 
 lis animal being; in them did he live, 
 iVnd by them did he live; they were his life. 
 n such access of mind, in such high hour 
 i)f visitation from the living God, 
 Thought was not; in enjoyment it e.\-pired. 
 .'fo thanks he breathed, he proffered no request; 
 jlapt into still communion that transcends 
 ifhe imperfect offices of prayer and praise, 
 lis mind was a thanksgiving to the power 
 That made him ; it was blessedness and love ! 
 
 V Herdsman on the lonely mountain tops, 
 5uch intercourse was his, and in tliis sort 
 iVas his existence oftentimes possessed. 
 3 then how beautiful, how bright appeared 
 The written Promise ! Early had he learned 
 To reverence the volume that displays 
 The mystery, the life which cannot die ; 
 3ut in the mountains did he feel his faith. 
 Ul things, responsive to the Writing, there 
 breathed immortality, revolving life, 
 i^nd greatness still revolving; infinite; 
 irhere littleness was not ; the least of things 
 
 Seemed infinite ; and there his spirit shaped 
 
 Her prospects, nor did he believe, — he saw. 
 
 What wonder if his being thus became 
 
 Sublime and comprehensive ! Low desires. 
 
 Low thoughts had there no place ; yet was his heart 
 
 Lowly ; for he was meek in gratitude. 
 
 Oft as he called those ecstasies to mind. 
 
 And whence they flowed ; and from them he acquired 
 
 Wisdom, wliich works thro' patience ; thence he learned 
 
 In oft-recurring hours of sober thought 
 
 To look on Nature with a humble heart. 
 
 Self-questioned where it did not understand. 
 
 And with a superstitious eye of love. 
 
 So passed the time ; yet to the nearest Town 
 
 He duly went with what small overplus 
 
 His earnings might supply, and brought away 
 
 The Book that most had tempted his desires 
 
 While at the stall he read. Among the hills. 
 
 He gazed upon that mighty Orb of Song, 
 
 The divine IVIilton. Lore of different kind. 
 
 The annual savings of a toilsome life. 
 
 His School-master supplied ; books that explain 
 
 The purer elements of truth involved 
 
 In lines and numbers, and, by charm severe, 
 
 (Especially perceived where Nature droops 
 
 And feeling is suppressed) preserve the mind 
 
 Busy in solitude and poverty. 
 
 These occupations oftentimes deceived 
 
 The listless hours, while in the hollow vale. 
 
 Hollow and green, he lay on the green turf 
 
 In pensive idleness. What could he do. 
 
 Thus daily thirsting, in that lonesome life. 
 
 With blind endeavours? Yet, still uppermost, 
 
 Nature was at his heart as if he felt. 
 
 Though yet lie knew not how, a wasting power 
 
 In all things that from her sweet influence 
 
 Might tend to wean him. Therefore with her hues, 
 
 Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms, 
 
 He clothed the nakedness of austere truth. 
 
 While yet he lingered in the rudiments 
 
 Of science, and among her simplest laws. 
 
 His triangles — they were the stars of heaven. 
 
 The silent stars ! Oft did he take delight 
 
 To measure the altitude of some tall crag 
 
 That is the eagle's birth-place, or some peak 
 
 Familiar with forgotten years, that shows 
 
 Inscribed, as with the silence of the thought, 
 
 Upon its bleak and visionary sides. 
 
 The history of many a winter storm, 
 
 Or obscure records of the path of fire. 
 
 And thus before his eighteenth year was told. 
 Accumulated feelings pressed his heart 
 With still increasing weight; he was o'erpowered 
 By Nature, by the turbulence subdued 
 34 
 
398 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Of his own mind ; by mystery and hope, 
 And the first virgin passion of a soul 
 Communing- with the glorious Universe. 
 Full often wished he that the winds might rage 
 When they were silent ; far more fondly now 
 Than in his earlier season did he love 
 Tempestuous nights — the conflict and the sounds 
 That live in darkness: — from his intellect 
 And from the stillness of abstracted thought 
 He aslced repose; and, failing oft to win 
 The peace required, he scanned the laws of light 
 Amid the roar of torrents, where they send 
 From hollow clefts up to the clearer air 
 A cloud of mist, that smitten by the sun 
 Varies its rainbow hues. But vainly thus, 
 And vainly by all other means, he strove 
 To mitigate the fever of his heart. 
 
 In dreams, in study, and in ardent thought, 
 
 Thus was he reared* much wanting to assist 
 
 The growth of intellect, yet gaining more. 
 
 And every moral feeling of his soul 
 
 Strengthened and braced, by breathing in content 
 
 The keen, the wholesome air of poverty, 
 
 And drinking from the well of homely life. 
 
 — But, from past liberty, and tried restraints, 
 
 He now was summoned to select the course 
 
 Of humble industry that promised best 
 
 To yield him no unworthy maintenance. 
 
 Urged by his iVI other, he essayed to teach 
 
 A Village-school — but wandering thoughts were then 
 
 A misery to him ; and the Youth resigned 
 
 A task he was unable to perform. 
 
 That stern yet kindly Spirit, who constrains 
 
 The Savoyard to quit his naked rocks. 
 
 The free-born Swiss to leave his narrow vales, 
 
 (Spirit attached to regions mountainous 
 
 Like their own steadfast clouds) did now impel 
 
 His restless mind to look abroad with hope. 
 
 * [The reader of Coleridge's philosophical works may by ihese 
 passages be reminded of a brilliant paragraph in ' The Friend': 
 
 "We have been discoursing of infancy, childhood, buyhooii, 
 and youth, of pleasures lying upon the unfolding intellect plen- 
 teously as morning dew-drops — of knowledge inhaled insensi- 
 bly like the fragrance — of dispositions stealing into the spirit 
 like music from unknown quarters — of images uncalled for and 
 rising up like exhalations — of hopes plucked like beautiful wild 
 flowers from the ruined tombs that border the llighvvays of an- 
 tiquity, to make a garland for a living forehead : in a word, we 
 have been treating of nature as a teacher of truth through joy 
 and through gladness, and as a creatress of the faculties by a 
 process of smoothness and delight. We have made no mention 
 of fear, shame, sorrow, nor of ungovernable and vexing thoughu ; 
 because, although Ihese have been and have done mighty ser- 
 vice, they are overlooked in that stage of life when youth is 
 passing into manhood — overlooked, or forgotten." 
 
 ' The Friend; Vol. Ill, p. 46. — H. R.] 
 
 — An irksome drudgery seems it to plod on, 
 
 Through hot and dusty ways, or pelting storm, 
 
 A vagrant Merchant bent beneath bis load ! 
 
 Yet do such Travellers find their own delight; 
 
 And their hard service, deemed debasing now, 
 
 Gained merited respect in simpler times ; 
 
 When Squire, and Priest, and they who round them' 
 
 dwelt 
 In rustic sequestration — all dependent 
 Upon the Pedl.vr's toil — supplied their wants. 
 Or pleased their fancies with the wares he brou"fht 
 Not ignorant was the Youth that still no few 
 Of his adventurous Countrymen were led 
 By perseverance in this track of life 
 To competence and ease ; — for him it bore 
 Attractions manifold; — and this he chose. 
 His Parents on the enterprise bestowed 
 Their farewell benediction, but with hearts 
 Foreboding evil. From his native hills 
 He wandered far ; much did he see of Men,t 
 Their manners, their enjoyments, and pursuits. 
 Their passions and their feelings ; chiefly those 
 Essential and eternal in the heart. 
 That, 'mid the simpler forms of rural life, 
 Exist more simple in their elements. 
 And speak a plainer language. In the woods, 
 A lone Enthusiast, and among the fields, 
 Itinerant in this labour, he had passed 
 The better portion of his time ; and there 
 Spontaneously had his affections thriven 
 Amid the bounties of the year, the peace 
 And liberty of Nature ; there he kept 
 In solitude and solitary thought 
 His mind in a just equipoise of love. 
 Serene it was, unclouded by the cares 
 Of ordinary life ; unve.xed, unwarped 
 By partial bondage. In his steady course. 
 No piteous revolutions had he felt. 
 No wild varieties of joy and grief 
 Unoccupied by sorrow of its own, 
 His heart lay open ; and, by Nature tuned 
 And constant disposition of his thoughts 
 To sympathy with Man, he was alive 
 To all that was enjoyed where'er he went. 
 And all tliat was endured ; for in himself 
 Happy, and quiet in his cheerfulness. 
 He had no painfiil pressure from without 
 That made him turn aside from wretchedness 
 With coward fears. He could afford to sufier 
 With those whom he saw suflfer. Hence it came 
 That in our best experience he was rich, 
 And in the wisdom of our daily life. 
 For hence, minutely, in his various rounds, 
 He had observed the progress and decay 
 Of many minds, of minds and bodies too ; 
 
 + See Note 1, p. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 809 
 
 rhe History of many Families ; 
 
 How they had prospered ; how they were o'erthrown 
 
 By passion or mischance ; or such misrule 
 
 A.mong the unthinking masters of the earth 
 
 As makes the nations groan. — This active course 
 
 He followed till provision for his wants 
 
 Had been obtained ; — the Wanderer then resolved 
 
 To pass the remnant of his days — untasked 
 
 With needless services — from hardship free. 
 
 His calling laid aside, he lived at ease : 
 
 But still he loved to pace the public roads 
 
 ^nd the wild paths; and, by the summer's warmth 
 
 (nvited, often would he leave his home 
 
 ^ni journey far, revisiting the scenes 
 
 That to his memory were most endeared. 
 
 V^igorous in health, of hopeful spirits, undamped 
 
 By worldly-mindedness or anxious care ; 
 
 Observant, studious, thoughtful, and refreshed 
 
 ^Sy knowledge gathered up from day to day ; — 
 
 Thus had he lived a long and innocent life. 
 
 The Scottish Church, both on himself and those 
 
 iVith whom from childhood he grew up, had held 
 
 The strong hand of lier purity ; and still 
 
 !jad watched him with an unrelenting eye. 
 
 This he remembered in his riper age 
 
 A'^ith gratitude, and reverential thoughts. 
 
 3ut by the native vigour of his mind, 
 
 ;5y his habitual wanderings out of doors, 
 
 [3y loneliness, and goodness, and kind works, 
 
 jlVhate'er, in docile childhood or in youth, 
 
 l3e had imbibed of fear or darker thought 
 
 lA^ae melted all away : so true was this, 
 
 iPhat sometimes his religion seemed to me 
 
 jSelf-laught, as of a dreamer in the woods ; 
 
 j.Vho to the model of his own pure heart 
 
 'Shaped his belief as grace divine inspired, 
 
 )r human reason dictated with awe. 
 
 — And surely never did there live on earth 
 
 \ man of kindlier nature. The rough sports 
 
 jVnd teasing ways of Children vexed not him ; 
 
 ' ndulgent listener was he to the tongue 
 
 Of garrulous age; nor did the sick man's tale, 
 
 To his fraternal sympathy addressed, 
 
 Obtain reluctant hearing. 
 
 I , Plain his garb ; 
 
 i3uch as might suit a rustic Sire, prepared 
 iPor Sabbath duties ; yet he was a Man 
 ;Whom no one could have passed without remark. 
 I^ctive and nervous was his gait ; his limbs 
 ind his whole figure breathed intelligence. 
 Time had compressed the freshness of his cheek 
 nto a narrower circle of deep red, 
 iBut had not tamed his eye ; that, under brows 
 Shaggy and gray, had meanings which it brought 
 l?rom years of youth ; which, like a Being made 
 
 Of many Beings, he had wondrous skill 
 
 To blend with knowledge of the years to come, 
 
 Human, or such as lie beyond the grave. 
 
 So was He framed ; and such his course of life 
 
 Who now, with no Appendage but a Staff, 
 
 The prized memorial of relinquished toils. 
 
 Upon that Cottage bench reposed his limbs, 
 
 Screened from the sun. Supine the Wanderer lay. 
 
 His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut, 
 
 The shadows of the breezy elms above 
 
 Dappling his face. He had not heard the sound 
 
 Of my approaching steps, and in the shade 
 
 Unnoticed did I stand, some minutes' space. 
 
 At length I hailed him, seeing that his hat 
 
 Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim 
 
 Had newly scooped a running stream. He rose. 
 
 And ere our lively greeting into peace 
 
 Had settled, " 'T is," said I, " a burning day : 
 
 My lips are parched with thirst, but you, it seems. 
 
 Have somewhere found relief" He, at the word. 
 
 Pointing towards a sweet-briar, bade me climb 
 
 The fence where that aspiring shrub looked out 
 
 Upon the public way. It was a plot 
 
 Of garden ground run wild, its matted weeds 
 
 Marked with the steps of those, whom, as they passed. 
 
 The gooseberry trees that shot in long lank slips, 
 
 Or currants, hanging from their leafless stems 
 
 In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap 
 
 The broken wall. I looked around, and there. 
 
 Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs 
 
 Joined in a cold damp nook, espied a Well 
 
 Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy fern. 
 
 My thirst I slaked, and from the cheerless spot 
 
 Withdrawing, straightway to the shade returned 
 
 Where sate the Old Man on the Cottage bench ; 
 
 And, while, beside him, with uncovered head, 
 
 I yet was standing, freely to respire. 
 
 And cool my temples in the fanning air. 
 
 Thus did he speak. " I see around me here 
 
 Things which you cannot see : we die, my Friend, 
 
 Nor we alone, but that which each man loved 
 
 And prized in his peculiar nook of earth 
 
 Dies with him, or is changed ; and very soon 
 
 Even of the good is no memorial left. 
 
 — The Poets, in their elegies and songs 
 
 Lamenting the departed, call the groves. 
 
 They call upon the hills and streams to mourn. 
 
 And senseless rocks ; nor idly ; for they speak, 
 
 In these their invocations, with a voice 
 
 Obedient to the strong creative power 
 
 Of human passion. Sympathies there are 
 
 More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth. 
 
 That steal upon the meditative mind. 
 
 And grow with thought. Beside yon Spring I stood, 
 
 And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel 
 
 One sadness, they and I. For them a bond 
 
400 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Of brotherhood is broken ; time has been 
 
 When, every day, the touch of human hand 
 Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up 
 In mortal stillness; and they ministered 
 To human comfort. Stooping down to drink, 
 Upon the slimy foot-stone 1 espied 
 The useless fragment of a wooden bowl, 
 Green with the moss of years, and subject only 
 To the soft handling of the Elements : 
 There let the relic lie — fond thought — vain words! 
 Forgive them ; — never — never did my steps 
 Approach this door, but she who dwelt within 
 A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her 
 As my own child. Oh, Sir ! the good die first, 
 And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust 
 Burn to the socket. Many a Passenger 
 Hath blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks, 
 When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn 
 From that forsaken Spring: and no one came 
 But he was welcome ; no one went away 
 But that it seemed she loved him. She is dead, 
 I The light extinguished of her lonely Hut, 
 The Hut itself abandoned to decay. 
 And She forgotten in tlie quiet grave ! 
 
 "I speak," continued he, "of One whose stock 
 
 Of virtues bloomed beneath this lowly roof. 
 
 She was a Woman of a steady mind. 
 
 Tender and deep in her e.xcess of love. 
 
 Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy 
 
 Of her own thoughts: by some especial care 
 
 Her temper had been framed, as if to make 
 
 A Being — who by adding love to peace 
 
 Might live on earth a life of happiness. 
 
 Her wedded Partner lacked not on his side 
 
 The humble worth that satisfied her heart: 
 
 Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal 
 
 Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell 
 
 That he was often seated at his loom. 
 
 In summer, ere the Mower was abroad 
 
 Among the dewy grass, — in early spring, 
 
 Ere the last Star had vanished. — They who passed 
 
 At evening, from behind the garden fence 
 
 Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply. 
 
 After his daily work, until the light 
 
 Had failed, and every leaf and flower were lost 
 
 In the dark hedges. So their days were spent 
 
 In peace and comfort; and a pretty Boy 
 
 Was their best hope, — next to the God in Heaven. 
 
 "Not twenty years ago, but you I think 
 Can scarcely bear it now in mind, tliere came 
 Two blighting seasons, when the fields were left 
 With half a harvest. It pleased Heaven to add 
 A worse affliction in the plague of war; 
 This happy Land was stricken to the heart ! 
 A Wanderer then among the Cottages 
 I, with my freight of winter raiment, saw 
 
 The hardships of that season ; many rich 
 
 Sank down, as in a dream, among the poor ; 
 
 And of the poor did many cease to be. 
 
 And their place knew them not. Meanwhile, abridge 
 
 Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled 
 
 To numerous self-denials, Margaret 
 
 Went struggling on through those calamitous years 
 
 With cheerful hope, until the second autumn. 
 
 When her life's Helpmate on a sick-bed lay. 
 
 Smitten with perilous fever. In disease 
 
 He lingered long; and when his strength returned, 
 
 He found the little he had stored, to meet 
 
 The hour of accident or crippling age, 
 
 Was all consumed. A second Infant now 
 
 Was added to the troubles of a time 
 
 Laden, for them and all of their degree. 
 
 With care and sorrow ; shoals of Artisans 
 
 From ill requited labour turned adrift 
 
 Sought daily bread from public charity. 
 
 They, and their wives and children — happier far 
 
 Could they have lived as do the little birds 
 
 That peck along the hedge-rows, or the Kite 
 
 That makes her dwelling on the mountain Rocks! 
 
 " A sad reverse it was for Him who long 
 Had filled with plenty, and possessed in peace. 
 This lonely Cottage. At his door he stood, 
 And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes 
 That had no mirth in them ; or with his knife 
 Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks — 
 Then, not less idly, sought, through every nook 
 In house or garden, any casual work 
 Of use or ornament ; and with a strange, 
 Amusing, yet uneasy novelty. 
 He blended, where he might, the various tasks 
 Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring. 
 But this endured not; his good humour soon 
 Became a weight in which no pleasure was: 
 And poverty brought on a petted mood 
 And a sore temper : day by day he drooped, 
 And he would leave his work — and to the Town, 
 Without an errand, would direct his steps. 
 Or wander here and there among the fields. 
 One while he would speak lightly of his Babes, 
 And with a cruel tongue : at other times 
 He tossed them vi'ith a false unnatural joy: 
 And 'twas a rueful thing to see the looks 
 Of the poor innocent children. ' Every smile,' 
 Said Margaret to me, here beneath these trees, 
 ' Made my heart bleed.' " 
 
 At this the Wanderer pauaec 
 And, looking up to those enormous Elms, 
 He said, "'Tis now the hour of deepest noon. — 
 At this still season of repose and peace. 
 This hour when all things which are not at rest 
 Are cheerful ; while this multitude of flies 
 Is filling all the air with melody ; 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 401 
 
 liVhy should a tear be in an Old Man's eye ? 
 JiVhy should we thus, with an untoward mind, 
 l^nd in the weakness of humanity 
 li'rom natural wisdom turn our hearts away, 
 iro natural comfort shut our eyes and ears, 
 And, feeding- on disquiet, thus disturb 
 Tlie calm of nature with our restless thoughts 1" 
 He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone: 
 J3ut, when he ended, there was in his face 
 (3iich easy cheerfulness, a look so mild, 
 Irhat for a little time it stole away 
 \\\ recollection, and that simple Tale 
 'assed from my mind like a forgotten sound. 
 \ while on trivial things we held discourse, 
 To me soon tasteless. In my own despite, 
 
 thought of that poor Woman as of one 
 iVhom I had known and loved. He had rehearsed 
 ler homely Tale with such familiar power, 
 A''ith such an active countenance, an eye 
 >5o busy, that the things of which he spake 
 Jeemed present ; and, attention now relaxed, 
 \ heart-felt chillness crept along my veins. 
 
 rose ; and, having left the breezy shade, 
 ;tood drinking comfort from the warmer sun, 
 Phat had not cheered me long — ere, looking round 
 ijpon that tranquil Ruin, I returned, 
 jVnd begged of the Old Man that, for my sake, 
 le would resume his story. — 
 
 He replied. 
 It were a wantonness, and would demand 
 Severe reproof, if we were Men whose hearts 
 pould hold vain dalliance with the misery 
 iven of the dead ; contented thence to draw 
 \ momentary pleasure, never marked 
 •iy reason, barren of all future good. 
 Jut we have known that there is often found 
 n mournful thoughts, and always might be found, 
 L power to virtue friendly ; were't not so, 
 am a dreamer among men, indeed 
 \n idle Dreamer ! 'T is a common Tale, 
 An ordinary sorrow of Man's life, 
 j^ tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed 
 :n bodily form. — But without further bidding 
 will proceed. 
 
 "While thus it fared with them. 
 To whom this Cottage, till those hapless years, 
 Sad been a blessed home, it was my chance 
 To travel in a Country far remote ; 
 \ni when these lofty Elms once more appeared, 
 iVhat pleasant expectations lured me on 
 O'er the flat Common ! — With quick step I reached 
 The threshold, lifted with light hand the latch; 
 i3ut, when I entered Margaret looked at me 
 A little while ; then turned her head away 
 'Speechless, — and, sitting down upon a chair, 
 jtVept bitterly. I wist not what to do, 
 3A 
 
 Nor how to speak to her. Poor Wretch ! at last 
 
 She rose from off her seat, and then, — O Sir ! 
 
 I cannot tell how she pronounced my name : — 
 
 With fervent love, and with a face of grief 
 
 Unutterably helpless, and a look 
 
 Thai seemed to cling upon me, she enquired 
 
 If I had seen her Husband. As she spake 
 
 A strange surprise and fear came to my heart. 
 
 Nor had I power to answer ere she told 
 
 That he had disappeared — not two months gone. 
 
 He left his House: two wretched days had past, 
 
 And on the third, as wistfully she raised 
 
 Her head from off her pillow, to look forth. 
 
 Like one in trouble, for returning light. 
 
 Within her chamber-casement she espied 
 
 A folded paper, lying as if placed 
 
 To meet her waking eyes. This tremblingly 
 
 She opened — found no writing, but beheld 
 
 Pieces of money carefully enclosed. 
 
 Silver and gold. — ' I shuddered at the sight,' 
 
 Said Margaret, ' for I knew it was his hand 
 
 Which placed it there : and ere that day was ended, 
 
 That long and anxious day ! I learned from One 
 
 Sent hither by my Husband to impart 
 
 The heavy news, — that he had joined a Troop 
 
 Of Soldiers, going to a distant Land. 
 
 — He left me thus — he could not gather heart 
 
 To take a farewell of me ; for he feared 
 
 That I should follow with my Babes, and sink 
 
 Beneath the misery of that wandering Life.' 
 
 "This Tale did Margaret tell with many tears: 
 And, when she ended, I had little power 
 To give her comfort, and was glad to take 
 Such words of hope from her own mouth as served 
 To ckeer us both : — but long we had not talked 
 Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts. 
 And with a brighter eye she looked around 
 As if she had been shedding tears of joy. 
 We parted. — 'Twas the time of early spring; 
 I left her busy with her garden tools ; 
 And well remember, o'er that fence she looked, 
 And, while I paced along the foot-way path, 
 Called out, and sent a blessing after me. 
 With tender cheerfulness ; and with a voice 
 That seemed the very sound of happy thoughts. 
 
 " I roved o'er many a hill and many a dale. 
 With my accustomed load ; in heat and cold, 
 Through many a wood, and many an open ground. 
 In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair. 
 Drooping or blithe of heart, as might befal ; 
 My best companions now the driving winds. 
 And now the 'trotting brooks' and whispering trees, 
 And now the music of my own sad steps. 
 With many a short-lived thought that passed between, 
 And disappeared. — I journeyed back this way, 
 34* 
 
402 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 When, in the warmth of Midsummer, the wheat 
 
 Was yellow ; and the soft and bladed grass. 
 
 Springing afresh, had o'er the hay-field spread 
 
 Its tender verdure. At the door arrived, 
 
 I found that she was absent. In the shade, 
 
 Where now we sit, I waited her return. 
 
 Her Cottage, then a cheerful Object, wore 
 
 Its customary look, — only, it seemed, 
 
 The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch. 
 
 Hung down in heavier tufts : and that bright weed, 
 
 The yellow stone-crop, suffered to take root 
 
 Along the window's edge, profusely grew, 
 
 Blinding the lower panes. I turned aside, 
 
 And strolled into her garden. It appeared 
 
 To lag behind the season, and had lost 
 
 Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and thrift 
 
 Had broken their trim lines, and straggled o'er 
 
 The paths they used to deck : — Carnations, once 
 
 Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less 
 
 For the peculiar pains they had required. 
 
 Declined their languid heads, wanting support. 
 
 The cumbrous bind-weed, with its wreaths and bells. 
 
 Had twined about her two small rows of pease. 
 
 And dragged them to the earth. — Ere this an hour 
 
 Was wasted. — Back I turned my restless steps; 
 
 A Stranger passed ; and, guessing whom I sought. 
 
 He said that she was used to ramble far. — 
 
 The sun was sinking in the west; and now 
 
 I sate with sad impatience. From within 
 
 Her solitary Infant cried aloud ; 
 
 Then, like a blast that dies away self-stilled. 
 
 The voice was silent. From the bench I rose ; 
 
 But neither could divert nor soothe my thoughts. 
 
 The spot, though fair, was very desolate — 
 
 The longer I remained more desolate: 
 
 And, looking round me, now I first observed 
 
 The corner stones, on either side the porch, 
 
 With dull red stains discoloured, and stuck o'er 
 
 With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the Sheep, 
 
 That fed upon the Common, thither came 
 
 Familiarly ; and found a couching-place 
 
 Even at her threshold. Deeper shadows fell 
 
 From these tall elms; — the Cottage-clock struck 
 
 eight; — 
 I turned, and saw her distant a few steps. 
 Her face was pale and thin — her figure, too, 
 Was changed. As she unlocked the door, she said, 
 ' It grieves me you have waited here so long. 
 But, in good truth, I've wandered much of late. 
 And, sometimes — to my shame I speak — have need 
 Of my best prayers to bring me back again. 
 While on the board she spread our evening meal, 
 She told me — interrupting not the work 
 Which gave employment to her listless hands — 
 That she had parted with her elder Child; 
 To a kind master on a distant farm 
 Now happily apprenticed. — ' I perceive 
 You look at me, and you have cause ; to-day 
 
 I have been travelling far; and many days 
 
 About the fields I wander, knowing this 
 
 Only, that what I seek I cannot find ; 
 
 And so I waste my time : for I am changed ; 
 
 And to myself,' said she, 'have done much wrong, 
 
 And to this helpless Infant. I have slept 
 
 Weeping, and weeping have I waked ; my teara 
 
 Have flowed as if my body were not such 
 
 As others are; and I could never die. 
 
 But I am now in mind and in my heart 
 
 More easy ; and I hope,' said she, ' that God 
 
 Will give me patience to endure the things 
 
 Which I behold at home.' It would have grieved 
 
 Your very soul to see her ; Sir, I feel 
 
 The story linger in my heart; I fear 
 
 'T is long and tedious ; but my spirit clings 
 
 To that poor Woman : — so familiarly 
 
 Do I perceive her manner, and her look. 
 
 And presence, and so deeply do I feel 
 
 Her goodness, that, not seldom, in my walks 
 
 A momentary trance comes over me ; 
 
 And to myself I seem to muse on One 
 
 By sorrow laid asleep; — or borne away, 
 
 A human being destined to awake 
 
 To human life, or something very near 
 
 To human life, when he shall come again 
 
 For whom she suflered. Yes, it would have grievedf 
 
 Your very soul to see her : evermore 
 
 Her eyelids drooped, her eyes were downward CBst; ■ 
 
 And, when she at her table gave me food. 
 
 She did not look at me. Her voice was low, 
 
 Her body was subdued. In every act 
 
 Pertaining to her house affairs, appeared 
 
 The careless stillness of a thinking mind 
 
 Self-occupied ; to which all outward things 
 
 Are like an idle matter. Still she sighed, 
 
 But yet no motion of the breast was seen. 
 
 No heaving of the heart. While by the flre 
 
 We sate together, sighs came on my ear, 
 
 I knew not how, and hardly whence they came. 
 
 " Ere my departure, to her care I gave. 
 For her son's use, some tokens of regard, 
 Which with a look of welcome she received ; 
 And I exhorted her to place her trust 
 In God's good love, and seek his help by prayer. 
 I took my staff", and when I kissed her babe 
 The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then 
 With the best hope and comfort I could give; 
 She thanked me for my wish ; — but for my hope 
 Methought she did not thank me. 
 
 " I returned, 
 And took my rounds along this road again 
 Ere on its sunny bank the primrose flower 
 Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the Spring. 
 I found her sad and drooping; she had learned 
 No tidings of her Husband ; if he lived. 
 She knew not that he lived ; if he were dead, 
 
 L 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 403 
 
 Ighe knew not he was dead. She seemed the same 
 
 [n person and appearance ; but her House 
 
 Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence; 
 
 The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth 
 
 Was comfortless, and her small lot of books, 
 
 Which, in the Cottage window, heretofore 
 
 Had been piled up against the corner panes 
 
 In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves 
 
 Lay scattered here and there, open or shut, 
 
 A.3 they had chanced to fall. Her infant Babe 
 
 iHad from its Mother caught the trick of grief, 
 
 And sighed among its playthings. Once again 
 
 I turned towards the garden gate, and saw, 
 
 More plainly still, that poverty and grief 
 
 Were now come nearer to her : weeds defaced 
 
 The hardened soil, and knots of withered grass : 
 
 No ridges there appeared of clear black mould, 
 
 No winter greenness ; of her herbs and flowers, 
 
 It seemed the better part were gnawed away 
 
 Or trampled into earth; a chain of straw. 
 
 Which had been twined about the slender stem 
 
 Of a yoimg apple-tree, lay at its root. 
 
 The bark was nibbled round by truant Sheep. 
 
 — Margaret stood near, her Infant in her arms, 
 
 And, noting that my eye was on the tree. 
 
 She said, 'I fear it will be dead and gone 
 
 Ere Robert come again.' Towards the House 
 
 Together we returned ; and she enquired 
 
 If I had any hope : — but for her Babe 
 
 And for her little orphan Boy, she said, 
 
 She had no wish to live, that she must die 
 
 Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom 
 
 Still in its place; his Sunday garments hung 
 
 Upon the self-same nail ; his very staff' 
 
 Stood undisturbed behind the door. And when. 
 
 In bleak December, I retraced this way, 
 
 She told me that her little Babe was dead. 
 
 And she was left alone. She now, released 
 
 From her maternal cares, had taken up 
 
 The employment common through these Wilds, and 
 
 gained. 
 By spinning hemp, a pittance for herself; 
 And for this end had hired a neighbour's Boy 
 To give her needful help. That very time 
 Most willingly she put her work aside, 
 And walked with me along the miry road, 
 Heedless how far ; and in such piteous sort 
 That any heart had ached to hear her, begged 
 That, wheresoe'er I went, I still would ask 
 For him whom she had lost. We parted then — 
 Our final parting; for from that time forth 
 Did many seasons pass ere I returned 
 Into this tract again. 
 
 " Nine tedious years ; 
 From their first separation, nine long years, 
 She lingered in unquiet widowhood; 
 
 A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have been 
 A sore heart-wasting! I have heard, my Friend, 
 That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate 
 Alone, through half the vacant Sabbath day ; 
 And, if a dog passed by, she still would quit 
 The shade, and look abroad. On this old Bench 
 For hours she sate ; and evermore her eye 
 Was busy in the distance, shaping things 
 That made her heart beat quick You see that path, 
 Now faint, — the grass has crept o'er its gray line; 
 There, to and fro, she paced througli many a day 
 Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp 
 That girt her waist, spinning the long-drawn thread 
 With backward steps. Yet ever as there passed 
 A man whose garments showed the soldier's red, 
 Or crippled Mendicant in Sailor's garb, 
 The little Child who sate to turn the wheel 
 Ceased from his task; and she with faltering voice 
 Made many a fond enquiry ; and viihen they. 
 Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by, 
 Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate. 
 That bars the Traveller's road, she often stood, 
 And when a stranger Horseman came, the latch 
 Would lift, and in his face look wistfully ; 
 Most happy, if, from aught discovered there 
 Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat 
 The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor Hut 
 Sank to decay : for he was gone, whose hand, 
 At the first nipping of October frost, 
 Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw 
 Chequered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived 
 Through the long winter, reckless and alone ; 
 Until her House by frost, and thaw, and rain, 
 Was sapped ; and while she slept, the nightly damps 
 Did chill her breast ; and in the stormy day 
 Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind ; 
 Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still 
 She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds 
 Have parted hence ; and still that length of road, 
 And this rude bench, one torturing hope endeared, 
 Fast rooted at her heart : and here, my Friend, 
 In sickness she remained; and here she died, 
 Last human tenant of these ruined Walls." 
 
 The Old Man ceased : he saw that I was moved ; 
 From that low Bench, rising instinctively 
 I turned aside in weakness, nor had power 
 To thank him for the Tale which he had told. 
 I stood, and leaning o'er the Garden wall. 
 Reviewed that Woman's sufferings ; and it seemed 
 To comfort me vphile with a Brother's love 
 I blessed her — in the impotence of grief. 
 At length towards the Cottage I returned 
 Fondly, — and traced, with interest more mild, 
 That secret spirit of humanity 
 Which, 'mid the calm oblivious tendencies 
 
404 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Of nature, 'itiid her plants, and weeds, and flowers, 
 
 And silent overgrowings, still survived. 
 
 The Old Man, noting tliis, resumed, and said, 
 
 " My Friend ! enough to sorrow you have given, 
 
 The purposes of wisdom ask no more ; 
 
 Be wise and cheerful ; and no longer read 
 
 The forms of things with an unworthy eye. 
 
 She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. 
 
 I well remember that those very plumes. 
 
 Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall, 
 
 By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o'er. 
 
 As once I passed, did to my heart convey 
 
 So still an image of tranquillity. 
 
 So calm and still, and looked so beautiful 
 
 Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind. 
 
 That what we feel of sorrow and despair 
 
 From ruin and from change, and all the grief 
 
 The passing shows of Being leave behind, 
 
 Appeared an idle dream, that could not live 
 Where meditation was. I turned away. 
 And walked along my road in happiness." 
 
 He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot 
 A slant and mellow radiance, which began 
 To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees, 
 We sate on that low Bench : and now we felt, 
 Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on. 
 A linnet warbled from tliose lolly elms, 
 A thrush sang loud, and other melodies, 
 At distance heard, peopled the milder air. 
 The Old Man rose, and, with a sprightly mien 
 Of hopeful preparation, grasped his Staff: 
 Together casting then a farewell look 
 Upon those silent walls, we left the Shade ; 
 And, ere the stars were visible, had reached 
 A Village Inn, — our Evening resting-place. 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 BOOK THE SECOND. 
 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 The Author describes his travels wrih the Wanderer, whose character is furlher illustrated — Morning scene, and 
 view of a Village Waiie — Wanderer's account of a Friend whom he purposes lo visit — \'iew, from an eminence, 
 of the Valley which his Friend had chosen for his retreat — feelings of the Author at the sight of it — Sound of 
 singing from below — a funeral procession — Descent into the Valley —Observations drawn from the Wanderer at 
 sight of a Bot)k accidentally discovered in a recess in the Valley — Meeting with the Wanderer's friend, the .Solitary 
 — Wanderer's description of the mode of burial in this mountainous district — .Solitary contrasts with this, tliat of the 
 Individual carried a few minutes belbre from the Cottage — Brief con vei^ation — The Cottage entered — descriptior\ 
 of the Sohtary's apartment — repast there — View from the Window of two mountain summits — and the Solitar)''s 
 description of the Companionship they afford him — account of the departed Inmate of the Cottage — description of 
 a grand spectacle upon the mountains, with its effect upon the Solitary's mind — Quit the House. 
 
 In days of yore how fortunately fared 
 
 The Minstrel ! wandering on from Hall to Hall, 
 
 Baronial Court or Royal ; cheered with gifts 
 
 Munificent, and love, and Ladies' praise ; 
 
 Now meeting on his road an armed Knight, 
 
 Now resting with a Pilgrim by the side 
 
 Of a clear brook; — beneath an Abbey's roof 
 
 One evening sumptuously lodged; the ne.xt 
 
 Humbly in a religious Hospital ; 
 
 Or with some merry Outlaws of the wood ; 
 
 Or haply shrouded in a Hermit's cell. 
 
 Him, sleeping or awake, the Robber spared ; 
 He walked — protected from the sword of war 
 By virtue of that sacred Instrument 
 His Harp, suspended at the Traveller's side ; 
 His dear companion wheresoe'er he went. 
 Opening from Land to Land an easy way 
 By melody, and by the charm of verse. 
 Yet not the noblest of that honoured Race 
 Drew happier, loftier, more enipassioned thoughts 
 From his long journeyings and eventful life. 
 Than this obscure Itinerant had skill 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 405 
 
 To gather, ranging through the tamer ground 
 
 Of tliese our unimaginative days; 
 
 iBoth while lie trod the earth in humblest guise 
 
 Accoutred with his burthen and his staff; 
 
 And now, when free to move with lighter pace. 
 
 What wonder, then, if I, whose favourite School 
 JHath been the fields, the roads, and rural lanes. 
 Looked on this Guide with reverential love 1 
 Each with the other pleased, we now pursued 
 Our journey — beneath favourable skies. 
 Turn wheresoe'er we would, he was a light 
 Unfailing : not a Hamlet could we pass, 
 Rarely a House, that did not yield to him 
 Remembrances ; or from his tongue call forth 
 Some way-beguiling tale. Nor less regard 
 Accompanied those strains of apt discourse, 
 Which Nature's various objects might inspire; 
 I And in the silence of his face I read 
 His overflowing spirit. Birds and beasts. 
 And the mute fish that glances in the stream, 
 And harmless reptile coiling in the sun. 
 And gorgeous insect hovering in the air, 
 iThe fowl domestic, and the household dog, 
 In his capacious mind — he loved them all : 
 Their rights acknowledging, he felt for all. 
 Oft was occasion given me to perceive 
 How the calm pleasures of the pasturing Herd 
 To happy contemplation soothed his walk; 
 How the poor Brute's condition, forced to run 
 jits course of suffering in the public road, 
 [Sad contrast ! all too oflen smote his heart 
 With unavailing pity. Rich in love 
 And sweet humanity, he was, himself, 
 [To the degree that he desired, beloved. 
 : — Greetings and smiles we met with all day long 
 From faces that he knew ; we took our seats 
 By many a cottage hearth, where he received 
 The welcome of an Inmate come from fai". 
 — Nor was he loth to enter ragged Huts, 
 Huts where his charity was blest; his voice 
 Heard as the voice of an experienced Friend. 
 And, sometimes, where the Poor Man held dispute 
 With his own mind, unable to subdue 
 Impatience through inaptness to perceive 
 General distress in his particular lot; 
 Or cherishing resentment, or in vain 
 Struggling against it, with a soul perplexed. 
 And finding in himself no steady power 
 :To draw the line of comfort that divides 
 [Calamity, the chastisement of Heaven, 
 From the injustice of our brother men ; 
 To Him appeal was made as to a judge ; 
 Who, with an understanding heart, allayed 
 The perturbation ; listened to the plea ; 
 jResolved the dubious point ; and sentence gave 
 So grounded, so applied, that it was heard 
 With softened spirit — even when it condemned. 
 
 Such intercourse I witnessed, while we roved 
 
 Now as his choice directed, now as mine; 
 
 Or both, with equal readiness of will. 
 
 Our course submitting to the changeful breeze 
 
 Of accident. But when the rising sun 
 
 Had three times called us to renew our walk. 
 
 My Fellow-traveller, with earnest voice. 
 
 As if the thought were hut a moment old, 
 
 Claimed absolute dominion for the day. 
 
 We started — and he led towards the hills. 
 
 Up through an ample vale, with higher hills 
 
 Before us, mountains stern and desolate ; 
 
 But, in the majesty of distance, now 
 
 Set off, and to our ken appearing fair 
 
 Of aspect, with aerial softness clad. 
 
 And beautified with morning's purple beams. 
 
 The Wealthy, the Luxurious, by the stress 
 Of business roused, or pleasure, ere their time. 
 May roll in chariots, or provoke the hoofs 
 Of the fleet coursers they bestride, to raise 
 From earth the dust of morning, slow to rise ; 
 And They, if blest with health and hearts at ease. 
 Shall lack not their enjoyment : — but how faint 
 Compared with ours ! who, pacing side by side, 
 Could, with an eye of leisure, look on all 
 That we beheld ; and lend the listening sense 
 To every grateful sound of earth and air ; 
 Pausing at will — our spirits braced, our thoughts 
 Pleasant as roses in the thickets blown. 
 And pure as dew bathing their crimson leaves. 
 
 Mount slowly. Sun ! that we may journey long. 
 By this dark hill protected from thy beams ! 
 Such is the summer Pilgrim's frequent wish ; 
 But quickly from among our morning thoughts 
 'T was chased away : for, toward the western side 
 Of the broad Vale, casting a casual glance. 
 We saw a throng of People ; — wherefore met l 
 Blithe notes of music, suddenly let loose 
 On the thrilled ear, and flags uprising, yield 
 Prompt answer : they proclaim the annual Wake, 
 Which the bright season favours. — Tabor and Pipe 
 In purpose join to hasten and reprove 
 The laggard Rustic ; and repay with boons 
 Of merriment a party-coloured Knot, 
 Already formed upon the Village green. 
 — Beyond the limits of the shadow cast 
 By the broad hill, glistened upon our sight 
 That gay Assemblage. Round them and above, 
 Glitter, with dark recesses interposed, 
 Casement, and cottage-roof, and stems of trees 
 Half-veiled in vapoury cloud, the silver steam 
 Of dews fast melting on their leafy boughs 
 By the strong sunbeams smitten. Like a mast 
 Of gold, the Maypole shines ; as if the rays 
 Of morning, aided by exhaling dew. 
 
406 
 
 WOTIDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 With gladsome influence could re-animate 
 The faded garlands dangling from its sides. 
 
 Said I, " The music and the sprightly scene 
 Invite us; shall we quit our road, and join 
 These festive matins !" — He replied, " Not loth 
 Here would I linger, and with you partake, 
 Not one hour merely, but till evening's close, 
 The simple pastimes of the day and place. 
 By the fleet Racers, ere the Sun be set. 
 The turf of yon large pasture will be skimmed ; 
 There, too, the lusty Wrestlers shall contend : 
 But know we not that he, who intermits 
 The appointed task and duties of the day, 
 Untunes full oft the pleasures of tlie day; 
 Checking the finer spirits that refuse 
 To flow, when purposes are lightly changed 1 
 We must proceed — a length of journey yet 
 Remains untraced." Then, pointing with his staff 
 Raised toward those craggy summits, his intent 
 He thus imparted. 
 
 " In a spot that lies 
 Among yon mountain fastnesses concealed. 
 You will receive, before the hour of noon, 
 Good recompense, I hope, for this day's toil — 
 From sight of One who lives secluded there. 
 Lonesome and lost : of whom, and whose past life, 
 (Not to forestall such knowledge as may be 
 More faithfully collected from himself) 
 This brief communication shall suffice. 
 
 " Though now sojourning there, he, like myself. 
 
 Sprang from a stock of lowly parentage 
 
 Among the wilds of Scotland, in a tract 
 
 Where many a sheltered and well-tended plant 
 
 Bears, on the humblest ground of social life, 
 
 Blossoms of piety and innocence. 
 
 Such grateful promises his youth displayed : 
 
 And, having shown in study forward zeal, 
 
 He to the Ministry was duly called ; 
 
 And straight incited by a curious mind 
 
 Filled with vague hopes, he undertook the charge 
 
 Of Chaplain to a Military Troop 
 
 Cheered by the Highland Bagpipe, as they marched 
 
 In plaided vest, — his Fellow-countrymen. 
 
 This Office filling, yet by native power, 
 
 And force of native inclination, made 
 
 An intellectual Ruler in the haunts 
 
 Of social vanity — he walked the World, 
 
 Gay, and affecting graceful gaiety ; 
 
 La.\, buoyant — less a Pastor with his Flock 
 
 Than a Soldier among Soldiers — lived and roamed 
 
 Where fortune led : — and Fortune, who oft proves 
 
 The careless Wanderer's Friend, to him made known 
 
 A blooming Lady — a conspicuous Flower, 
 
 Admired for beauty, for her sweetness praised ; 
 
 Whom he had sensibility to love, 
 Ambition to attempt, and skill to win. 
 
 "For this fair Bride, most rich in gifts of mind. 
 Nor sparingly endowed with worldly wealth. 
 His Ofiice he relinquished ; and retired 
 From the world's notice to a rural Home. 
 Youth's season yet with him was scarcely past. 
 And she was in youth's prime. How full their joy, 
 How free their love ! nor did that love decay. 
 Nor joy abate, till, pitiable doom ! 
 In the short course of one undreaded year 
 Death blasted all. — Death suddenly o'erthrew 
 Two lovely Children — all that they possessed! 
 The Mother followed : — miserably bare 
 Tlie one Survivor stood ; he wept, he prayed 
 For his dismissal ; day and night, compelled 
 By pain to turn his thoughts towards the grave. 
 And face the regions of Eternity. 
 An uncomplaining apathy displaced 
 This anguish ; and, indifferent to delight. 
 To aim and purpose, he consumed his days. 
 To private interest dead, and public care. 
 So lived he ; so he might have died. 
 
 " But now. 
 
 To the wide world's astonishment, appeared 
 A glorious opening, the unlooked-for dawn. 
 That promised everlasting joy to France ! 
 Her voice of social transport reached even him! 
 He broke from his contracted bounds, repaired 
 To the great City, an Emporium then 
 Of golden expectations, and receiving 
 Freights every day from a new world of hope. 
 Thither his popular talents he transferred ; 
 And, from the Pulpit, zealously maintained 
 The cause of Christ and civil liberty, 
 As one, and moving to one glorious end. 
 Intoxicating service ! I might say 
 A happy service ; for he was sincere 
 As vanity and fondness for applause. 
 And new and shapeless wishes, would allow. 
 
 "That righteous Cause (such power hath Freedom]' 
 
 bound. 
 For one hostility, in friendly league 
 Ethereal Natures and the worst of Slaves ; 
 Was served by rival Advocates that came 
 From regions opposite as heaven and hell. 
 One courage seemed to animate them all : 
 And, from the dazzling conquests daily gained 
 By their united eflLrts, there arose 
 A proud and most presumptuous confidence 
 In the transcendent wisdom of the age, j 
 
 And her discernment; not alone in rights, ! 
 
 And in the origin and bounds of power 
 Social and temporal ; but in laws divine, 
 Deduced by reason, or to faith revealed. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 407 
 
 \n overweening trust was raised ; and fear 
 
 >st out, alilce of person and of thing. 
 
 'lague from this union spread, whose subtle bane 
 
 Irhe strongest did not easily escape ; 
 
 !\nd He, what wonder ! took a mortal taint. 
 
 [low shall I trace the change, how bear to tell 
 
 irhat he broke faith with them whom he had laid 
 
 ' n earth's dark chambers, with a Christian's hope ! 
 
 {\n infidel contempt of holy writ 
 
 |3tole by degrees upon his mind; and hence 
 
 lliife, like that Roman Janus, double-faced ; 
 
 l/ilest hypocrisy, the laughing, gay 
 
 hypocrisy, not leagued with fear, but pride. 
 
 5mooth words he had to wheedle simple souls ; 
 
 Jut, for disciples of the inner school, 
 
 )ld freedom was old servitude, and they 
 
 'rhe wisest whose opinions stooped the least 
 
 fo known restraints : and who most boldly drew 
 
 lopeful prognostications from a creed, 
 
 That, in the light of false philosophy, 
 
 3pread like a halo round a misty moon, 
 
 iVidening its circle as the storms advance. 
 
 I'His sacred function was at length renounced ; 
 
 l\nd every day and every place enjoyed 
 
 irhe unshackled Layman's natural liberty ; 
 
 ;3peech, manners, morals, all without disguise. 
 
 i do not wish to wrong him ; — though the course 
 
 Of private life licentiously displayed 
 
 Jnhallowed actions — planted like a crown 
 
 &pon the insolent aspiring brow 
 
 Of spurious notions — worn as open signs 
 
 JDf prejudice subdued — he still retained. 
 
 Mid such abasement, what he had received 
 
 Jmrn nature — an intense and glowing mind. 
 
 ;iVherefore, when humbled Liberty grew weak, 
 
 \nd mortal sickness on her face appeared, 
 
 ie coloured objects to his own desire 
 
 As with a Lover's passion. Yet his moods 
 
 Of pain were keen as those of better men, 
 
 IS^ay keener — as liis fortitude was less. 
 
 !\nd he continued, when worse days were come, 
 
 iFo deal about his sparkling eloquence, 
 
 Struggling against the strange reverse with zeal 
 
 That showed like happiness ; but, in despite 
 
 pf all this outside bravery, within. 
 
 He neither felt encouragement nor hope : 
 
 For moral dignity, and strength of mind. 
 
 Were wanting; and simplicity of Life; 
 
 And reverence for himself; and, last and best, 
 
 Confiding thoughts, through love and fear of Hira 
 
 Before whose sight the troubles of this world 
 
 Are vain as billows in a tossing sea. 
 
 I' The glory of the times fading away, 
 The splendour, which had given a festal air 
 To self-importance, hallowed it, and veiled 
 Prom his own sight, — this gone, he forfeited 
 
 All joy in human nature ; was consumed, 
 And vexed, and chafed, by levity and scorn. 
 And fruitless indignation; galled by pride; 
 Made desperate by contempt of Men who throve 
 Before his sight in power or fame, and won. 
 Without desert, what he desired ; weak men, 
 Too weak even for his envy or his hate ! 
 Tormented thus, after a wandering course 
 Of discontent, and inwardly opprest 
 With malady — in part, I fear, provoked 
 By weariness of life, he fixed his Home, 
 Or, rather say, sate down by very chance, 
 Among these rugged hills ; where now he dwells. 
 And wastes the sad remainder of his hours 
 In self-indulging spleen, that doth not want 
 Its own voluptuousness ; — on this resolved, 
 With this content, that he will live and die 
 Forgotten, — at safe distance from a ' world 
 Not moving to his mind.' " 
 
 These serious words 
 Closed the preparatory notices 
 That served my Fellow-traveller to beguile 
 The way, while we advanced up that wide Vale. 
 Diverging now (as if his quest had been 
 Some secret of the Mountains, Cavern, Fall 
 Of water — or some boastful Eminence, 
 Renowned for splendid prospect far and wide) 
 We scaled, without a track to ease our steps, 
 A steep ascent ; and reached a dreary plain. 
 With a tumultuous waste of huge hill tops 
 Before us ; savage region ! which I paced 
 Dispirited : when, all at once, behold ! 
 Beneath our feet, a little lowly Vale, 
 A lowly Vale, and yet uplifted high 
 Among the mountains ; even as if the spot 
 Had been, from eldest time by wish of theirs. 
 So placed, to be shut out from all the world ! 
 Urn-like it was in shape, deep as an Urn ; 
 With rocks encompassed, save that to the South 
 Was one small opening, where a heath-clad ridge 
 Supplied a boundary less abrupt and close ; 
 A quiet treeless nook, with two green fields, 
 A liquid pool that glittered in the sun, 
 And one bare Dwelling ; one Abode, no more ! 
 It seemed the home of poverty and toil. 
 Though not of want : the little fields, made green 
 By husbandry of many thrifty years. 
 Paid cheerful tribute to the moorland House. 
 
 There crows the Cock, single in his domain: 
 
 The small birds find in spring no thicket there 
 To shroud them ; only from the neighbouring Vales 
 The Cuckoo, straggling up to the hill tops, 
 Shouteth faint tidings of some gladder place. 
 
 Ah ! what a sweet Recess, thought I, is here ! 
 Instantly throwing down my limbs at ease 
 Upon a bed of heath ; — full many a spot 
 Of hidden beauty have I chanced to espy 
 
408 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Among the mountains ; never one like this ; 
 So lonesome, and so perfectly secure : 
 Not melancholy — no, for it is green, 
 And bright, and fertile, furnished in itself 
 With the few needful things that life requires. 
 — In rugged arms how soft it seems to lie, 
 How tenderly protected ! Far and near 
 We have an image of the pristine earth. 
 The planet in its nakedness; were this 
 Man's only dwelling, sole appointed seat, 
 First, last, and single in the breathing world. 
 It could not be more quiet: peace is here 
 Or nowhere ; days unruffled by the gale 
 Of public news or private ; years that pass 
 Forgetfully; uncalled upon to pay 
 The common penalties of mortal life, 
 Sickness, or accident, or grief, or pain. 
 
 On these and kindred thoughts intent I lay 
 
 In silence musing by my Comrade's side, 
 
 He also silent: when from out the heart 
 
 Of that profound Abyss a solemn Voice, 
 
 Or several voices in one solemn sound. 
 
 Was heard — ascending: mournful, deep, and slow 
 
 The Cadence, as of Psalms — a funeral dirge! 
 
 We listened, looking down upon the Hut, 
 
 But seeing no One : meanwhile from below 
 
 The strain continued, spiritual as before ; 
 
 And now distinctly could I recognise 
 
 These words : — " Shall in the Grave thy love be 
 
 known, 
 In Death thy faithfulness ?"— "God rest his soul !" 
 The Wanderer cried, abruptly breaking silence, — 
 "He is departed, and finds peace at last!" 
 
 This scarcely spoken, and those holy strains 
 Not ceasing, forth appeared in view a band 
 Of rustic Persons, from behind the hut 
 Bearing a Coffin in the midst, witli which 
 They shaped their course along the sloping side 
 Of that small Valley ; singing as they moved ; 
 A sober company and few, the Men 
 Bare-headed, and all decently attired ! 
 Some steps when they had thus advanced, the dirge 
 Ended ; and, from the stillness that ensued 
 Recovering, to my Friend I said, " You spake, 
 Metliought, with apprehension that these rites 
 Are paid to Him upon whose shy retreat 
 This day we purposed to intrude." — "I did so. 
 But let us hence, that we may learn the truth: 
 Perhaps it is not he, but some One else. 
 For whom this pious service is performed ; 
 Some other Tenant of tlie Solitude." 
 
 So, to a steep and difficult descent 
 Trusting ourselves, we wound from crag to crag. 
 Where passage could be won ; and, as the last 
 Of the mute train, upon the healhy top 
 
 Of that off-sloping Outlet, disappeared, 
 
 I, more impatient in my downward course, 
 
 Had landed upon easy ground; and there 
 
 Stood waiting for my comrade. When behold 
 
 An object that enticed my steps aside ! 
 
 A narrow, winding Entry opened out 
 
 Into a platform — that lay, sheepfold-wise. 
 
 Enclosed between an upright mass of rock 
 
 And one old moss-grown wall ; — a cool Recess, 
 
 And fanciful ! For, where the rock and wall 
 
 Met in an angle, hung a penthouse, framed 
 
 By thrusting two rude staves into the wall 
 
 And overlaying them with mountain sods; 
 
 To weather-fend a little turf-built seat 
 
 Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor dread 
 
 The burning sunshine, or a transient shower ; 
 
 But the whole plainly wrought by Children's hands! 
 
 Whose skill had thronged the floor with a proud she- 
 
 Of baby-houses, curiously arranged ; 
 
 Nor wanting ornaments of walks between. 
 
 With mimic trees inserted in the turf. 
 
 And gardens interposed. Pleased with the sight, t 
 
 I could not choose but beckon to my Guide, 
 
 Who, entering, round him threw a careless glance, < 
 
 Impatient to pass on, when I exclaimed, 
 
 " Lo ! what is herel" and, stooping down, drew fortl 
 
 A Book, that, in the midst of stones and moss 
 
 And wreck of party-coloured earthen-ware 
 
 Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise 
 
 One of those petty structures. " Gracious Heaven!' 
 
 The Wanderer cried, "it cannot but be his. 
 
 And he is gone V The Book, which in my hand 
 
 Had opened of itself (for it was swoln 
 
 With searching damp, and seemingly had lain 
 
 To the injurious elements exposed 
 
 From week to week,) I found lo be a work 
 
 In the French Tongue, a Novel of Voltaire, 
 
 His famous Optimist. " Unhappy Man !" 
 
 Exclaimed my Friend : " here then has been to hinii 
 
 Retreat within retreat, a sheltering-place 
 
 Within how deep a shelter ! He had fits. 
 
 Even to the last, of genuine tenderness. 
 
 And loved the haunts of children : here, no doubt, ' 
 
 Pleasing and pleased, he shared their simple sports,' 
 
 Or sate companionless; and here the Book, 
 
 Left and forgotten in his careless way. 
 
 Must by the Cottage Children have been found: i 
 
 Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate work! 
 
 To what odd purpose have the Darlings turned 
 
 This sad Memorial of their hapless Friend !" 
 
 " Me," said I, " most doth it surprise, to find 
 Such Book in such a place !" — " A Book it is," 
 He answered, " to the Person suited well, 
 Though little suited to surrounding things ; 
 'T is strange, I grant ; and stranger still had been 
 To see the Man who owned it, dwelling here. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 409 
 
 'With one poor Shepherd, far from all the world ! 
 iNow, if our errand hath been thrown away, 
 As from these intimations I forebode. 
 Grieved shall I be — less for my sake than yours ; 
 And least of all for Him who is no more." 
 
 By this, the Book was in the Old Man's hand ; 
 
 And he continued, glancing on the leaves 
 
 jAn eye of scorn ; " The Lover," said he, " doomed 
 
 To love when hope hath failed him — whom no depth 
 
 Of privacy is deep enough to hide, 
 
 Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of hair. 
 
 And that is joy to him. When change of times 
 
 Hath summoned Kings to scaffolds, do but give 
 
 The faithful Servant, who must hide his head 
 
 Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may, 
 
 ■A kerchief sprinkled with his Master's blood. 
 
 And he too hath his comforter. How poor. 
 
 Beyond all poverty how destitute, 
 
 llust that Man have been left, who, hither driven, 
 
 ;Flying or seeking, could yet bring with him 
 
 No dearer relique, and no better stay, 
 
 Than this dull product of a Scoffer's pen. 
 
 Impure conceits discharging from a heart 
 
 Hardened by impious pride ! — I did not fear 
 
 To ta.x you with this journey ;" — mildly said 
 
 My venerable Friend, as forth we stepped 
 
 Into the presence of the cheerful light — 
 
 "For I have knowledge that you do not shrink 
 
 From moving spectacles ; — but let us on." 
 
 I 
 
 iSo speaking, on he went, and at the word 
 
 :I followed, till he made a sudden stand : 
 
 For fhll in view, approaching through a gate 
 
 That opened from the enclosure of green fields 
 
 Into the rough uncultivated ground, 
 
 Behold the Man whom he had fancied dead ! 
 
 I knew, from his deportment, mien, and dress, 
 
 'That it could be no other ; a pale face, 
 
 ;A tall and meagre person, in a garb 
 
 jNot rustic, dull and faded like himself! 
 
 He saw us not, though distant but few steps ; 
 
 (For he was busy, dealing, from a store 
 
 Upon a broad leaf carried, choicest strings 
 
 Of red ripe currants ; gift by which he strove, 
 
 With intermixture of endearing words, 
 
 jTo soothe a Child, who walked beside him, weeping 
 
 [As if disconsolate. — " They to the Grave 
 
 Are bearing him, my little One," he said, 
 
 " To the dark pit ; but he will feel no pain ; 
 
 His body is at rest, his soul in Heaven." 
 
 More might have followed — but my honoured Friend 
 Broke in upon the Speaker with a frank 
 And cordial greeting. — Vivid was the light 
 That flashed and sparkled from the Other's eyes; 
 He was all fire : the sickness from his face 
 3B 
 
 Passed like a fancy that is swept away ; 
 
 Hands joined he with his Visitant, — a grasp, 
 
 An eager grasp ; and many moments' space, 
 
 When the first glow of pleasure was no more. 
 
 And much of what had vanished was returned, 
 
 An amicable smile retained the life 
 
 Which it had unexpectedly received. 
 
 Upon his hollow cheek. "How kind," he said, 
 
 " Nor could your coming have been better timed ; 
 
 For this, you see, is in our narrow world 
 
 A day of sorrow. I have here a Charge," 
 
 And speaking thus, he patted tenderly 
 
 The sun-burnt forehead of the weeping Child — 
 
 " A little Mourner, whom it is my task 
 
 To comfort ; — but how came Ye ? — if yon track 
 
 (Which doth at once befriend us and betray) 
 
 Conducted hither your most welcome feet, 
 
 Ye could not miss the Funeral Train — they yet 
 
 Have scarcely disappeared." " This blooming Child," 
 
 Said the Old Man, " is of an age to weep 
 
 At any grave or solemn spectacle, 
 
 Inly distressed or overpowered with awe. 
 
 He knows not why ; — but he, perchance, this day 
 
 Is shedding Orphan's tears ; and you yourself 
 
 Must have sustained a loss." — "The hand of Death," 
 
 He answered, "has been here ; but could not well 
 
 Have fallen more lightly, if it had not fallen 
 
 Upon myself" — The Other left these words 
 
 Unnoticed, thus continuing. — 
 
 "From yon Crag, 
 Down whose steep sides we dropped into the vale, 
 We heard the hymn they sang — a solemn sound 
 Heard any where, but in a place like this 
 'T is more than human ! Many precious rites 
 And customs of our rural ancestry 
 Are gone, or stealing from us; this, I hope. 
 Will last for ever. Often have I stopped 
 When on my way, I could not choose but stop. 
 So much I felt the awfulness of Life, 
 In that one moment when the Corse is lifted 
 In silence, with a hush of decency, 
 Then from the threshold moves with song of peace, 
 And confidential yearnings, to its home. 
 Its final home in earth. What traveller — who — 
 (How far soe'er a Stranger) does not own 
 The bond of brotherhood, when he sees them go, 
 A mute Procession on the houseless road ; 
 Or passing by some single tenement 
 Or clustered dwellings, where again they raise 
 The monitory voice! But most of all 
 It touches, it confirms, and elevates. 
 Then, when the Body, soon to be consigned 
 Ashes to ashes, dust bequeathed to dust. 
 Is raised from the church-aisle, and forward born^ 
 Upon the shoulders of the next in love, 
 The nearest in affection or in blood ; 
 Yea, by the very Mourners who had knelt 
 35 
 
410 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 I 
 
 Beside the Coffin, restinir on its lid 
 
 In silent grief their unuplifted heads, 
 
 And heard meanwhile the Psalmist's mournful plaint, 
 
 And that most awful scripture which declares 
 
 We shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed ! 
 
 — Have I not seen t — Ye likewise may have seen — 
 
 Son, Husband, Brothers — Brothers side by side, 
 
 And Son and Father also side by side, 
 
 Rise from that posture : — and in concert move. 
 
 On the green turf following the vested Priest, 
 
 Four dear Supporters of one senseless Weight, 
 
 From which they do not shrink, and under which 
 
 They faint not, but advance towards the grave 
 
 Step after step — together, with their firm 
 
 Unhidden faces; he that suffers most 
 
 He outwardly, and inwardly perhaps. 
 
 The most serene, with most undaunted eye! 
 
 Oh ! blest are they who live and die like these. 
 
 Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourned !" 
 
 "That poor Man taken hence to-day," replied 
 
 The Solitary, with a faint sarcastic smile 
 
 Which did not please me, "must be deemed, I fear, 
 
 Of the unblest; for he will surely sink 
 
 Into his mother earth without such pomp 
 
 Of grief, depart without occasion given 
 
 By him for such array of fortitude. 
 
 Full seventy winters hath he lived, and mark ! 
 
 This simple Cliild will mourn his one short hour. 
 
 And I shall miss him ; scanty tribute ! yet. 
 
 This %vanting, he would leave the sight of men, 
 
 If love were his sole claim upon their care, 
 
 Like a ripe date which in the desert falls 
 
 Without a hand to gather it." At this 
 
 I interposed, though loth to speak, and said, 
 
 " Can it be thus among so small a band 
 
 As ye must needs be here ! in such a place 
 
 I would not willingly, methinks, lose sight 
 
 Of a departing cloud." — "'Twas not for love," 
 
 Answered the sick man with a careless voice — 
 
 "That I came hither; neither have I found 
 
 Among Associates who have power of speech, 
 
 Nor in such other converse as is here. 
 
 Temptation so prevailing as to change 
 
 That mood, or undermine my first resolve." 
 
 Then, speaking in like careless sort, he said 
 
 To my benign Companion, — "Pity 'tis 
 
 That fortune did not guide you to this house 
 
 A few days earlier ; then would you have seen 
 
 What stuff" the Dwellers in a Solitude, 
 
 That seems by Nature hollowed out to be 
 
 The seat and bosom of pure innocence, 
 
 ^re made of; an ungracious matter this ! 
 
 Which, for trutli's sake, yet in remembrance too 
 
 Of past discussions with this zealous Friend 
 
 And Advocate of humble life, I now 
 
 Will force upon his notice ; undeterred 
 
 By the example of his own pure course. 
 
 And that respect and deference which a Soul 
 May fairly claim, by niggard age enriched 
 In what she values most — the love of God 
 And his frail creature Man ; — but ye shall hear. 
 I talk — and ye are standing in the sun 
 Without refreshment!" 
 
 Saying this, he led 
 Towards the Cottage ; — homely was the spot ; 
 And, to my feeling, ere we reached the door. 
 Had almost a forbidding nakedness ; 
 Less fair, I grant, even painfully less fair. 
 Than it appeared when from the beetling rock 
 We had looked down upon it. All within. 
 As left by the departed company, j 
 
 Was silent ; and the solitary clock 
 Ticked, as I thought, with melancholy sound. — 
 Following our Guide, we clomb the cottage stairs 
 And reached a small apartment dark and low, 
 Which was no sooner entered than our Host 
 Said gaily, " This is my domain, my cell. 
 My hermitage, my cabin, — what you will — 
 I love it better than a snail his house. 
 But now Ye shall be feasted with our best." 
 So, with more ardour than an unripe girl 
 Left one day mistress of her mother's stores. 
 He went about his hospitable task. 
 My eyes were busy, and my thoughts no less. 
 And pleased I looked upon my gray-haired Friend 
 As if to thank him ; he returned that look. 
 Cheered, plainly, and yet serious. What a wreck 
 Had we around us ! scattered was the floor. 
 And, in like sort, chair, window-seat, and shelf. 
 With books, maps, fossils, withered plants and flowers, 
 And tufts of mountain moss: mechanic tools 
 Lay intermixed with scraps of paper, — some 
 Scribbled with verse: a broken angling-rod 
 And shattered telescope, together linked 
 By cobwebs, stood within a dusty nook ; 
 And instruments of music, some half-made. 
 Some in disgrace, hung dangling from the walls. 
 — But speedily the promise was fulfilled; 
 A feast before us, and a courteous Host 
 Inviting us in glee to sit and eat. 
 A napkin, white as foam of that rough brook 
 By which it had been bleached, o'erspread the board ; 
 And was itself half-covered with a load 
 Of dainties, — oaten bread, curd, cheese, and cream; 
 And cakes of butter curiously embossed. 
 Butter that had imbibed from meadow-flowers 
 A golden hue, delicate as their own. 
 Faintly reflected in a lingering stream ; 
 Nor lacked, for more delight on that warm day, 
 Our Table, small parade of garden fruits. 
 And whortle-berries from the mountain-side. 
 The Child, who long ere this had stilled his sobs, 
 Was now a help to his late Comforter, 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 411 
 
 And moved, a willing Page, as he was bid, 
 Ministering to our need. 
 
 In genial mood, 
 While at our pastoral banquet thus we sate 
 Fronting the window of that little Cell, 
 ; I could not, ever and anon, forbear 
 To glance an upward look on two huge Peaks, 
 That from some other vale peered into this. 
 " Those lusty Twins," e.xclaimed our host, " if here 
 It were your lot to dwell, would soon become 
 Your prized Companions. — Many are the notes 
 , Which, in his tuneful course, the wind draws forth 
 From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and dashing shores ; 
 And well those lofty Brethren bear their part 
 In the wild concert — chiefly when the storm 
 Rides high ; then all the upper air they fill 
 With roaring sound, that ceases not to flow, 
 Like smoke, along the level of the blast. 
 In mighty current j theirs, too, is the song 
 Of stream and headlong flood that seldom fails; 
 And, in the grim and breathless hour of noon, 
 Methinks that I have heard them echo back 
 The thunder's greeting: — nor have Nature's laws 
 Lefl; them ungifted with a power to yield 
 Music of finer tone ; a harmony. 
 So do I call it, though it be the hand 
 Of silence, though there be no voice ; — the clouds. 
 The mist, the shadows, light of golden suns, 
 Motions of moonlight, all come thither — touch, 
 And have an answer — thither come, and shape 
 A language not unwelcome to sick hearts 
 And idle spirits: — there the sun himselfj 
 At the calm close of summer's longest day. 
 Rests his substantial Orb ; — between those heights 
 And on the top of either pinnacle. 
 More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue vault. 
 Sparkle the Stars, as of their station proud. 
 Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man 
 Than the mute Agents stirring there : — alone 
 Here do I sit and watch. — 
 
 A fall of voice, 
 iRegretted like the Nightingale's last note, 
 iHad scarcely closed this high-wrought Rhapsody, 
 jEre with inviting smile the Wanderer said, 
 ?' Now for the Tale with which you threatened us 1" 
 I ' In truth the threat escaped me unawares ; 
 jshould the tale tire you, let this challenge stand 
 iPor my excuse. Dissevered from mankind. 
 As to your eyes and thoughts we must have seemed 
 When ye looked down upon us from the crag, 
 [slanders of a stormy mountain sea. 
 We are not so ; — perpetually we touch 
 Upon the vulgar ordinance of the world, 
 .^nd he, whom this our Cottage hath to-day 
 .Relinquished, lived dependent for his bread 
 Jpon the laws of public charity. 
 
 The Housewife, tempted by such slender gains 
 
 As might from that occasion be distilled, 
 
 Opened, as she before had done for me. 
 
 Her doors to admit this homeless Pensioner; 
 
 The portion gave of coarse but wholesome fare 
 
 Which appetite required — a blind dull nook 
 
 Such as she had — the kennel of his rest ! 
 
 This, in itself not ill, would yet have been 
 
 111 borne in earlier life, but his was now 
 
 The still contentedness of seventy years. 
 
 Calm did he sit beneath the wide-spread tree 
 
 Of his old age ; and yet less calm and meek. 
 
 Willingly meek or venerably calm. 
 
 Than slow and torpid ; paying in this wise 
 
 A penalty, if penalty it were, 
 
 For spendtlirift feats, excesses of his prime. 
 
 I loved the Old Man, for I pitied him ! 
 
 A task it was, I own, to hold discourse 
 
 With one so slow in gathering up his thoughts. 
 
 But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes ; 
 
 Mild, inoffensive, ready in his way. 
 
 And helpful to his utmost power : and there 
 
 Our Housewife knew full well what she possessed! 
 
 He was her Vassal of all labour, tilled 
 
 Her garden, from the pasture fetched her Kine ; 
 
 And, one among the orderly array 
 
 Of Hay-makers, beneath the burning sun 
 
 Maintained his place ; or heedfully pursued 
 
 His course, on errands bound, to other vales, 
 
 Leading sometimes an inexperienced Child, 
 
 Too young for any profitable task. 
 
 So moved he like a Shadow that performed 
 
 Substantial service. Mark me now, and learn 
 
 For what reward ! The Moon her monthly round 
 
 Hath not completed- since our Dame, the Queen 
 
 Of this one cottage and this lonely dale. 
 
 Into my little sanctuary rushedi — 
 
 Voice to a rueful treble humanized, 
 
 And features in deplorable dismay. — 
 
 I treat the matter lightly, but, alas ! 
 
 It is most serious : persevering rain 
 
 Had fallen in torrents ; all the mountain tops 
 
 Were hidden, and black vapours coursed their sides ; 
 
 This had I seen, and saw ; but, till she spake. 
 
 Was wholly ignorant that my ancient Friend, 
 
 Who at her bidding, early and alone, 
 
 Had clomb aloft to delve the moorland turf 
 
 For winter fuel, to his noontide meal 
 
 Returned not, and now, haply, on the Heights 
 
 Lay at the mercy of this raging storm. 
 
 'Inhuman!' — said I, 'was an Old Man's life 
 
 Not worth the trouble of a thought "! — alas ! 
 
 This notice comes too late.' With joy I saw 
 
 Her Husband enter — from a distant Vale. 
 
 We sallied forth together; found the tools 
 
 Which the neglected Veteran had dropped, 
 
 But through all quarters looked for him in vain. 
 
 We shouted — but no answer ! Darkness fell 
 
412 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Without remission of the blast or shower, 
 
 And fears for our own safety drove us home. 
 
 I, who weep little, did, I will confess. 
 
 The moment I was seated here alone. 
 
 Honour my little Cell with some few tears 
 
 Which anger and resentment could not dry. 
 
 All night the storm endured ; and, soon as help 
 
 Had been collected from the neighbouring Vale, 
 
 With morning we renewed our quest : the wind 
 
 Was fallen, the rain abated, but the hills 
 
 Lay shrouded in impenetrable mist; 
 
 And long and hopelessly we sought in vain. 
 
 Till, chancing on that lofty ridge to pass 
 
 A heap of ruin, almost without walls. 
 
 And wholly without roof, (the bleached remains 
 
 Of a small Chapel, where, in ancient time, 
 
 The Peasants of these lonely valleys used 
 
 To meet for worship on that central height') — 
 
 We there espied the Object of our search. 
 
 Lying full three parts buried among tufts 
 
 Of heath-plant, under and above him strewn, 
 
 To baffle, as he might, the watery storm: 
 
 And there we found him breathing peaceably, 
 
 Snug as a child that hides itself in sport 
 
 'Mid a green hay-cock in a sunny field. 
 
 We spake — he made reply, but would not stir 
 
 At our entreaty ; less from want of power 
 
 Than apprehension and bewildering thoughts. 
 
 So was he lifted gently from the ground. 
 
 And with their freight the Shepherds homeward moved 
 
 Through the dull mist, I following — when a step, 
 
 A single step, that freed me from the skirts 
 
 Of the blind vapour, opened to my view 
 
 Glory beyond all glory ever seen 
 
 By waking sense or by the dreaming soul ! 
 
 The appearance, instantaneously disclosed, 
 
 Was of a mighty City — boldly say 
 
 A wilderness of building, sinking far 
 
 And self-withdrawn into a wondrous depth. 
 
 Far sinking into splendour — without end ! 
 
 Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold, 
 
 With alabaster domes, and silver spires. 
 
 And blazing terrace upon terrace, high 
 
 Uplifted ; here, serene pavilions bright. 
 
 In avenues disposed ; there towers begirt 
 
 With battlements that on their restless fronts 
 
 Bore stars — illumination of all gems'. 
 
 By earthly nature had the effect been wrought 
 
 Upon the dark materials of the storm 
 
 Now pacified ; on them, and on the coves 
 
 And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto 
 
 The vapours had receded, taking there 
 
 Their station under a cerulean sky. 
 
 I 
 
 Oh, 't was an unimaginable sight ! 
 
 Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald tur 
 
 Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky, 
 
 Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed, 
 
 Molten together, and composing thus, 
 
 Each lost in each, that marvellous array 
 
 Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge 
 
 Fantastic pomp of structure without name, 
 
 In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapped. 
 
 Right in the midst, where interspace appeared 
 
 Of open court, an object like a throne 
 
 Beneath a shining canopy of state 
 
 Stood fixed ; and fi.xed resemblances were seen 
 
 To implements of ordinary use, 
 
 But vast in size, in substance glorified ; 
 
 Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld 
 
 In vision — forms uncouth of mightiest power 
 
 For admiration and mysterious awe. 
 
 Below me was the earth ; this little Vale 
 
 Lay low beneath my feet; 'twas visible — 
 
 I saw not, but I felt that it was there. 
 
 That which I saw was the revealed abode 
 
 Of spirits in beatitude: my heart 
 
 Swelled in my breast. — ' I have been dead,' I cried, 
 
 'And now I live! Oh! wherefore do I livel' 
 
 And with that pang I prayed to be no more ! — 
 
 — But I forget our Charge, as utterly 
 
 I then forgot him : — there I stood and gazed ; 
 
 The apparition faded not away. 
 
 And I descended. — Having reached the House, 
 
 I found its rescued Inmate safely lodged, 
 
 And in serene possession of himself, 
 
 Beside a genial fire ; that seemed to spread 
 
 A gleam of comfort o'er his pallid face. 
 
 Great show of joy the Housewife made, and truly 
 
 Was glad to find her conscience set at ease; 
 
 And not less glad, for sake of her good name. 
 
 That the poor Sufferer had escaped with life. 
 
 But, lliough he seemed at first to have received 
 
 No harm, and uncomplaining as before 
 
 Went through his usual tasks, a silent change 
 
 Soon showed itself; he lingered three short weeks:; ^ 
 
 And from the Cottage hath been borne to-day. 
 
 " So ends my dolorous Tale, and glad I am 
 
 That it is ended." At these words he turned — 
 
 And, with blithe air of open fellowship. 
 
 Brought from the Cupboard wine and stouter cheer, 
 
 Like one who would be merry. Seeing this, 
 
 My gray-haired Friend said courteously — " Nay, na; 
 
 You have regaled us as a Hermit ought; 
 
 Now let us forth into the sun !" — Our Host 
 
 Rose, though reluctantly, and forth we went. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 BOOK THE THIRD. 
 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Images in the Valley — Another Recess in it entered and described — Wanderer's sensations — Solitary's excited 
 by the same objects — Contrast between these — Despondency of the Solitary gently reproved — Conversation ex- 
 hibiting the Solitary's past and present opinions and feelings, till he enters upon his own History al lenglh — His 
 domesticfelicity — afflictions— dejection — roused by the French Revolulion — Disappointment and disgust — Voy- 
 age to America — disappointment and disgust pursue him — his return — His languor and depression of mind, from 
 want of faith in the great truths of Religion, and want of confidence in the virtue of Manliind. 
 
 A BUMMING Bee — a little tinkling' Rill — 
 
 A pair of Falcons, wheeling on the wing, 
 
 In clamorous agitation, round the crest 
 
 Of a tall rock, their airy Citadel — 
 
 By each and all of these the pensive ear 
 
 Was greeted, in the silence that ensued, 
 
 When through the Cottage-threshold we had passed. 
 
 And, deep within that lonesome Valley, stood 
 
 Once more, beneath the concave of a blue 
 
 And cloudless sky. — Anon ! exclaimed our Host, 
 
 Triumphantly dispersing with the taunt 
 
 The shade of discontent which on his brow 
 
 Had gathered, — " Ye have left my cell, — but see 
 
 How Nature hems you in with friendly arms ! 
 
 And by her help ye are my Prisoners still. 
 
 But which way shall I lead youl — how contrive. 
 
 In Spot so parsimoniously endowed, 
 
 That the brief hotirs, which yet remain, may reap. 
 
 Some recompense of knowledge or delight?" 
 
 So saying, round he looked, as if perplexed ; 
 
 And, to remove those doubts, my gray-haired Friend 
 
 Said — " Shall we take this pathway for our guide 1 — 
 
 Upward it winds, as if, in summer heats. 
 
 Its line had first been fashioned by the flock 
 
 A place of refuge seeking at the root 
 
 Of yon black Yew-tree ; whose protruded boughs 
 
 Darken the silver bosom of the crag. 
 
 From which she draws her meagre sustenance. 
 
 There in commodious shelter may we rest. 
 
 Or let us trace this Streamlet to his source ; 
 
 Feebly it tinkles with an earthly sound. 
 
 And a few steps may bring us to the spot 
 
 Where, haply, crowned with flowerets and green herbs, 
 
 The mountain Infant to the sun comes forth. 
 Like human Life from darkness." — A quick turn 
 Through a strait passage of encumbered ground. 
 Proved that such hope vi^as vain : — for now we stood 
 Shut out from prospect of the open Vale, 
 And saw the water, that composed this Rill, 
 Descending, disembodied, and diffused 
 O'er the smooth surface of an ample Crag, 
 Lofty, and steep, and naked as a Tower. 
 All further progress here was barred ; — And who, 
 Thought I, if master of a vacant hour. 
 Here would not linger, willingly detained 7 
 Whether to such wild objects he were led 
 When copious rains have magnified the stream 
 Into a loud and white-robed Waterfall, 
 Or introduced at this more quiet time. 
 
 Upon a semicirque of turf-clad ground, 
 
 The hidden nook discovered to our view 
 
 A mass of rock, resembling, as it lay 
 
 Right at the foot of that moist precipice, 
 
 A stranded Ship, with keel upturned, — that rests 
 
 Fearless of winds and waves. Three several Stones 
 
 Stood near, of smaller size, and not unlike 
 
 To monumental pillars : and from these 
 
 Some little space disjoined, a pair were seen. 
 
 That with united shoulders bore aloft 
 
 A Fragment, like an Altar, flat and smooth : 
 
 Barren the tablet, yet thereon appeared 
 
 A tall and shining Holly, that had found 
 
 A hospitable chink, and stood upright. 
 
 As if inserted by some human hand 
 
 In mockery, to wither in the sun, 
 
 35* "3 
 
414 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Or lay its beauty flat before a breeze, 
 The first that entered. But no breeze did now 
 Find entrance ; — high or low appeared no trace 
 Of motion, save the Water that descended. 
 Diffused adown that Barrier of steep rock, 
 And softly creeping-, like a breath of air. 
 Such as is sometimes seen, and hardly seen. 
 To brush the still breast of a crystal lake. 
 
 "Behold a Cabinet for Sages built. 
 
 Which Kings might envy !" — Praise to this effect 
 
 Broke from the happy Old Man's reverend lip ; 
 
 Who to the Solitary turned, and said, 
 
 "In sooth, with love's familiar privilege. 
 
 You have decried the wealth which is your own. 
 
 Among these Rocks and Stones, methinks, I see 
 
 More than the heedless impress that belongs 
 
 To lonely Nature's casual work : tliey bear 
 
 A semblance strange of power intelligent, 
 
 And of design not wholly worn away. 
 
 Boldest of plants that ever faced the wind. 
 
 How gracefiilly that slender Shrub looks forth 
 
 From its fantastic birth-place ! And I own. 
 
 Some shadowy intimations haunt me here, 
 
 That in these shows a chronicle survives 
 
 Of purposes akin to those of Man, 
 
 But wrought with mightier arm than now prevails. 
 
 — Voiceless the Stream descends into the gulf 
 With timid lapse ; — and lo ! while in this Strait 
 I stand — the chasm of sky above my head 
 
 Is heaven's profoundest azure ; no domain 
 
 For fickle, short-lived clouds to occupy. 
 
 Or to pass through, but rather an Abyss 
 
 In which the everlasting Stars abide ; 
 
 And whose soft gloom, and boundless depth, might 
 
 tempt 
 The curious eye to look for them by day. 
 
 — Hail Contemplation ! from the stately towers, 
 Reared by the industrious hand of human art 
 To lift thee high above the misty air 
 
 And turbulence of murmuring cities vast ; 
 From academic groves, that have for thee 
 Been planted, hither come and find a Lodge 
 To which thou mayest resort for holier peace, — 
 From whose calm centre Thou, through height or 
 
 depth, 
 Mayest penetrate, wherever Truth shall lead ; 
 Measuring through all degrees, until the scale 
 Of Time and conscious Nature disappear, 
 Lost in unsearchable Eternity !"* 
 
 A pause ensued ; and with minuter care 
 We scanned the various features of the scene : 
 And soon the Tenant of that lonely Vale 
 With courteous Voice thus spake — 
 
 " I should have grieved 
 Hereafter, not escaping self-reproach, 
 If from my poor Retirement ye had gone 
 Leaving this Nook unvisited : but, in sooth. 
 Your unexpected presence had so roused 
 My spirits, that they were bent on enterprise; 
 And, like an ardent Hunter, I forgot. 
 Or, shall I say 1 — disdained, the game that lurks 
 At my own door. The shapes before our eyes 
 And their arrangement, doubtless must be deemed 
 The sport of Nature, aided by blind Chance 
 Rudely to mock the works of toiling Man. 
 And hence, this upright Shaft of unhewn stone. 
 From Fancy, willing to set off" her stores 
 By sounding Titles, hath acquired the name 
 Of Pompey's Pillar; that I gravely style 
 My Theban Obelisk ; and, there, behold 
 A Druid Cromlech ! — thus I entertain 
 The antiquarian humour, and am pleased 
 To skim along the surfaces of things. 
 Beguiling harmlessly the listless hours. 
 But if the spirit be oppressed by sense 
 Of instability, revolt, decay. 
 And change, and emptiness, these freaks of Nature 
 And her blind helper Chance, do then suffice 
 To quicken, and to aggravate — to feed 
 Pity and scorn, and melancholy pride. 
 Not less than that huge Pile (from some abyss 
 Of mortal power unquestionably sprung) 
 Whose hoary Diadem of pendent rocks 
 Confines the shrill-voiced whirlwind, round and round 
 Eddying within its vast circumference, 
 On Sarum's naked plain ; — than pyramid 
 Of Egypt, unsubverted, undissolved ; 
 Or Syria's marble Ruins towering high 
 Above the sandy Desert, in the light 
 Of sun or moon. — Forgive me, if I say 
 That an appearance which hath raised your minds 
 To an exalted pitch (the self-same cause 
 Different effect producing) is for me 
 Fraught rather with depression than delight. 
 Though shame it were, could I not look around. 
 By the reflection of your pleasure, pleased. 
 Yet happier in my judgment, even than you 
 With your bright transports fairly may be deemed. 
 The wandering Herbalist, — who, clear alike 
 From vain, and, that worse evil, vexing thoughts, 
 Casts, if he ever chance to enter here. 
 Upon these uncouth Forms a slight regard 
 Of transitory interest, and peeps round 
 For some rare Floweret of the hills, or Plant 
 Of craggy fountain ; what he hopes for wins, 
 Or learns, at least, that 'tis not to be won: 
 Then, keen and eager, as a fine-nosed Hound 
 By soul-engrossing instinct driven along 
 Through wood or open fleld, the harmless Man 
 Departs, intent upon his onward quest! 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 415 
 
 Nor is that Fellow-wanderer, so deem I, 
 
 Less to be envied, (you may trace him oft 
 
 By scars which his activity has left 
 
 Beside our roads and pathways, though, thank Heaven ! 
 
 This covert nook reports not of his hand) 
 
 He who with pocket hammer smites the edge 
 
 Of luckless rock or prominent stone, disguised 
 
 In weather-stains or crusted o'er by Nature 
 
 With her iirst growths — detaching by the stroke 
 
 A chip or splinter — to resolve his doubts; 
 
 And, with that ready answer satisfied. 
 
 The substance classes by some barbarous name, 
 
 And hurries on ; or from the fragments picks 
 
 His specimen, if haply interveined 
 
 With sparkling mineral, or should crystal cube 
 
 Lurk in its cells — and thinks himself enriched. 
 
 Wealthier, and doubtless wiser, than before! 
 
 Intrusted safely each to his pursuit, 
 
 Earnest alike, let both from hill to hill 
 
 Range ; if it please them, speed from clime to clime ; 
 
 The mind is full — no pain is in their sport." 
 
 "Then," said I, interposing, " One is near, 
 
 Who cannot but possess in your esteem 
 
 Place worthier still of envy. May I name. 
 
 Without offence, that fair-faced Cottage-boy 1 
 
 Dame Natm'e's Pupil of the lowest Form, 
 
 Youngest Apprentice in the School of Art! 
 
 Him, as we entered from the open Glen, 
 
 IjYou might have noticed, busily engaged. 
 
 Heart, soul, and hands, — in mending the defects 
 
 Left in the fabric of a leaky dam. 
 
 Raised for enabling this penurious stream 
 
 To turn a slender mill (that new-made plaything) 
 
 jFor his delight — the happiest he of all !" 
 
 j"Par happiest," answered the desponding Man, 
 
 l" If, such as now he is, he might remain ! 
 
 Ah ! what avails Imagination high 
 
 iOr Question deep 1 what profits all that Earth, 
 
 Or Heaven's blue Vault, is suffered to put forth 
 
 lOf impulse or allurement, for the Soul 
 
 To quit the beaten track of life, and soar 
 
 Par as she finds a yielding element 
 
 [In past or future ; far as she can go 
 
 [Through time or space ; if neither in the one, 
 
 Nor in the other region, nor in aught 
 
 That Fancy, dreaming o'er the map of things. 
 
 Hath placed beyond these penetrable bounds, 
 
 Words of assurance can be heard ; if nowhere 
 
 A habitation, for consummate good. 
 
 Nor for progressive virtue, by the search 
 
 Can be attained, — a better sanctuary 
 
 Prom doubt and sorrow, than the senseless grave 1" 
 
 ■ Is this," the gray-haired Wanderer mildly said. 
 The voice, which we so lately overheard, 
 
 To that same Child, addressing tenderly 
 The Consolations of a hopeful mind ? 
 ' His body is at rest, his soul in heaven,'' 
 These were your words ; and, verily, methinks 
 Wisdom is oft-times nearer when we stoop 
 Than when we soar." — 
 
 The Other, not displeased. 
 Promptly replied — " My notion is the same. 
 And I, without reluctance, could decline 
 All act of Inquisition whence we rise. 
 And what, when breath hath ceased, we may become. 
 Here are we, in a bright and breathing World — 
 Our origin, what matters it 1 In lack 
 Of worthier explanation, say at once 
 With the American (a thought which suits 
 The place where now we stand) that certain Men 
 Leapt out together from a rocky Cave; 
 And these were the first Parents of Mankind : 
 Or, if a different image be recalled 
 By the warm sunshine, and the jocund voice 
 Of insects — chirping out their careless lives 
 On these soft beds of thyme-besprinkled turf. 
 Choose, with the gay Athenian, a conceit 
 As sound — blithe race ! whose mantles were bedecked 
 With golden Grashoppers, in sign that they 
 Had sprung, like those bright creatures, from the soil 
 Whereon their endless generations dwelt. 
 But stop ! — these theoretic fancies jar 
 On serious minds ; then, as the Hindoos draw 
 Their holy Ganges from a skiey fount. 
 Even so deduce the Stream of human Life 
 From seats of power divine ; and hope, or trust, 
 That our Existence winds her stately course 
 Beneath the Sun, like Ganges, to make part 
 Of a living Ocean ; or, to sink engulfed, 
 Like Niger, in impenetrable sands 
 And utter darkness : thought which may be faced. 
 Though comfortless ! — Not of myself I speak ; 
 Such acquiescence neither doth imply, 
 In me, a meekly-bending spirit — soothed 
 By natural piety ; nor a lofty mind, 
 By philosophic discipline prepared 
 For calm subjection to acknowledged law; 
 Pleased to have been, contented not to be. 
 Such palms I boast not ; — no ! to me, who find. 
 Reviewing my past way, much to condemn. 
 Little to praise, and nothing to regret 
 (Save some remembrances of dream-like joys 
 That scarcely seem to have belonged to me) 
 If I must take my choice between the pair 
 That rule alternately the weary hours. 
 Night is than Day more acceptable ; sleep 
 Doth, in my estimate of good, appear 
 A better state than waking ; death than sleep : 
 Feelingly sweet is stillness after storm. 
 Though under covert of the wormy ground ! 
 
416 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 " Yet be it said, in justice to myself, 
 
 That in more genial times, when I was free 
 
 To explore the destiny of human kind, 
 
 (Not as an intellectual game pursued 
 
 With curious subtilty, from wish to cheat 
 
 Irksome sensations ; but by love of truth 
 
 Urged on, or haply by intense delight 
 
 In feeding thought, wherever thought could feed) 
 
 I did not rank with those (too dull or nice, 
 
 For to my judgment such they then appeared, 
 
 Or too aspiring, thankless at the best) 
 
 Who, in this frame of human life, perceive 
 
 An object whereunto their souls are tied 
 
 In discontented wedlock ; nor did e'er, 
 
 From rne, those dark impervious shades, that hang 
 
 Upon the region whither we are bound. 
 
 Exclude a power to enjoy the vital beams 
 
 Of present sunshine. — Deities that float 
 
 On wings, angelic Spirits, I could muse 
 
 O'er what from eldest time we have been told 
 
 Of your bright forms and glorious faculties, 
 
 And with the imagination be content. 
 
 Not wishing more; repining not to tread 
 
 The little sinuous path of earthly care. 
 
 By flowers embellished, and by springs refreshed. 
 
 — 'Blow, winds of Autumn ! — let your chilling breath 
 
 ' Take the live herbage from the mead, and strip 
 
 ' The shady forest of its green attire, — 
 
 'And let the bursting clouds to fury rouse 
 
 ' The gentle Brooks ! — Your desolating sway,' 
 
 Thus I exclaimed, ' no sadness sheds on me, 
 
 'And no disorder in your rage I find. 
 
 'What dignity, what beauty, in this change 
 
 ' From mild to angry, and from sad to gay, 
 
 'Alternate and revolving! How benign, 
 
 'How rich in animation and delight, 
 
 ' How bountiful these elements — compared 
 
 'With aught, as more desirable and fair 
 
 'Devised by Fancy for the Golden Age ; 
 
 'Or the perpetual warbling that prevails 
 
 'In Arcady, beneath unaltered skies, 
 
 ' Through the long Year in constant quiet bound, 
 
 ' Night hushed as night, and day serene as day !' 
 
 — But why this tedious record'! — Age, we know. 
 
 Is garrulous ; and solitude is apt 
 
 To anticipate the privilege of Age. 
 
 From far ye come ; and surely with a hope 
 
 Of better entertainment — let us hence!" 
 
 Loth to forsake the spot, and still more loth 
 
 To be diverted from our present theme, 
 
 I said, "My thoughts agreeing. Sir, with yours. 
 
 Would push this censure farther; — for, if smiles 
 
 Of scornful pity be the just reward 
 
 Of Poesy, thus courteously employed 
 
 In framing models to improve the scheme 
 
 Of Man's existence, and recast the world. 
 
 Why should not grave Philosophy be styled, 
 
 Herself, a Dreamer of a kindred stock, 
 A Dreamer yet more spiritless and dull? 
 Yes, shall the fine immunities she boasts 
 Establish sounder titles of esteem 
 For Her, who (all too timid and reserved 
 For onset, for resistance too inert. 
 Too weak for suflTering, and for hope too tame) 
 Placed among flowery gardens, curtained round 
 The world-excluding groves, the Brotherhood 
 Of soft, Epicureans, taught — if they 
 The ends of being would secure, and win 
 The crown of wisdom — to yield up their souls 
 To a voluptuous unconcern, preferring 
 Tranquillity to all things. Or is She," 
 I cried, " more worthy of regard, the Power, 
 Who, for the sake of sterner quiet, closed 
 The Stoic's heart against the vain approach 
 Of admiration, and all sense of joy ]" 
 
 His Countenance gave notice that my zeal 
 
 Accorded little with his present mind ; 
 
 I ceased, and he resumed. — " Ah ! gentle Sir, 
 
 Slight, if you will, the means ; but spare to slight 
 
 Tlie end of those, who did, by system, rank. 
 
 As the prime object of a wise Man's aim. 
 
 Security from shock of accident. 
 
 Release from fear ; and cherished peaceful days 
 
 For their own sakes, as mortal life's chief good. 
 
 And only reasonable felicity. 
 
 What motive drew, what impulse, I would ask, 
 
 Through a long course of later ages, drove 
 
 The Hermit to his Cell in forest wide ; 
 
 Or what detained him, till his closing eyes 
 
 Took their last farewell of the sun and stars. 
 
 Fast anchored in the desert 7 — Not alone 
 
 Dread of the persecuting sword — remorse, 
 
 Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged 
 
 And unavengeable, defeated pride, 
 
 Prosperity subverted, maddening want. 
 
 Friendship betrayed, affection unreturned, 
 
 Love with despair, or grief in agony; — 
 
 Not always from intolerable pangs 
 
 He fled ; but, compassed round by pleasure, sighed 
 
 For independent happiness; craving peace, 
 
 The central feeling of all happiness, 
 
 Not as a refuge from distress or pain, 
 
 A breathing-time, vacation, or a truce. 
 
 But for its absolute self; a life of peace, 
 
 Stability without regret or fear ; 
 
 That hath been, is, and shall be evermore I 
 
 Such the reward he sought ; and wore out life, 
 
 There, where on few external things his heart 
 
 Was set, and those his own ; or, if not his. 
 
 Subsisting under Nature's steadfast law. 
 
 " What other yearning was the master tie 
 Of the monastic Brotherhood, upon Rock 
 Aerial, or in green secluded Vale, 
 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 417 
 
 One after one, collected from afar, 
 
 An undissolving Fellowship ^ — What but this, 
 
 The universal instinct of repose. 
 
 The longing for confirmed tranquillity, 
 
 Inward and outward ; humble, yet sublime : — 
 
 The life where hope and memory are as one ; 
 
 Earth quiet and unchanged ; the human Soul 
 
 > Consistent in self-rule; and heaven revealed 
 
 ! To meditation in that quietness ! 
 Such was their scheme : — thrice happy he who gained 
 
 i The end proposed I And, — though the same were 
 missed 
 By multitudes, perhaps obtained by none, — 
 
 [ They, for the attempt, and for the pains employed, 
 
 j Do, in my present censure, stand redeemed 
 From the unqualified disdain, that once 
 Would have been cast upon them, by my Voice 
 Delivering her decisions from the seat 
 Of forward Youth : — that scruples not to solve 
 
 I Doubts, and determine questions, by the rules 
 Of inexperienced judgment, ever prone 
 To overweening faith ; and is inflamed. 
 By courage, to demand from real life 
 The test of act and suffering — to provoke 
 Hostility, how dreadful when it comes. 
 Whether afHiction be the foe, or guilt ! 
 
 "A Child of earth, I rested, in that stage 
 
 [Of my past course to which these thoughts advert. 
 
 Upon earth's native energies; forgetting 
 
 jThat mine was a condition which required 
 
 [Nor energy, nor fortitude — a calm 
 
 'Without vicissitude ; which, if the like 
 
 Had been presented to my view elsewhere, 
 
 J might have even been tempted to despise. 
 
 But that which was serene was also bright ; 
 
 Enlivened happiness with joy o'erflowing, 
 
 {With joy, and — oh ! that memory should survive 
 
 |To speak the word — with rapture ! Nature's boon, 
 
 ■Life's genuine inspiration, happiness 
 
 Above what rules can teach, or fancy feign ; 
 Abused, as all possessions are abused 
 That are not prized according to their worth. 
 |And yet, what worth 1 what good is given to Men 
 'More solid than the gilded clouds of heaven ? 
 ]What joy more lasting than a vernal flower ] 
 
 None ! 't is the general plaint of human kind 
 j[n solitude, and mutually addressed 
 jFrom each to all, for wisdom's sake : — This truth 
 The Priest announces from his holy seat: 
 
 4nd, crowned with garlands in the summer grove, 
 
 The Poet fits it to his pensive lyre. 
 
 Vet, ere that final resting-place be gained, 
 
 Sharp contradictions may arise by doom 
 
 l3f this same life, compelling us to grieve 
 
 iPhat the prosperities of love and joy 
 
 i3hould be permitted, oft-times, to endure 
 
 3o long, and be at once cast down for ever. 
 3C 
 
 Oh ! tremble. Ye, to whom hath been assigned 
 A course of days composing happy montlis. 
 And they as happy years; the present still 
 So lilce the past, and both'so firm a pledge 
 Of a congenial futnre, that the wheels 
 Of pleasure move without the aid of hope : 
 For Mutability is Nature's bane ; 
 And slighted Hope tuill be avenged ; and, when 
 Ye need her favours. Ye shall find her not; 
 But in her stead — fear — doubt — and agony !" 
 
 This was the bitter language of the heart: 
 
 But, while he spake, look, gesture, tone of voice. 
 
 Though discomposed and vehement, were such 
 
 As skill and graceful Nature might suggest 
 
 To a Proficient of the tragic' scene 
 
 Standing before the multitude, beset 
 
 With dark events. Desirous to divert 
 
 Or stem the current of the Speaker's thoughts, 
 
 We signified a wish to leave that Place 
 
 Of stillness and close privacy, a nook 
 
 That seemed for self-examination made, 
 
 Or, for confession, in the sinner's need. 
 
 Hidden from all Men's view. To our attempt 
 
 He yielded not; but pointing to a slope 
 
 Of mossy turf defended from the sun. 
 
 And, on that couch inviting us to rest. 
 
 Full on that tender-hearted Man he turned 
 
 A serious eye, and thus his speech renewed. 
 
 " You never saw, your eyes did never look 
 
 On the bright Form of Her whom once I loved : — 
 
 Her silver voice was heard upon the earth, 
 
 A sound unknown to you ; else, honoured Friend ! 
 
 Your heart had borne a pitiable share 
 
 Of what I suflTered, when I wept that loss, 
 
 And suffer now, not seldom, from the thought 
 
 That 1 remember, and can weep no more. — 
 
 Stripped as I am of all the golden fruit 
 
 Of self-esteem ; and by the cutting blasts 
 
 Of self-reproach familiarly assailed ; 
 
 I would not yet be of such winLry bareness; 
 
 But that some leaf of your regard should han^ 
 
 Upon my naked branches: — lively thoughts 
 
 Give birth, full often, to unguarded words ; 
 
 I grieve that, in your presence, from my tongue 
 
 Too much of frailty hath already dropped ; 
 
 But that too much demands still more. 
 
 "You know, 
 Revered Compatriot; — and to you, kind Sir, 
 (Not to be deemed a Stranger, as you come 
 Following the guidance of these welcome feet 
 To our secluded Vale) it may be told. 
 That my demerits did not sue in vain 
 To One on whose mild radiance many gazed 
 With hope, and all with pleasure. This fair Bride, 
 In the devotedness of youthful Love, 
 
418 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Preferring me to Parents, and the choir 
 
 Of gay companions, to the natal roof. 
 
 And all known places and familiar sights 
 
 (Resigned with sadness gently weighing down 
 
 Her trembling expectations, but no more 
 
 Than did to her due honour, and to me 
 
 Yielded, that day, a confidence sublime 
 
 In what I had to build upon) — this Bride, 
 
 Young, modest, meek, and beautiful, I led 
 
 To a low Cottage in a sunny Bay, 
 
 Where the salt sea innocuously breaks. 
 
 And the sea breeze as innocently breathes. 
 
 On Devon's leafy shores; — a sheltered Hold, 
 
 In a soft clime encouraging the soil 
 
 To a luxuriant bounty ! — As our steps 
 
 Approach the embowered Abode — our chosen Seat — 
 
 See, rooted in the earth, her kindly bed. 
 
 The unendangered Myrtle, decked with flowers, 
 
 Before the threshold stands to welcome us ! 
 
 While, in the flowering Myrtle's neighbourhood. 
 
 Not overlooked but courting no regard. 
 
 Those native plants, the Holly and the Yew, 
 
 Gave modest intimation to the mind 
 
 How willingly their aid they would unite 
 
 With the green Myrtle, to endear tlie hours 
 
 Of winter, and protect that pleasant place. 
 
 — Wild were the Walks upon those lonely Downs, 
 
 Track leading into Track, how marked, how worn 
 
 Into bright verdure, between fern and gorse 
 
 Winding away its never-ending line 
 
 On their smooth surface, evidence was none: 
 
 But, there, lay open to our daily haunt, 
 
 A range of unappropriated earth. 
 
 Where youth's ambitious feet might move at large ; 
 
 Whence, unmolested Wanderers, we beheld 
 
 The shining Giver of the Day diffuse 
 
 His brightness o'er a tract of sea and land 
 
 Gay as our spirits, free as our desires. 
 
 As our enjoyments, boundless. — From those Heights 
 
 We dropped, at pleasure, into sylvan Combs; 
 
 Where arbours of impenetrable shade. 
 
 And mossy seats, detained us side by side. 
 
 With hearts at ease, and knowledge in our hearts 
 
 ' That all the grove and all the day was ours.' 
 
 "But Nature called my Partner to resign 
 
 Her share in the pure freedom of that life, 
 
 Enjoyed by us in common. — To my hope. 
 
 To my heart's wish, my tender Mate became 
 
 The thankful captive of maternal bonds; 
 
 And those wild paths were left to me alone. 
 
 There could I meditate on follies past; 
 
 And, like a weary Voyager escaped 
 
 From risk and hardship, inwardly retrace 
 
 A course of vain delights and thoughtless guilt, 
 
 And self-indulgence — without shame pursued. 
 
 There, undisturbed, could think of, and could thank 
 
 Her — whose submissive spirit was to me 
 
 Rule and restraint — my Guardian — shall I say 
 
 That earthly Providence, whose guiding love 
 
 Within a port of rest had lodged me safe ; 
 
 Safe from temptation, and from danger far? 
 
 Strains followed of acknowledgment addressed 
 
 To an Authority enthroned above 
 
 The reach of sight ; from whom, as from their source, ' 
 
 Proceed all visible ministers of good 
 
 That walk the earth — Father of heaven and earth, 
 
 Father, and King, and Judge, adored and feared ! 
 
 These acts of mind, and memory, and heart, 
 
 And spirit — interrupted and relieved 
 
 By observations transient as the glance 
 
 Of flying sunbeams, or to the outward form 
 
 Cleaving with power inherent and intense. 
 
 As the mute insect fixed upon the plant 
 
 On whose soft leaves it hangs, and from whose cup 
 
 Draws imperceptibly its nourishment — 
 
 Endeared my wanderings; and the Mother's kiss 
 
 And Infant's smile awaited my return. 
 
 "In privacy we dwelt — a wedded pair — 
 Companions daily, often all day long ; 
 Not placed by fortune within easy reach 
 Of various intercourse, nor wishing aught 
 Beyond the allowance of our own fire-side, 
 The Twain within our happy cottage born. 
 Inmates, and heirs of our united love ; 
 Graced mutually by difference of sex, 
 By the endearing names of nature bound, 
 And with no wider interval of time 
 Between their several births than served for One 
 To establish something of a leader's sway ; 
 Yet left them joined by sympathy in age ; 
 Equals in pleasure, fellows in pursuit. 
 On these two pillars rested as in air 
 Our solitude 
 
 "It soothes me to perceive, 
 Your courtesy withholds not from my words 
 Attentive audience. But, oh ! gentle Friends, 
 As times of quiet and unbroken peace 
 Though, for a Nation, times of blessedness. 
 Give back faint echoes from the Historian's page; 
 So, in the imperfect sounds of this discourse. 
 Depressed I hear, how faithless is the voice 
 \Miich those most blissful days reverberate. 
 What special record can, or need, be given 
 To rules and habits, whereby much was done, 
 But all within the sphere of little things. 
 Of humble, though, to us, important cares. 
 And precious interests? Smoothly did our life 
 Advance, not swerving from the path prescribe 
 Her annual, her diurnal round alike 
 Maintained with faithful care. And you divine 
 The worst effects that our condition saw. 
 If you imagine changes slowly wrouglit, 
 And in their progress imperceptible ; 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 419 
 
 Not wished for, sometimes noticed with a sigh, 
 (Whate'er of good or lovely they might bring) 
 Sighs of regret, for the familiar good. 
 And loveliness endeared — which they removed. 
 
 " Seven years of occupation undisturbed 
 
 Established seemingly a right to hold 
 
 That happiness ; and use and habit gave 
 
 To what an alien spirit had acquired 
 
 A patrimonial sanctity. And thus. 
 
 With thoughts and wishes bounded to this world, 
 
 I lived and breathed ; most grateful, if to enjoy 
 
 Without repining or desire for more 
 
 For different lot, or change to higher sphere 
 
 (Only except some impulses of pride 
 
 With no determined object, though upheld 
 
 By theories with suitable support) 
 
 Most grateful, if in such wise to enjoy 
 
 Be proof of- gratitude for what we have ; 
 
 Else, I allow, most thankless. — But, at once, 
 
 From some dark seat of fatal Power was urged 
 
 A claim that shattered all. — Our blooming Girl, 
 
 ' Caught in the gripe of Death, with such brief time 
 
 ■ To struggle in as scarcely would allow 
 Her cheek to change its colour, was conveyed 
 From us to regions inaccessible 
 Where height, or depth, admits not the approach 
 Of living Man, though longing to pursue. 
 — With even as brief a warning — and how soon, 
 
 1 With what short interval of time between, 
 I tremble yet to think of — our last prop, 
 Our happy life's only remaining stay — 
 
 I The Brother followed ; and was seen no more ! 
 
 I " Calm as a frozen Lake when ruthless Winds 
 Blow fiercely, agitating earth and sky. 
 The Mother now remained ; as if in her, 
 Who, to the lowest region of the soul, 
 Had been erewhile unsettled and disturbed. 
 This second visitation had no power 
 To shake ; but only to bind up and seal ; 
 And to establish thankfulness of heart 
 In Heaven's determinations, ever just. 
 The eminence on which her spirit stood, 
 Mine was unable to attain. Immense 
 The space that severed us ! But, as the sight 
 Communicates with Heaven's ethereal orbs 
 Incalculably distant ; so, I felt 
 That consolation may descend from far ; 
 
 j(And, that is intercourse, and union, too,) 
 While, overcome with speechless gratitude. 
 And, with a holier love inspired, I looked 
 On her — at once superior to my woes 
 And Partner of my loss. — O heavy change ! 
 Dimness o'er this clear Luminary crept 
 Insensibly ; — the immortal and divine 
 j Yielded to mortal reflux ; her pure Glory, 
 [As from the pinnacle of worldly state 
 
 Wretched Ambition drops astounded, fell 
 
 Into a gulf obscure of silent grief, 
 
 And keen heart-anguish — of itself ashamed, 
 
 Yet obstinately cherishing itself: 
 
 And, so consumed. She melted from my arms ; 
 
 And left me, on this earth, disconsolate. 
 
 " What followed cannot be reviewed in thought ; 
 
 Much less, retraced in words. If She, of life 
 
 Blameless, so intimate with love and joy 
 
 And all the tender motions of the Soul, 
 
 Had been supplanted, could I hope to stand — 
 
 Infirm, dependent, and now destituted 
 
 I called on dreams and visions, to disclose 
 
 That which is veiled from waking thought ; conjured 
 
 Eternity, as men constrain a Ghost 
 
 To appear and answer ; to the grave I spake 
 
 Imploringly; — looked up, and asked the Heavens 
 
 If Angels traversed their cerulean floors. 
 
 If fixed or wandering Star could tidings yield 
 
 Of the departed Spirit — what Abode 
 
 It occupies — what consciousness retains 
 
 Of former loves and interests. Then my Soul 
 
 Turned inward, — to examine of what stuff 
 
 Time's fetters are composed ; and Life was put 
 
 To inquisition, long and profitless ! 
 
 By pain of heart — now checked — and now impelled — 
 
 The intellectual Power, through words and things, 
 
 Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way ! 
 
 And from those transports, and these toils abstruse. 
 
 Some trace am I enabled to retain 
 
 Of time, else lost; — existing unto me 
 
 Only by records in myself not found. 
 
 "From that abstraction I was roused, — and howl — 
 
 Even as a thoughtful Shepherd by a flash 
 
 Of lightning startled ia a gloomy cave 
 
 Of these wild hills. For, lo ! the dread Bastile, 
 
 With all the chambers; in its horrid Towers, 
 
 Fell to the ground : — by violence o'erthrown 
 
 Of indignation ; and with shouts that drowned 
 
 The crash it made in falling ! Prom the wreck 
 
 A golden Palace rose, or seemed to rise, 
 
 The appointed Seat of equitable Law 
 
 And mild paternal Sway. The potent shock 
 
 I felt : the transformation I perceived. 
 
 As marvellously seized as in that moment 
 
 When, from the blind mist issuing, 1 beheld 
 
 Glory — beyond all glory ever seen, 
 
 Confusion infinite of heaven and earth. 
 
 Dazzling the soul. Meanwhile, prophetic harps 
 
 In every grove were ringing, ' War shall cease; 
 
 ' Did ye not hear that conquest is abjured? 
 
 ' Bring garlands, bring forth choicest flowers, to deck 
 
 ' The Tree of Liberty.' — My heart rebounded ; 
 
 My melancholy voice the chorus joined ; 
 
 — ' Be joyful all ye Nations, in all Lands, 
 
420 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 ' Ye that are capable of Joy, be glad ! 
 'Henceforth, whate'er is wanting to yourselves 
 ' In others ye shall promptly find ; — and all, 
 'Enriched by mutual and reflected wealth, 
 * Shall with one heart honour their common kind.' 
 
 " Thus was I reconverted to the world ; 
 
 Society became my glittering Bride, 
 
 And airy hopes my Children. — From the depths 
 
 Of natural passion, seemingly escaped. 
 
 My soul diffused herself in wide embrace 
 
 Of institutions, and the forms of things ; 
 
 As they exist, in mutable array. 
 
 Upon life's surface. What, though in my veins 
 
 There flowed no Gallic blood, nor had I breathed 
 
 The air of France, not less than Gallic zeal 
 
 Kindled and burnt among the sapless twigs 
 
 Of my e.\hausted heart. If busy Men 
 
 In sober conclave met, to weave a web 
 
 Of amity, whose living threads should stretch 
 
 Beyond the seas, and to the farthest pole, 
 
 There did I sit, assisting. If, with noise 
 
 And acclamation, crowds in open air 
 
 Expressed the tumult of their minds, my voice 
 
 There mingled, heard or not. The powers of song 
 
 I left not uninvoked ; and, in still groves. 
 
 Where mild enthusiasts tuned a pensive lay 
 
 Of thanks and expectation, in accord 
 
 With their belief, I sang Saturnian Rule 
 
 Returned, — a progeny of golden years 
 
 Permitted to descend, and bless mankind. 
 
 — With promises the Hebrew Scriptures teem : 
 
 I felt the invitation ; and resumed 
 
 A long-suspended office in the House 
 
 Of public worship, where, the glowing phrase 
 
 Of ancient Inspiration serving me, 
 
 I promised ako, — with undaunted trust 
 
 Foretold, and added prayer to prophecy ; 
 
 The admiration winning of the crowd ; 
 
 The help desiring of the pure devout. 
 
 " Scorn and contempt forbid me to proceed ! 
 
 But History, Time's slavish Scribe, will tell 
 
 How rapidly the Zealots of the cause 
 
 Disbanded — or in hostile ranks appeared ; 
 
 Some, tired of honest service; these, outdone, 
 
 Disgusted, therefore, or appalled, by aims 
 
 Of fiercer Zealots — so Confusion reigned. 
 
 And the more faithful were compelled to exclaim, 
 
 As Brutus did to Virtue, ' Liberty, 
 
 ' I worshipped Thee, and find thee but a Shade !' 
 
 "Such recantation had for me no charm. 
 
 Nor would I bend to it ; who should have grieved 
 
 At aught, however fair, that bore the mien 
 
 Of a conclusion, or catastrophe. 
 
 Why then conceal, that, when the simply good 
 
 In timid selfishness withdrew, I sought 
 Other support, not scrupulous whence it came. 
 And, by what compromise it stood, not nice 1 
 Enough if notions seemed to be high-pitched, 
 And qualities determined. — Among men 
 So charactered did I maintain a strife 
 Hopeless, and still more hopeless every hour ; 
 But, in the process, I began to feel 
 That, if the emancipation of the world 
 Were missed, I should at least secure my own. 
 And be in part compensated. For rights, 
 Widely — inveterately usurped upon, 
 I spake with vehemence ; and promptly seized 
 Whate'er Abstraction furnished for my needs* 
 Or purposes; nor scrupled to proclaim. 
 And propagate, by liberty of life. 
 Those new persuasions. Not that I rejoiced. 
 Or even found pleasure, in such vagrant course. 
 For its own sake ; but farthest from the walk 
 Which I had trod in happiness and peace. 
 Was most inviting to a troubled mind ; 
 That, in a struggling and distempered world, 
 Saw a seductive image of herself. 
 Yet, mark the contradictions of which Man 
 Is still the sport! Here Nature was my guide, 
 The Nature of the dissolute ; but Thee, 
 
 fostering Nature ! I rejected — smiled 
 At others' tears in pity ; and in scorn 
 
 At those, which thy soft influence sometimes drew 
 From my unguarded heart. — The tranquil shores 
 Of Britain circumscribed me; else, perhaps, 
 
 1 might have been entangled among deeds, 
 Which, now, as infamous, I should abhor — 
 Despise, as senseless: for my spirit relished 
 Strangely the exasperation of that Land, 
 Which turned an angry beak against the down 
 Of her own breast ; confounded into hope 
 
 Of disencumbering thus her fretful wings. 
 
 — But all was quieted by iron bonds 
 Of military sway. The shifting aims. 
 The moral interests, the creative might, 
 The varied functions and high attributes 
 Of civil Action, yielded to a Power 
 Formal, and odious, and contemptible. 
 
 — In Britain, ruled a panic dread of change; 
 The weak were praised, rewarded, and advanced ; 
 And, from the impulse of a just disdain. 
 
 Once more did I retire into myself 
 There feeling no contentment, I resolved 
 To fly, for safeguard, to some foreign shore. 
 Remote from Europe ; from her blasted hopes ; 
 Her fields of carnage, and polluted air. 
 
 " Fresh blew the wind, when o'er the Atlantic Main 
 The Ship went gliding with her thoughtless crew ; 
 And who among them but an Exile, freed 
 
 • See ^ote 3, p. 481. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 421 
 
 From discontent, indiiferent, pleased to sit 
 
 Among the busily-employed, not more 
 
 With obligation charged, with service taxed, 
 
 Than the loose pendant — to the idle wind 
 
 Upon the tall mast streaming : — but, ye Powers 
 
 Of soul and sense — mysteriously allied, 
 
 0, never let the Wretched, if a choice 
 
 Be left him, trust the freight of his distress 
 
 To a long voyage on the silent deep ! 
 
 For, like a Plague, will Memory break out; 
 
 And, in the blank and solitude of things. 
 
 Upon his Spirit, with a fever's strength. 
 
 Will Conscience prey. — Feebly nriust they have felt 
 
 Who, in old time, attired with snakes and whips 
 
 The vengeful Furies. Beautiful regards 
 
 Were turned on me — the face of her I loved; 
 
 The Wife and Mother, pitifully fixing 
 
 Tender reproaches, insupportable ! 
 
 Where now that boasted liberty 1 No welcome 
 
 From unknown Objects I received ; and those. 
 
 Known and familiar, which the vaulted sky 
 
 Did, in the placid clearness of the night, 
 
 Disclose, had accusations to prefer 
 
 Against my peace. Within the cabin stood 
 
 That Volume — as a compass for the soul — 
 
 Revered among the Nations. I implored 
 
 Its guidance; but the infallible support 
 
 Of faith was wanting. Tell me, why refused 
 
 To One by storms annoyed and adverse wiiids ; 
 
 Perplexed with currents ; of his weakness sick ; 
 
 Of vain endeavours tired ; and by his own. 
 
 And by his Nature's, ignorance, dismayed ! 
 
 " Long-wished-for sight, the Western World appeared ; 
 And, when the Ship was moored, I leaped ashore 
 Indignantly — resolved to be a Man, 
 Who, having o'er the past no power, would live 
 
 iNo longer in subjection to tlie past, 
 
 jWith abject mind — from a tyrannic Lord 
 
 (Inviting penance, fruitlessly endured. 
 
 [So, like a Fugitive, whose feet have cleared 
 
 jSome boundary, which his Followers may not cross 
 
 In prosecution of their deadly chase. 
 
 Respiring I looked round. — How bright the Sun, 
 
 How promising the Breeze 1 Can aught produced 
 
 In the old World compare, thought I, for power 
 
 And majesty with this gigantic Stream, 
 
 Sprung from the Desert ] And behold a City 
 
 iFresh, youthful, and aspiring ! What are these 
 
 To me, or I to them's As much at least 
 
 As He desires that they should be, whom winds 
 
 ;And waves have wafted to this distant shore, 
 
 fin the condition of a damaged seed, 
 
 iWhose fibres cannot, if they would, take root. 
 Here may I roam at large ; — my business is, 
 
 iRoaming at large, to observe, and not to feel ; 
 
 IjAnd, therefore, not to act — convinced that all 
 
 Which bears the name of action, howsoe'er 
 
 Beginning, ends in servitude — still painful. 
 
 And mostly profitless. And, sooth to say. 
 
 On nearer view, a motley spectacle 
 
 Appeared, of high pretensions — unreproved 
 
 But by the obstreperous voice of higher still ; 
 
 Big Passions strutting on a petty stage ; 
 
 Which a detached Spectator may regard 
 
 Not unamused. — But ridicule demands 
 
 Quick change of objects; and, to laugh alone, 
 
 At a composing distance from the haunts 
 
 Of strife and folly, — though it be a treat 
 
 As choice as musing Leisure can bestow ; 
 
 Yet, in the very centre of the crowd, 
 
 To keep the secret of a poignant scorn, 
 
 Howe'er to airy Demons suitable. 
 
 Of all unsocial courses, is least fit 
 
 For the gross spirit of Mankind, — the one 
 
 That soonest fails to please, and quickliest turns 
 
 Into vexation. — Let us, then, I said. 
 
 Leave this unknit Republic to the scourge 
 
 Of her own passions ; and to Regions haste. 
 
 Whose shades have never felt the encroaching axe, 
 
 Or soil endured a transfer in the mart 
 
 Of dire rapacity. There, Man abides. 
 
 Primeval Nature's Child. A Creature weak 
 
 In combination, (wherefore else driven back 
 
 So far, and of his old inheritance 
 
 So easily deprived f) but, for that cause. 
 
 More dignified, and stronger in himself; 
 
 Whether to act, judge, suffer, or enjoy. 
 
 True, the Intelligence of social Art 
 
 Hath overpowered his Forefathers, and soon 
 
 Will sweep the remnant of his line away ; 
 
 But contemplations, worthier, nobler far 
 
 Than her destructive energies, attend 
 
 His Independence, when along the side 
 
 Of Mississippi, or that Northern Stream* 
 
 That spreads into successive seas, he walks ; 
 
 Pleased to perceive his own unshackled life. 
 
 And his innate capacities of soul, 
 
 There imaged : or, when having gained the top 
 
 Of some commanding Eminence, which yet 
 
 Intruder ne'er beheld, he thence surveys 
 
 Regions of wood and wide Savannah, vast 
 
 Expanse of unappropriated earth, 
 
 With mind that sheds a light on what he sees; 
 
 Free as the Sun, and lonely as the Sun, 
 
 Pouring above his head its radiance down 
 
 Upon a living, and rejoicing World ! 
 
 " So, westward, toward the unviolated Woods 
 I bent my way ; and, roaming far and wide, 
 Failed not to greet the merry Mocking-bird; 
 And, while the melancholy Muccawiss 
 
 * See Note 4. p. 481. 
 36 
 
422 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 (The sportive Bird's companion in the Grove) 
 
 Repeated, o'er and o'er, his plaintive cry, 
 
 I sympathized at leisure with the sound ; 
 
 But that pure Archetype of human greatness, 
 
 I found him not. There, in his stead, appeared 
 
 A Creature, squalid, vengeful, and impure ; 
 
 Remorseless, and submissive to no law 
 
 But superstitious fear, and abject sloth. 
 
 — Enough is told ! Here am I — Ye have heard 
 
 What evidence I seek, and vainly seek ; 
 
 What from my Fellow-beings I require. 
 
 And cannot find ; what I myself have lost, 
 
 Nor can regain ; how languidly I look 
 
 Upon this visible fabric of the World, 
 
 May be divined — perhaps it hath been said : — 
 
 But spare your pity, if there be in me 
 
 Aught that deserves respect: for I e.xist — 
 
 Within myself — not comfortless. — The tenour 
 
 Which my life holds, he readily may conceive 
 
 Whoe'er hath stood to watch a mountain Brook 
 
 In some still passage of its course, and seen, 
 
 Within the depths of its capacious breast. 
 
 Inverted trees, and rocks, and azure sky ; 
 
 And, on its glassy surface, specks of foam. 
 
 And conglobated bubbles undissolved. 
 
 Numerous as stars ; that, by their onward lapse, 
 
 Betray to sight the motion of the stream. 
 
 Else imperceptible; meanwhile, is heard 
 
 A softened roar, a murmur ; and the sound 
 
 Though soothing, and the little floating isles 
 
 Though beautiful, are both by Nature charged 
 
 With the same pensive office ; and make known 
 
 Through what perple.xing labyrinths, abrupt 
 
 Precipitations, and untoward straits, 
 
 The earth-born Wanderer hath passed ; and quickly, ; 
 
 That respite o'er, like traverses and toils 
 
 Must be again encountered. — Such a stream 
 
 Is human Life; and so the Spirit fares 
 
 In the best quiet to its course allowed ; 
 
 And such is mine, — save only for a hope 
 
 That my particular current soon will reach 
 
 The unfathomable gulf, where all is still !" 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 BOOK THE FOURTH. 
 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 State of feeling produced by the foregoing Narrative — A belief in a superintending Providence the only adequate 
 support under affliction — Wanderer's ejarulalion — account of his own devotional feelings in youth involved — 
 Ac linowl edges the difficulty of a lively faiih — Hence immoderate sorrow — doubt or despondence not therefore to 
 be inferred — Consolation to the Solitary — Exhortations — How received — Wanderer apphes his discourse lo that 
 other cause of dejection in the Solitary's mind — disappointment from the French Revolution — States grounds of 
 hope — insists on the necessity of patience and fortitude with respect to the course of great revokitions — Knowledge 
 the snurce of tranquillity — Rural Solitude favourable to knowledge of the inferior Creatures — Study of their habits 
 and ways recommended — Exhortation to bodily exertion and Communion with Nature — Morbid Solitude pitiable 
 
 — Superstition better than apathy — Apathy and destitution unknown in the infancy of society — The various modes 
 of Religion prevctUed it — illustrated in tlie Jewish. Persian, Babylonian, Chaldean, and Grecian modes of belief 
 
 — Solitary interposes — Wanderer points out the influence of religious and imaginative feeling in the humble ranks 
 of society — Illustrated from present and past times — These principles tend to recall exploded superstitions and 
 popery — Wanderer rebuts this charge, and contrasts the dignities of the Imagination with the presumptive littleness 
 of certain modern Philosophers — Recommends other lights and guides — Asserts the power of the Soul to regenerate 
 herself — Solitary asks how — Reply — Personal appeal — Happy that the imagination and the affections mitigate 
 the evils of that intellectual slavery which the calculating understanding is apt to produce — Exhortation to activity 
 of body renewed — How to commune with Nature — Wanderer concludes with a legitimate union of the imagina- 
 tion, affections, understanding, and reason — Effect of his discourse — Evening — Return lo the Cottage. 
 
 Here closed the Tenant of that lonely vale 
 His mournful Narrative — commenced in pain, 
 In pain c(»mmencod, and ended without peace: 
 Yet tempered, not unfrequently, with strains 
 
 Of native feeling, grateful to our minds; 
 And doubtless yielding some relief to his, 
 While we sate listening with compassion due. 
 Such pity yet surviving, with firm voice 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 423 
 
 That did not falter though the heart was moved, 
 The Wanderer said — 
 
 " One adequate support 
 For the calamities of mortal life 
 ISxists, one only ; — an assured belief 
 'That the procession of our fate, hovve'er 
 Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being 
 Of infinite benevolence and power ; 
 Whose everlasting purposes embrace 
 All accidents, converting them to good. 
 
 — The darts of anguish _^j; not where the seat 
 Of suffering hath been thoroughly fortified 
 
 By acquiescence in the Will Supreme 
 
 For Time and for Eternity ; by faith. 
 
 Faith absolute in God, including hope. 
 
 And the defence that lies in boundless love 
 
 Of his perfections ; with habitual dread 
 
 Of aught unworthily conceived, endured 
 
 Impatiently ; ill-done, or left undone. 
 
 To the dishonour of his holy Name. 
 
 Soul of our Souls, and safeguard of the world ! 
 
 Sustain, Thou only canst, the sick of heart ; 
 
 Restore their languid spirits, and recall 
 
 Their lost affections unto Thee and thine!" 
 
 Then, as we issued from that covert Nook, 
 
 He thus continued — lifting up his eyes 
 
 To Heaven — " How beautiful this dome of sky, 
 
 And the vast hills, in fluctuation fixed 
 
 At thy command, how awful ! Shall the Soul, 
 
 Human and rational, report of Thee 
 
 lEven less than these 1 — Be mute who will, who can, 
 
 Yet I will praise thee with impassioned voice : 
 
 iVIy lips, that may forget thee in the crowd, 
 
 Cannot forget thee here ; where Thou hast built, 
 
 ,?ot thy own glory, in the wilderness ! 
 
 jVIe didst thou constitute a Priest of thine, 
 
 |!n such a Temple as we now behold 
 
 jleared for thy presence : therefore, am I bound 
 
 Ifo worship, here, and every where — as One 
 
 *Jot doomed to ignorance, though forced to tread, 
 
 ?Tom childhood up, the ways of poverty ; 
 
 ?rom unreflecting ignorance preserved, 
 
 \nd from debasement rescued. — By thy grace 
 
 The particle divine remained unquenched; 
 
 And, 'mid the wild weeds of a rugged soil, 
 
 jFhy bounty caused to flourish deathless flowers 
 
 jProm Paradise transplanted ; wintry age 
 
 impends ; the frost will gather round my heart ; 
 
 And, if they wither, I am worse than dead! 
 
 — Come, Labour, when the worn-out frame requires 
 Perpetual sabbath; come, disease and want; 
 
 And sad exclusion through decay of sense ; 
 3ut leave me unabated trust in Thee — 
 And let thy favour, to the end of life, 
 Inspire me with ability to seek 
 lepose and hope among eternal things — 
 
 Father of heaven and earth ! and I am rich 
 And will possess my portion in content ! 
 
 " And what are things Eternal ] — Powers depart," 
 
 The gray-haired Wanderer steadfastly replied, 
 
 Answering the question which himself had asked, 
 
 " Possessions vanish, and opinions change, 
 
 And Passions hold a fluctuating seat : 
 
 But, by the storms of circumstance unshaken. 
 
 And subject neither to eclipse nor wane. 
 
 Duty exists ; — immutably survive. 
 
 For our support, the measures and the forms, 
 
 Which an abstract Intelligence supplies ; 
 
 Whose kingdom is, where Time and Space are not. 
 
 Of other converse which mind, soul, and heart. 
 
 Do with united urgency, require. 
 
 What more that may not perish ^ Thou, dread Source, 
 
 Prime, self-existing Cause and End of all. 
 
 That, in the scale of Being, fill their place. 
 
 Above our human region, or below. 
 
 Set and sustained ; — Thou — Who didst wrap the cloud 
 
 Of Infancy around us, that Thyself, 
 
 Therein, with our simplicity a while 
 
 Slightest hold, on earth, communion undisturbed — 
 
 Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep, 
 
 Or from its death-like void, with punctual care. 
 
 And touch as gentle as the morning light, 
 
 Restorest us, daily, to the powers of sense. 
 
 And reason's steadfast rule — Thou, Thou alone 
 
 Art everlasting, and the blessed Spirits, 
 
 Which thou includest, as the Sea her Waves : 
 
 For adoration thou endur'st ; endure 
 
 For consciousness the motions of thy will ; 
 
 For apprehension those transcendent truths 
 
 Of the pure Intellect, that stand as laws, 
 
 (Submission constituting strength and power 
 
 Even to thy Being's infinite majesty ! 
 
 This Universe shall pass away — a work 
 
 Glorious I because the shadow of thy might, 
 
 A step, or link, for intercourse with Thee. 
 
 Ah ! if the time must come, in which my feet 
 
 No more shall stray where Meditation leads. 
 
 By flowing stream, through wood, or craggy wild. 
 
 Loved haunts like these, the unimprisoned Mind 
 
 May yet have scope to range among her own, 
 
 Her thoughts, her images, her high desires. 
 
 If the dear faculty of sight should fail, 
 
 Still, it may be allowed me to remember 
 
 What visionary powers of eye and soul 
 
 In youth were mine ; when, stationed on the top 
 
 Of some huge hill — expectant, I beheld 
 
 The Sun rise up, from distant climes returned 
 
 Darkness to chase, and sleep, and bring the day 
 
 His bounteous gift ! or saw him toward the Deep 
 
 Sink — with a retinue of flaming Clouds 
 
 Attended ; then, my Spirit was entranced 
 
 With joy exalted to beatitude ; 
 
 The measure of my soul was filled with bliss, 
 
424 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And holiest love; as earth, sea, air, with light, ' 
 
 With pomp, with glory, with magnificence ! 
 
 " Those fervent raptures are for ever flown ; 
 
 And, since their date, my Soul hath undergone 
 
 Change manifold, for better or for worse : 
 
 Yet cease I not to struggle, and aspire 
 
 Heavenward ; and chide the part of me that flags, 
 
 Through sinful choice ; or dread necessity. 
 
 On human Nature from above imposed. 
 
 'Tis, by comparison, an easy task* 
 
 Earth to despise ; but, to converse with Heaven — 
 
 This is not easy : — to relinquish all 
 
 We have, or hope, of happiness and joy. 
 
 And stand in freedom loosened from this world, 
 
 I deem not arduous : — but must needs confess 
 
 That 't is a thing impossible to frame 
 
 Conceptions equal to the Soul's desires ; 
 
 And the most difficult of tasks to keep 
 
 Heights which the soul is competent to gain. 
 
 — Man is of dust : ethereal hopes are his. 
 
 Which, when they should sustain themselves aloft. 
 
 Want due consistence ; like a pillar of smoke, 
 
 That with majestic energy from earth 
 
 Rises ; but, having reached the thinner air. 
 
 Melts, and dissolves, and is no longer seen. 
 
 From this infirmity of mortal kind 
 
 Sorrow proceeds, which else were not ; — at least. 
 
 If Grief be something hallowed and ordained, 
 
 If, in proportion, it be just and meet. 
 
 Through this, 't is able to maintain its hold. 
 
 In that excess which Conscience disapproves. 
 
 For who could sink and settle to that point 
 
 Of selfishness ; so senseless who could be 
 
 As long and perseveringly to mourn 
 
 For any Object of his love, removed 
 
 From this unstable world, if he could fix 
 
 A satisfying view upon that state 
 
 Of pure, imperishable blessedness. 
 
 Which reason promises, and Holy Writ 
 
 Ensures to all Believers 1 — Yet mistrust 
 
 Is of such incapacity, methinks. 
 
 No natural branch ; despondency far less. 
 
 And, if there be whose tender frames have drooped 
 
 Even to the dust; apparently, through weight 
 Of anguish unrelieved, and lack of power 
 An agonizing sorrow to transmute. 
 Infer not hence a hope from those witliheld 
 When wanted most; a confidence impaired 
 So pitiably, that, having ceased to see 
 With bodily eyes, they are borne down by love 
 Of what is lost, and perish through regret. 
 Oh ! no, full oft the innocent Suflerer sees 
 Too clearly ; feels too vividly ; and longs 
 
 * See, upon this subject, Baxter's most interesting review of 
 his own opinions and sentiments in the decline of life. It may 
 be found (lately reprinted) in Dr. Wordsworth's Ecclesiastical 
 Biography. 
 
 To realize the Vision, with intense 
 
 And over-constant yearning — there — there lies 
 
 The e.\cess, by which the balance is destroyed. 
 
 Too, too contracted are these walls of flesh. 
 
 This vital warmth too cold, these visual orbs, 
 
 Though inconceivably endowed, too dim 
 
 For any passion of the soul that leads 
 
 To ecstasy ; and, all the crooked paths 
 
 Of time and change disdaining, takes its course 
 
 Along the line of limitless desires. 
 
 I, speaking now from such disorder free. 
 
 Nor rapt, nor craving, but in settled peace, 
 
 I cannot doubt that They whom you deplore 
 
 Are glorified ; or, if they sleep, shall wake 
 
 From sleep, and dwell with God in endless love. 
 
 Hope, below this, consists not with belief 
 
 In mercy, carried infinite degrees 
 
 Beyond the tenderness of human hearts : 
 
 Hope, below this, consists not with belief 
 
 In perfect Wisdom, guiding mightiest Power, 
 
 That finds no limits but her own pure Will. 
 
 " Here then we rest : not fearing for our creed 
 
 The worst that human reasoning can achieve, 
 
 To unsettle or perplex it : yet with pain 
 
 Acknowledging, and grievous self-reproach, 
 
 That, though immovably convinced, we want 
 
 Zeal, and the virtue to exist by faith 
 
 As Soldiers live by courage ; as, by strength 
 
 Of heart, the Sailor fights with roaring seas. 
 
 Alas ! the endowment of immortal Power 
 
 Is matched unequally with custom, time,+ 
 
 And domineering faculties of sense 
 
 In all ; in most with superadded foes, 
 
 Idle temptations — open vanities. 
 
 Ephemeral offspring of the unblushing world ; 
 
 And, in the private regions of the mind. 
 
 Ill-governed passions, ranklings of despite, 
 
 Immoderate wishes, pining discontent. 
 
 Distress and care. What then remains 1 — To seek 
 
 Those helps, for his occasions ever near, 
 
 Wlio lacks not will to use them ; vows, renewed 
 
 On the first motion of a holy thought ; 
 
 Vigils of contemplation ; praise ; and prayer, 
 
 A Stream, which, from the f.nintain of the heart 
 
 Issuing, however feebly, nowhere flows 
 
 Without access of unexpected strength. 
 
 But, above all, the victory is most sure 
 
 For Him, who, seeking faith by virtue, strives 
 
 To yield entire submission to the law 
 
 Of Conscience; Conscience reverenced and obeyed, 
 
 As God's most intimate Presence in the soul. 
 
 And his most perfect Image in the world. 
 
 Endeavour thus to live ; these rules regard ; 
 
 These helps solicit ; and a steadfast seat 
 Shall then be yours among the happy few 
 
 t See Note 5, p. 482. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 425 
 
 Who dwell on earth, yet breathe empyreal air, 
 Sons of the morning-. For your nobler Part, 
 Ere disencumbered of her mortal chains. 
 Doubt shall be quelled and trouble chased away ; 
 With only such degree of sadness left 
 As may support longings of pure desire ; 
 And strengthen love, rejoicing secretly 
 In the sublime attractions of the Grave." 
 
 While, in this strain, the venerable Sage 
 Poured forth his aspirations, and announced 
 His judgments, near that lonely House we paced 
 A plot of green-sward, seemingly preserved 
 By Nature's care from wreck of scattered stones, 
 And from encroachment of encircling heath : 
 Small space ! but, for reiterated steps, 
 Smooth and commodious ; as a stately deck 
 Which to and fro the Mariner is used 
 To tread for pastime, talking with his Mates, 
 Or haply thinking of far-distant Friends, 
 While the Ship glides before a steady breeze. 
 Stillness prevailed around us : and the Voice, 
 That spake, was capable to lift the soul 
 Toward regions yet more tranquil. But, methought, 
 That He, whose fixed despondency had given 
 Impulse and motive to that strong discourse, 
 Was less upraised in spirit than abashed; 
 Shrinking from admonition, like a man 
 Who feels, that to exhort, is to reproach. 
 Yet not to be diverted from his aim. 
 The Sage continued — " For that other loss, 
 The loss of confidence in social Man, 
 By the unexpected transports of our Age 
 Carried so high, that every thought — which looked 
 Beyond the temporal destiny of the Kind 
 To many seemed superfluous ; as, no cause 
 For such exalted confidence could e'er 
 Exist ; so, none is now for fixed despair ; 
 The two extremes are equally disowned 
 By reason ; if, with sharp recoil, from one 
 You have been driven far as its opposite. 
 Between them seek the point whereon to build 
 Sound expectations. So doth he advise 
 Who shared at first the illusion ; but was soon 
 Cast from the pedestal of pride by shocks 
 Which Nature gently gave, in woods and fields ; 
 Nor unreproved by Providence, thus speaking 
 To the inattentive Children of the World, 
 'Vain-glorious Generation! what new powers 
 'On you have been conferred? what gifts, withheld 
 ' Prom your Progenitors, have Ye received, 
 'Fit recompense of new desert 1 what claim 
 'Are ye prepared to urge, that my decrees 
 'For you should undergo a sudden change; 
 'And the weak functions of one busy day, 
 'Reclaiming and extirpating, perform 
 'What all the slowly-moving Years of Time, 
 'With their united force, have left undone? 
 3D 
 
 ' By Nature's gradual processes be taught; 
 
 'By Story be confounded ! Ye aspire 
 
 'Rashly, to fall once more; and that false fruit, 
 
 'Which, to your overweening spirits, yields 
 
 'Hope of a flight celestial, will produce 
 
 ' Misery and shame. But Wisdom of her sons 
 
 ' Shall not the less, though late, be justified.' 
 
 Such timely warning," said the Wanderer, " gave 
 
 That visionary Voice ; and, at this day, 
 
 When a Tartarian darkness overspreads 
 
 The groaning nations; when the Impious rule, 
 
 By will or by established ordinance. 
 
 Their own dire agents, and constrain the Good 
 
 To acts which they abhor ; though I bewail 
 
 This triumph, yet the pity of my heart 
 
 Prevents me not from owning, that the law, 
 
 By which Mankind now suffers, is most just. 
 
 For by superior energies ; more strict 
 
 Afliance in each other ; faith moi-e firm 
 
 In their unhallowed principles ; the Bad 
 
 Have fairly earned a victory o'er the weak. 
 
 The vacillating, inconsistent Good. 
 
 Therefore, not unconsoled, I wait — in hope 
 
 To see the moment, when the righteous Cause 
 
 Shall gain Defenders zealous and devout 
 
 As they who have opposed her; in which Virtue 
 
 Will, to her efforts, tolerate no bounds 
 
 That are not lofty as her rights ; aspiring 
 
 By impulse of her own ethereal zeal. 
 
 That Spirit only can redeem Mankind ; 
 
 And when that sacred Spirit shall appear. 
 
 Then shall our triumph be complete as theirs. 
 
 Yet, should this confidence prove vain, the Wise 
 
 Have still the keeping of their proper peace ; 
 
 Are guardians of their own tranquillity. 
 
 They act, or they recede, observe, and feel ; 
 
 ' Knowing the heart of Man is set to be 
 
 The centre of this World, about the which 
 
 Those revolutions of disturbances 
 
 Still roll ; where all the aspects of misery 
 
 Predominate ; whose strong effects are such 
 
 As he must bear, being powerless to redress; 
 
 And that unless above himself he can 
 
 Erect himself, how poor a thing is Man .'' * 
 
 Happy is He who lives to understand — 
 
 Not human Nature only, but explores 
 
 All Natures, — to the end that he may find 
 
 The law that governs each ; and where begins 
 
 The union, the partition where, that makea 
 
 Kind and degree, among all visible Beings; 
 
 The constitutions, powers, and faculties, 
 
 Which they inherit, — cannot step beyond, — 
 
 And cannot fall beneath ; that do assign 
 
 To every Class its station and its office. 
 
 Through all the mighty Commonwealth of things j 
 
 * Daniel. — See Note 6, p. 483. 
 36* 
 
426 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Up from the creepinof plant to sovereign Man. 
 
 Sucli Converse, if directed by a meelt, 
 Sincere, and humble Spirit, teaches love; 
 For knowledge is delight; and such delight 
 Breeds love : yet, suited as it rather is 
 To thouglit and to the climbing intellect. 
 It teaches less to love, than to adore; 
 If that be not indeed the highest Love !" 
 
 " Yet," said I, tempted here to interpose, 
 "The dignity of Life is not impaired 
 By aught that innocently satisfies 
 The humbler cravings of the heart; and He 
 Is a still happier Man, who, for those heights 
 Of speculation not unfit, descends; 
 And such benign affections cultivates 
 Among the inferior Kinds ; not merely those 
 That he may call his own, and which depend, 
 As individual objects of regard. 
 Upon his care, — from whom he also looks 
 For signs and tokens of a mutual bond, — 
 But others, far beyond this narrow sphere, 
 Whom, for the very sake of love, he loves. 
 Nor is it a mean praise of rural life 
 And solitude, tha-t they do favour most. 
 Most frequently call forth, and best sustain 
 These pure sensations ; that can penetrate 
 The obstreperous City ; on the barren Seas 
 Are not unfelt, — and rnucli might recommend, 
 How much they might inspirit and endear, 
 The loneliness of this sublime Retreat !" 
 
 "Yes," said the Sage, resuming the discourse 
 
 Again directed to his downcast Friend, 
 
 "If, with the froward will and grovelling soul 
 
 Of Man offended, liberty is here. 
 
 And invitation every hour renewed. 
 
 To mark their placid state, who never heard 
 
 Of a command which they have power to break, 
 
 Or rule which they are tempted to transgress; 
 
 These, with a soothed or elevated heart, 
 
 May we behold ; their knowledge register ; 
 
 Observe their ways ; and, free from envy, find 
 
 Complacence there: — but wherefore this to You? 
 
 I guess that, welcome to your lonely hearth. 
 
 The Redbreast feeds in winter from your hand ; 
 
 A box, perchance, is from your casement hung 
 
 For the small Wren to build in ; — not in vain, 
 
 The barriers disregarding that surround 
 
 This deep Abiding-place, before your sight 
 
 Mounts on the breeze the Butterfly — and soars, 
 
 Small Creature as she is, from earth's bright flowers 
 
 Into the dewy clouds. Ambition reigns 
 
 In the waste wilderness : the Soul ascends 
 
 Towards her native firmament of heaven. 
 
 When the fresh Eagle, in the month of May, 
 
 Upborne, at evening, on replenished wing. 
 
 This shaded valley leaves, — and leaves the dark 
 
 Empurpled hills, — conspicuously renewing 
 
 A proud communication with the sun 
 
 Low sunk beneath the horizon ! — List ! — I heard, 
 
 Prom yon huge breast of rock, a solemn bleat; 
 
 Sent forth as if it were the Mountain's voice. 
 
 As if the visible Mountain made the cry. 
 
 Again ! — The effect upon the soul was such 
 
 As he expressed ; from out the mountain's heart 
 
 The solemn bleat appeared to issue, startling 
 
 The blank air — for the region all around 
 
 Stood silent, empty of all shape of life; 
 
 — It was a Lamb — left somewhere to itself, 
 
 The plaintive Spirit of the Solitude ! — 
 
 He paused, as if unwilling to proceed. 
 
 Through consciousness that silence in such place 
 
 Was best, — the most affecting eloquence. 
 
 But soon his thoughts returned upon themselves, 
 
 And, in soft tone of speech, he thus resumed. 
 
 "Ah! if the heart, too confidently raised. 
 
 Perchance too lightly occupied, or lulled 
 
 Too easily, despise or overlook 
 
 The vassalage that binds her to the earth, 
 
 Her sad dependence upon time, and all 
 
 The trepidations of mortality. 
 
 What place so destitute and void — but there 
 
 The little Flower her vanity shall check 
 
 The trailing Worm reprove her thoughtless pride ? 
 
 " These craggy regions, these chaotic wilds 
 
 Does that benignity pervade, that warms 
 
 The Mole contented with her darksome walk 
 
 In the cold ground ; and to the Emmet gives 
 
 Her foresight, and intelligence that makes 
 
 The tiny Creatures strong by social league ; 
 
 Supports the generations, multiplies 
 
 Their tribes, till we behold a spacious plain 
 
 Or grassy bottom, all, with little hills — 
 
 Their labour — covered, as a Lake with waves ; 
 
 Thousands of Cities, in the desert place 
 
 Built up of life, and food, and means of life! 
 
 Nor wanting here, to entertain the thought, 
 
 Creatures that in communities exist, 
 
 Less, as might seem, for general guardianship 
 
 Or through dependence upon mutual aid, 
 
 Than by participation of delight 
 
 And a strict love of fellowship, combined. 
 
 What other spirit can it be that prompts 
 
 The gilded summer Flies to mix and weave 
 
 Their sports together in the solar beam. 
 
 Or in the gloom of twilight hum their joy ? 
 
 More obviously, the self-same influence rules 
 
 The Feathered kinds ; the Fieldfare's pensive flock, 
 
 The cawing Rooks, and Sea-mews from afar, 
 
 Hovering above these inland Solitudes, 
 
 By the rough wind unscattered, at whose call 
 
 Their voyage was begun : nor is its power 
 
 Unfelt among the sedentary Fowl 
 
 That seek yon Pool, and there prolong their stay 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 427 
 
 III silent Congress ; or together roused 
 
 Take flight ; while with their clang the air resounds. 
 
 And, over all, in that ethereal vault, 
 
 Is the mute company of changeful clouds; 
 
 Bright apparition suddenly put forth 
 
 The Rainbow, smiling on the faded storm ; 
 The mild assemblage of the starry heavens ; 
 And the great Sun, earth's universal Lord ! 
 
 " How bountiful is Nature ! he shall find 
 Who seeks not ; and to him, who hath not asked, 
 Large measure shall be dealt. Three sabbath-daya 
 Are scarcely told, since, on a service bent 
 Of mere humanity. You clomb those Heights ; 
 ; And what, a marvellous and heavenly Show 
 Was to your sight revealed ! the Swains moved on. 
 And heeded not ; you lingered, and perceived. 
 There is a luxury in self-dispraise ; 
 And inward self-disparagement affords 
 j To meditative Spleen a grateful feast, 
 i Trust me, pronouncing on your own desert. 
 You judge unthankfully ; distempered nerves 
 Infect the thoughts : the languor of the Frame 
 Depresses the Soul's vigour. Quit your Couch — 
 Cleave not so fondly to your moody Cell ; 
 Nor let the hallowed Powers, that shed from heaven 
 ; Stillness and rest, with disapproving eye 
 1 Look down upon your taper, through a watch 
 ; Of midnight hours, unseasonably twinkling 
 In this deep Hollow, like a sullen star 
 Dimly reflected in a lonely pool. 
 Take courage, and withdraw yourself from ways 
 That run not parallel to Nature's course. 
 Rise with the Lark ! your Matins shall obtain 
 Grace, be their composition what it may, 
 If but with hers performed ; climb once again. 
 Climb every day, those ramparts ; meet the breeze 
 1 Upon their tops, — adventurous as a Bee 
 That from your garden thither soars, to feed 
 I On new-blown heath ; let yon commanding rock 
 jBe your frequented Watch-tower ; roll the stone 
 I In thunder down the mountains: with all your might 
 Chase the wild Goat ; and, if the bold red Deer 
 Fly to these harbours, driven by hound and horn 
 Loud echoing, add your speed to the pursuit : 
 So, wearied to your Hut shall you return. 
 And sink at evening into sound repose." 
 
 The Solitary lifted toward the hills 
 
 A kindling eye ; — poetic feelings rushed 
 
 Into my bosom, whence these words broke forth : 
 
 " Oh ! what a joy it were, in vigorous health. 
 
 To have a Body (this our vital frame 
 
 With shrinking sensibility endued, 
 
 And all the nice regards of flesh and blood) 
 
 And to the elements surrender it 
 
 As if it were a Spirit — How divine, 
 
 The liberty, for frail, for mortal man 
 
 To roam at large among unpeopled glens 
 And mountainous retirements, only trod 
 By devious footsteps ; regions consecrate 
 To oldest time ! and, reckless of the storm 
 That keeps the raven quiet in her nest, 
 Be as a Presence or a motion — one 
 Among the many there ; and, while the Mists 
 Flying, and rainy Vapours, call out Shapes 
 And Phantoms from the crags and solid earth 
 As fast as a Musician scatters sounds 
 Out of an instrument; and, while the Streams — 
 (As at a first creation and in haste 
 To exercise their untried faculties) 
 Descending from the region of the Clouds, 
 And starling from the hollows of the earth 
 More multitudinous every moment, rend 
 Their way before them — what a joy to roam 
 An equal among mightiest Energies; 
 And haply sometimes with articulate voice. 
 Amid the deafening tumult, scarcely heard 
 By him that utters it, exclaim aloud, 
 ' Be this continued so from day to day, 
 Nor let the fierce commotion have an end, 
 Ruinous though it be, from month to month !' " 
 
 " Yes," said the Wanderer, taking from my lips 
 The strain of transport, " whosoe'er in youth 
 Has, through ambition of his soul, given way 
 To such desires, and grasped at such delight, 
 Shall feel congenial stirrings late and long, 
 In spite of all the weakness that life brings. 
 Its cares and sorrows ; he, though taught to own 
 The tranquillizing power of time, shall wake, 
 Wake sometimes to a noble restlessness — 
 Loving the sports which once he gloried in. 
 
 " Compatriot, Friend^ remote are Garry's Hills, 
 
 The Streams far distant of your native Glen; 
 
 Yet is their form and Image here expressed 
 
 With brotherly resemblance. Turn your steps 
 
 Wherever fancy leads, by day, by night, 
 
 Are various engines working, not the .same 
 
 As those by which your soul in youth was moved. 
 
 But by the great Artificei;- endued 
 
 With no inferior power,. You dwell alone ; 
 
 You walk, you live, you speculate alone; 
 
 Yet doth Remembrance, like a sovereign Prince, 
 
 For you a stately gallery maintain 
 
 Of gay or tragic pictures. You have seen, 
 
 Have acted, suffered, travelled far, observed 
 
 With no incurious eye; and books are yours. 
 
 Within whose silent chambers treasure lies 
 
 Preserved from age to age ; more precious far 
 
 Than that accumulated store of gold 
 
 And orient gems, which, for a day of need. 
 
 The Sultan hides within ancestral tombs. 
 
 These hoards of truth you can unlock at will : 
 
428 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And music waits upon your skilful touch, 
 
 Sounds which the wandering Shepherd from these 
 
 Heights 
 Hears, and forgets his purpose; — furnished thus, 
 How can you droop, if willing to be raised I 
 
 " A piteous lot it were to flee from Man — 
 
 Yet not rejoice in Nature. He — whose hours 
 
 Are by domestic Pleasures uncaressed 
 
 And unenlivened ; who exists whole years 
 
 Apart from benefits received or done 
 
 'Mid the transactions of the bustling crowd ; 
 
 Who neither hears, nor feels a wish to hear, 
 
 Of the world's interests — such a One hath need 
 
 Of a quick fancy, and an active heart, 
 
 That, for the day's consumption, books may yield 
 
 A not unwholesome food, and eaith and air 
 
 Supply his morbid humour with delight. 
 
 — Truth has her pleasure-grounds, her haunts of ease 
 
 And easy contemplation, — gay parterres. 
 
 And labyrinthine walks, her sunny glades 
 
 And shady groves for recreation framed 
 
 These may he range, if willing to partake 
 
 Their soft indulgences, and in due time 
 
 May issue thence, recruited for the tasks 
 
 And course of service Truth requires from those 
 
 Who tend her Altars, wait upon her Throne, 
 
 And guard her Fortresses. Who thinks, and feels, 
 
 And recognises ever and anon 
 
 The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul. 
 
 Why need such man go desperately astray, 
 
 And nurse 'the dreadful appetite of death V 
 
 If tired with Systems — each in its degree 
 
 Substantial — and all crumbling in their turn, 
 
 Let him build Systems of his own, and smile 
 
 At the fond work — demolished with a touch; 
 
 If unreligious, let him be at once, 
 
 Among ten thousand Innocents, enrolled 
 
 A Pupil in the many-chambered school, 
 
 Where Superstition weaves her airy dreams. 
 
 " Life's Autumn past, I stand on Winter's verge, 
 
 And daily lose what I desire to keep : 
 
 I'et rather would I instantly decline 
 
 To the traditionary sympathies 
 
 Of a most rustic ignorance, and take 
 
 A fearful apprehension from the owl 
 
 Or death-watch, — and as readily rejoice. 
 
 If two auspicious magpies crossed my way ; 
 
 To this would rather bend than see and hear 
 
 The repetitions wearisome of sense. 
 
 Where soul is dead, and feeling hath no place; 
 
 Where knowledge, ill begun in cold remark 
 
 On outward things, with formal inference ends: 
 
 Or, if the Mind turn inward, 'tis perplexed, 
 
 Lost in a gloom of uninspired research ; 
 
 Meanwhile, the Heart within the Heart, the seat 
 
 Where Peace and happy Consciousness should dwell 
 
 On its own axis restlessly revolves. 
 
 Yet nowhere finds the cheering light of truth. 
 
 " Upon the breast of new-created Earth 
 
 Man walked ; and when and wheresoe'er he moved, 
 
 Alone or mated. Solitude was not. 
 
 He heard, upon the wind, the articulate Voice 
 
 Of God ; and Angels to his sight appeared, 
 
 Crowning the glorious hills of Paradise; 
 
 Or through the groves gliding like morning mist 
 
 Enkindled by the sun. He sate — and talked 
 
 With winged Messengers; who daily brought 
 
 To his small Island in the ethereal deep 
 
 Tidings of joy and love. — From these pure Heights 
 
 (Whether of actual vision, sensible 
 
 To sight and feeling, or that in this sort 
 
 Have condescendingly been shadowed forth 
 
 Communications spiritually maintained. 
 
 And Intuitions moral and divine) 
 
 Fell Human-kind — to banishment condemned 
 
 That flowing years repealed not: and distress 
 
 And grief spread wide ; but Man escaped tlie doom 
 
 Of destitution; — Solitude was not. 
 
 — Jehovah — shapeless Power above all Powers, 
 Single and one, the omnipresent God, 
 
 By vocal utterance, or blaze of light, 
 
 Or cloud of darkness, localized in heaven ; 
 
 On earth, enshrined within the wandering ark; 
 
 Or, out of Sion, thundering from his throne 
 
 Between the Cherubim — on the chosen Race 
 
 Showered miracles, and ceased not to dispense 
 
 Judgments, that filled the Land from age to age 
 
 With hope, and love, and gratitude, and fear ; 
 
 And with amazement smote ; — thereby to assert 
 
 His scorned, or unacknowledged Sovereignty. 
 
 And when the One, inefliable of name, 
 
 Of nature indivisible, withdrew 
 
 From mortal adoration or regard, 
 
 Not then was Deity engulfed, nor Man, 
 
 The rational Creature, left, to feel the weight 
 
 Of his own reason, without sense or thought 
 
 Of higher reason and a purer will. 
 
 To benefit and bless, through mightier power: 
 
 — Whether the Persian — zealous to reject 
 Altar and Image, and the inclusive walls 
 And roofs of Temples built by human hands — 
 To loftiest heights ascending, from their tops. 
 With myrtle-wreathed Tiara on his brow. 
 Presented sacrifice to Moon and Stars, 
 
 And to the winds and Mother Elements, 
 And the whole Circle of tlie Heavens, for him 
 A sensitive Existence, and a God, 
 With lifted hands invoked, and songs of praise : 
 Or, less reluctantly to bonds of Sense 
 Yielding his Soul, the Babylonian framed 
 For influence undefined a personal Shape; 
 And, from the Plain, with toil immense, uprearcd 
 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 429 
 
 Tower eight times planted on the top of Tower; 
 That Belus, nightly to his splendid Couch 
 Descending, there might rest ; upon that Height 
 j Pure and serene, diffused — to overlook 
 I Winding Euphrates, and the City vast 
 I Of his devoted Worshippers, far-stretched, 
 With grove, and field, and garden, interspersed ; 
 Their Town, and foodful Region for support 
 Against the pressure of beleaguring vi^ar. 
 
 "Chaldean Shepherds, ranging trackless fields. 
 Beneath the concave of unclouded skies 
 
 ' Spread like a sea, in boundless solitude, 
 Looked on the Polar Star, as on a Guide 
 And Guardian of their course, that never closed 
 His steadfast eye. The Planetary Five 
 
 I With a submissive reverence they beheld ; 
 
 [ Watched, from the centre of their sleeping flocks 
 Those radiant Mercuries, that seemed to move 
 Carrying through Ether, in perpetual round. 
 Decrees and resolutions of the Gods ; 
 
 I And, by their aspects, signifying works 
 
 i'Of dim futurity, to man revealed. 
 
 j — The Imaginative Faculty was Lord 
 
 I Of observations natural ; and, thus 
 Led on, those Shepherds made report of Stars 
 In set rotation passing to and fro, 
 Between the orbs of our apparent spliere 
 And its invisible counterpart, adorned 
 With answering Constellations, under earth, 
 Removed from all approach of living sight 
 But present to the Dead ; who, so they deemed. 
 Like those celestial Messengers beheld 
 All accidents, and Judges were of all. 
 
 "The lively Grecian, in a Land of hills. 
 Rivers, and fertile plains, and sounding shores, 
 Under a cope of variegated sky, 
 I Could find commodious place for every God, 
 iPromptly received, as prodigally brought, 
 (From the surrounding Countries — at the choice 
 jOf all adventurers. With unrivalled skill, 
 i As nicest observation furnished hints 
 I For studious fancy, did his hand bestow 
 I On fluent Operations a fixed shape; 
 Metal or Stone, idolatrously served. 
 And yet — triumphant o'er this pompous show 
 Of Art, this palpable array of Sense, 
 On every side encountered; in despite 
 Of the gross fictions chanted in the streets 
 By wandering Rhapsodists ; and in contempt 
 Of doubt and bold denial hourly urged 
 Amid the wrangling Schools — a spirit hung. 
 Beautiful Region ! o'er thy Towns and Farms, 
 Statues and Temples, and memorial Tombs; 
 And emanations were perceived ; and acts 
 Of immortality, in Nature's course. 
 Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt 
 
 As bonds, on grave Philosopher imposed 
 
 And armed Warrior ; and in every grove 
 
 A gay or pensive tenderness prevailed. 
 
 When piety more awful had relaxed. 
 
 — ' Take, running River, take these Locks of mine' — 
 
 Thus would the Votary say — ' this severed hair, 
 
 ' My vow fulfilling, do I here present, 
 
 'Thankful for my beloved Child's return. 
 
 ' Thy banks, Cephisus, he again hath trod, j 
 
 'Thy murmurs heard; and drunk the crystal lymph i 
 
 ' With which thou dost refresh the thirsty lip, i 
 
 ' And moisten all day long these flowery fields !' 
 
 And doubtless, sometimes, when the hair was shed 
 
 Upon the flowing stream, a thought arose 
 
 Of Life continuous. Being unimpaired ; 
 
 That hath been, is, and where it was and is 
 
 There shall endure, — existence unexposed 
 
 To the blind walk of mortal accident; 
 
 From diminution safe and weakening age; 
 
 While Man grows old, and dwindles, and decays; 
 
 And countless generations of Mankind 
 
 Depart ; and leave no vestige where they trod. 
 
 "We live by admiration, hope, and love; 
 And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, 
 In dignity of Being we ascend. 
 But what is error 1" — " Answer he who can !" 
 The Sceptic somewhat haughtily exclaimed : 
 " Love, Hope, and Admiration — are they not 
 Mad Fancy's favourite Vassals 1 Does not life 
 Use them, full oft, as Pioneers to ruin. 
 Guides to destruction 1 Is it well to trust 
 Imagination's light when Reason's fails, 
 The unguarded taper where the guarded faints 1 
 — Stoop from those heights, and soberly declare 
 What error is; and, of our errors, which 
 Doth most debase the mind ; the genuine seats 
 Of power, where are they 'i Who shall regulate, 
 With truth, the scale of intellectual ranki" 
 
 " Methinks," persuasively the Sage replied, 
 
 "That for this arduous office You possess 
 
 Some rare advantages. Your early days 
 
 A grateful recollection must supply 
 
 Of much exalted good by Heaven vouchsafed 
 
 To dignify the humblest state. — Your voice 
 
 Hath, in my hearing, often testified 
 
 That poor Men's Children, they, and they alone. 
 
 By their condition taught, can understand 
 
 The wisdom of the prayer that daily asks 
 
 For daily bread. A consciousness is yours 
 
 How feelingly religion may be learned 
 
 In smoky Cabins, from a Mother's tongue — 
 
 Heard while the Dwelling vibrates to the din 
 
 Of the contiguous Torrent, gathering strength 
 
 At every moment — and, with strength, increase 
 
 Of fury ; or, while Snow is at the door. 
 
 Assaulting and defending, and lbs Wind, 
 
430 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 A sightless Labourer, whistles at his work — 
 
 Fearful, but resignation tempers fear, 
 
 And piety is sweet to infant minds. 
 
 — The Shepherd Lad, who in the sunshine carves, 
 
 On the green turf, a dial — to divide 
 
 The silent hours ; and who to that report 
 
 Can portion out his pleasures, and adapt 
 
 His round of pastoral duties, is not left 
 
 With less intelligence for moral things 
 
 Of gravest import. Early he perceives, 
 
 Within himself, a measure and a rule. 
 
 Which to the Sun of Truth he can apply, 
 
 That shines for him, and shines for all Mankind. 
 
 Experience daily fixing his regards 
 
 On Nature's wants, he knows how few they are, 
 
 And where they lie, how answered and appeased. 
 
 This knowledge ample recompense affords 
 
 For manifold privations; he refers 
 
 His notions to this standard ; on this rock 
 
 Rests his desires; and hence, in after life. 
 
 Soul-strengthening patience, and sublime content. 
 
 Imagination — not permitted here 
 
 To waste her powers, as in the worldling's mind, 
 
 On fickle pleasures, and superfluous cares, 
 
 And trivial ostentation — is left free 
 
 And puissant to range the solemn walks 
 
 Of time and nature, girded by a zone 
 
 That, while it binds, invigorates and supports. 
 
 Acknowledge, then, that whether by the side 
 
 Of his poor hut, or on the mountain top. 
 
 Or in the cultured field, a Man so bred 
 
 (Take from him what you will upon the score 
 
 Of ignorance or illusion) lives and breathes 
 
 For noble purposes of mind : his heart 
 
 Beats to the heroic song of ancient days; 
 
 His eye distinguishes, his soul creates. 
 
 And those Illusions, which excite the scorn 
 
 Or move the pity of unthinking minds, 
 
 Are they not mainly outward Ministers 
 
 Of inward Conscience? with whose service charged 
 
 They came and go, appeared and disappear. 
 
 Diverting evil purposes, remorse 
 
 Awakening, chastening an intemperate grief, 
 
 Or pride of heart abating : and, whene'er 
 
 For less important ends those Phantoms move. 
 
 Who would forbid them, if their presence serve, 
 
 Among wild mountains and unpeopled heaths, 
 
 Filling a space, else vacant, to exalt 
 
 The forms of Nature, and enlarge her powers 1 
 
 " Once more to distant Ages of the world 
 
 Let us revert, and place before our thoughts 
 
 The face which rural Solitude might wear 
 
 To the unenlightened Swains of pagan Greece. 
 
 — In that fair Clime, the lonely Herdsman, stretched 
 
 On the soft grass through half a summer's day, 
 
 With music lulled his indolent repose: 
 
 And, in some fit of weariness if he, 
 
 When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear 
 
 A distant strain, far sweeter than the sounds 
 
 Which his poor skill could make, his Fancy fetched. 
 
 Even from the blazing Chariot of the Sun, ■ 
 
 A beardless Youth, who touched a golden lute. 
 
 And filled the illumined groves with ravishment. ! 
 
 The nightly Hunter, lifting up his eyes 
 
 Towards the crescent Moon, with grateful heart 
 
 Called on the lovely wanderer who bestowed 
 
 That timely light, to share his joyous sport: 
 
 And hence, a beaming Goddess with her Nymphs, 
 
 Across the lawn and through tlie darksome grove 
 
 (Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes 
 
 By echo multiplied from rock or cave) 
 
 Swept in the storm of chase, as Moon and Stars 
 
 Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven, 
 
 When winds are blowing strong. The Traveller slaked 
 
 His thirst from Rill or gushing Fount, and thanked 
 
 The Naiad. — Sunbeams, upon distant Hills 
 
 Gliding apace, with Shadows in their train. 
 
 Might, with small help from fancy, be transformed 
 
 Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly. 
 
 The Zephyrs, fanning as they passed, their wings, 
 
 Lacked not, for love, fair Objects, whom they wooed ■ 
 
 With gentle whisper. Withered Boughs grotesque, 
 
 Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary age, 
 
 From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth 
 
 In the low vale, or on steep mountain side ; 
 
 And, sometimes, intermixed with stirring horns 
 
 Of the live Deer, or Goat's depending beard, — 
 
 These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild brood 
 
 Of gamesome Deities; or Pan himself, 
 
 The simple Shepherd's awe-inspiring God !" 
 
 As this apt strain proceeded, I could mark 
 
 Its kindly influence, o'er the yielding brow 
 
 Of our Companion, gradually diffused ; 
 
 While, listening, he had paced the noiseless turf. 
 
 Like one whose untired ear a murmuring stream 
 
 Detains ; but tempted now to interpose, 
 
 He with a smile exclaimed — 
 
 'T is well you speak 
 At a safe distance from our native Land, 
 And from the Mansions where our youth was taught. 
 The true Descendants of those godly Men 
 Who swept from Scotland, in a flame of zeal. 
 Shrine, Altar, Image, and the massy Piles 
 That harboured them, — the Souls retaining yet 
 The churlish features of that after Race 
 Who fled to caves, and woods, and naked rocks. 
 In deadly scorn of superstitious rites, 
 Or what their scruples construed to be such — 
 How, think you, would they tolerate this scheme 
 Of fine propensities, that tends, if urged 
 Far as it might be urged, to sow afresh 
 The weeds of Romish Phantasy, in vain 
 Uprooted ; would re-consecrate our Wells 
 To good Saint Fillan and to fair Saint Anne ; 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 431 
 
 And from long banishment recall Saint Giles, 
 
 iTo watch again with tutelary love 
 
 jO'er stately Edinborough throned on crags'! 
 
 A blessed restoration, to behold 
 
 The Patron, on the shoulders of his Priests, 
 
 Once more parading through her crowded streets; 
 
 Now simply guarded by the sober Powers 
 
 Of Science, and Philosophy, and Sense !" 
 
 This answer followed. — " You have turned my thoughts 
 
 Upon our brave Progenitors, who rose 
 
 Against Idolatry with warlike mind. 
 
 And shrunk from vain observances, to lurk 
 
 In caves, and woods, and under dismal rocks. 
 
 Deprived of shelter, covering, fire, and food ; 
 
 Whyl — for this very reason that they felt, 
 
 ^And did acknowledge, wheresoe'er they moved, 
 
 A Spiritual Presence, oft-times misconceived ; 
 
 But still a high dependence, a divine 
 
 Bounty and government, that filled their hearts 
 
 With joy, and gratitude, and fear, and love ; 
 
 And from their fervent lips drew hymns of praise. 
 
 That through the desert rang. Though favoured less, 
 
 Far less, than these, yet such, in their degree, 
 
 Were those bewildered Pagans of old time. 
 
 Beyond their own poor Natures and above 
 
 They looked ; were humbly thankful for the good 
 
 Which the warm Sun solicited — and Earth 
 
 Bestowed ; were gladsome, — and their moral sense 
 
 They fortified with reverence for the Gods ; 
 
 And they had hopes that overstepped the Grave. 
 
 Now, shall our great Discoverers," he exclaimed, 
 Raising his voice triumphantly, " obtain 
 From Sense and Reason less than These obtained, 
 Though far misled ] Shall Men for whom our Age 
 Qnbafiled powers of vision hath prepared. 
 To explore the world without and world within. 
 Be joyless as the blind 1 Ambitious Souls — 
 iWhom Earth, at this late season, hath produced 
 To regulate the moving spheres, and weigh 
 The planets in the hollow of their hand ; 
 And They who rather dive than soar, whose pains 
 Have solved the elements, or analysed 
 The thinking principle — shall They in fact 
 Prove a degraded Race? and what avails 
 |R.enown, if their presumption make them such? 
 Oh ! there is laughter at their work in Heaven ! 
 Inquire of ancient Wisdom ; go, demand 
 Of mighty Nature, if 'twas ever meant 
 (That we should pry far off yet be unraised ; 
 That we should pore, and dwindle as we pore, 
 Viewing all objects unremittingly 
 In disconnexion dead and spiritless; 
 And still dividing, and dividing still. 
 Break down all grandeur, still unsatisfied 
 With the perverse attempt, while littleness 
 May yet become more little ; waging thus 
 
 An impious warfare with the very life 
 
 Of our own souls I — And if indeed there be 
 
 An all-pervading Spirit, upon whom 
 
 Our dark foundations rest, could He design 
 
 That this magnificent effect of Power, 
 
 The Earth we tread, the Sky that we behold 
 
 By day, and all the pomp which night reveals. 
 
 That these — and that superior JVTystery 
 
 Our vital Frame, so fearfully devised. 
 
 And the dread Soul within it — should exist 
 
 Only to be examined, pondered, searched. 
 
 Probed, vexed, and criticised ! — Accuse me not 
 
 Of arrogance, unknown Wanderer as I am. 
 
 If, having walked with Nature threescore years. 
 
 And oflered, far as frailty would allow. 
 
 My heart a daily sacrifice to Truth, 
 
 I now afiirm of Nature and of Truth, 
 
 Whom I have served, that their Divinity 
 
 Revolts, offended at the ways of Men 
 
 Swayed by such motives, to such end employed ■ 
 
 Philosophers, who, though the human Soul 
 
 Be of a thousand faculties composed, 
 
 And twice ten thousand interests, do yet prize 
 
 This Soul, and the transcendent Universe, 
 
 No more than as a Mirror that reflects 
 
 To proud Self-love her own intelligence ; 
 
 That One, poor, infinite Object, in the Abyss 
 
 Of infinite Being, twinkling restlessly ! 
 
 " Nor higher place can be assigned to Him 
 
 And his Compeers — the laughing Sage of France. — 
 
 Crowned was He, if my Memory do not err, 
 
 With laurel planted upon hoary hairs. 
 
 In sign of conquest by his Wit achieved, 
 
 And benefits his wisdom had conferred, 
 
 His tottering Body was with wreaths of flowers 
 
 Opprest, far less becoming ornaments 
 
 Than Spring oft twines about a mouldering Tree ; 
 
 Yet so it pleased a fond, a vain old Man, 
 
 And a most frivolous People. Him I mean 
 
 Who penned, to ridicule confiding Faith, 
 
 This sorry Legend ; which by chance we found 
 
 Piled in a nook, through malice, as might seem. 
 
 Among more innocent rubbish." — Speaking thus, 
 
 With a brief notice when, and how, and where, 
 
 We had espied the Book, he drew it forth ; 
 
 And courteously, as if the act removed. 
 
 At once, all traces from the good Man's heart 
 
 Of unbenign aversion or contempt. 
 
 Restored it to its owner. " Gentle Friend," 
 
 Herewith he grasped the Solitary's hand, 
 
 "You have known better Lights and Guides than 
 
 these — 
 Ah ! let not aught amiss within dispose 
 A noble mind to practise on herself. 
 And tempt Opinion to support the wrongs 
 Of Passion : whatsoe'er be felt or feared. 
 From higher judgment-seats make no appeal 
 
432 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 To lower : can you question that the Soul 
 
 Inherits an allegiance, not by choice 
 
 To be cast off, upon an oath proposed 
 
 By each new upstart Notion 1 In the porta 
 
 Of levity no refuge can be found, 
 
 No shelter, for a spirit in distress. 
 
 He, who by wilful disesteem of life, 
 
 And proud insensibility to hope, 
 
 Afironts the eye of Solitude, shall learn 
 
 That her mild nature can be terrible ; 
 
 That neither she nor Silence lack the power 
 
 To avenge their own insulted Majesty. 
 
 — O blest seclusion ! when the Mind admits 
 
 The law of duty ; and can therefore move 
 
 Through each vicissitude of loss and gain. 
 
 Linked in entire complacence with her choice ; 
 
 When Youth's presumptuousness is mellowed down, 
 
 And Manhood's vain anxiety dismissed; 
 
 When Wisdom shows her seasonable fruit, 
 
 Upon the boughs of sheltering Leisure hung 
 
 In sober plenty ; when the spirit stoops 
 
 To drink with gratitude the crystal stream 
 
 Of unreproved enjoyment ; and is pleased 
 
 To muse, — and be saluted by the air 
 
 Of meek repentance, wafting wall-flower scents 
 
 From out the crumbling ruins of fallen Pride 
 
 And chambers of Transgression, now forlorn. 
 
 O, calm contented days, and peaceful nights! 
 
 Who, when such good can be obtained, would strive 
 
 To reconcile his Manhood to a couch 
 
 Soft, as may seem, but, under that disguise. 
 
 Stuffed with the thorny substance of the past. 
 
 For fixed annoyance ; and full oft beset 
 
 With floating dreams, disconsolate and black. 
 
 The vapoury phantoms of futurity'! 
 
 " Within the soul a Faculty abides, 
 That with interpositions, which would hide 
 And darken, so can deal, that they become 
 Contingencies of pomp ; and serve to exalt 
 Her native brightness. As the ample Moon, 
 In the deep stillness of a summer Even 
 Rising behind a thick and lofty grove. 
 Burns like an unconsuming fire of light. 
 In the green trees; and, kindling on all sides 
 Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil 
 Into a substance glorious as her own, 
 Yea with her own incorporated, by power. 
 Capacious and serene; like power abides 
 In Man's celestial Spirit; Virtue thus 
 Sets forth and magnifies herself; thus feeds 
 A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire. 
 From the encumbrances of mortal life. 
 From error, disappointment, — nay, from guilt 
 And sometimes, so relenting Justice wills, 
 From palpable oppressions of Despair." 
 
 The Solitary by these words was touched 
 With manifest emotion, and exclaimed. 
 
 " But how begin 1 and whence? — the Mind is free; 
 
 Resolve — the haughty Moralist would say, 
 
 This single act is all that we demand. 
 
 Alas ! such wisdom bids a Creature fly 
 
 Whose very sorrow is, that time hath shorn 
 
 His natural wings ! — To Friendship let him turn 
 
 For succour ; but perhaps he sits alone 
 
 On stormy waters, in a little Boat 
 
 That holds but him, and can contain no more ! 
 
 Religion tells of amity sublime 
 
 Which no condition can preclude ; of One 
 
 Who sees all suffering, comprehends all wants. 
 
 All weakness fathoms, can supply all needs ; 
 
 But is that bounty absolute 1 — His gifts, 
 
 Are they not still, in some degree, rewards 
 
 For acts of service ? Can his Love extend 
 
 To hearts that own not Him ! Will showers of grace,i 
 
 When in the sky no promise may be seen. 
 
 Fall to refresh a parched and withered land 1 
 
 Or shall the groaning Spirit cast her load 
 
 At the Redeemer's feetl" 
 
 In ruefiil tone, 
 With some impatience in his mien, he spake ; 
 Back to my mind rushed all that had been urged 
 To calm the Sufferer when his story closed; 
 I looked for counsel as unbending now ; 
 But a discriminating sympathy 
 Stooped to this apt reply, — 
 
 " As Men from Men 
 Do, in the constitution of their Souls, 
 Differ, by mystery not to be explained ; 
 And as we fall by various ways, and sink 
 One deeper than another, self-condemned. 
 Through manifold degrees of guilt and shame. 
 So manifold and various are the ways 
 Of restoration, fashioned to the steps 
 Of all infirmity, and tending all 
 To the same point, — attainable by all ; 
 Peace in ourselves, and union with our God. 
 For you, assuredly, a hopeful road 
 Lies open : we have heard from You a voice 
 At every moment softened in its course 
 By tenderness of heart ; have seen your Eye, 
 Even like an Altar lit by fire from Heaven, 
 Kindle before us. — Your discourse this day, 
 Tliat, like the fabled Lethe, wished to flow 
 In creeping sadness, through oblivious shades 
 Of death and night, has caught at every turn 
 The colours of the Sun. Access for you 
 Is yet preserved to principles of truth, 
 Which the Imaginative Will upholds 
 In seats of wisdom, not to be approached 
 By the inferior faculty that moulds. 
 With her minute and speculative pains. 
 Opinion, ever changing ! — I have seen 
 A curious Child, who dwelt upon a tract 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 433 
 
 iOf inland ground, applying to his ear 
 
 !The convolutions of a smooth-lipped Shell ; 
 
 !To which, in silence hushed, his very soul 
 
 Listened intensely ; and his countenance soon 
 
 Brightened with joy ; for murmurings from within 
 
 Were heard, — sonorous cadences ! whereby 
 
 To his belief, the Monitor expressed 
 
 Mysterious union with its native Sea.* 
 
 Even such a Shell the Universe itself 
 
 Is to the ear of Faith ; and there are times, 
 
 [ doubt not, when to You it doth impart 
 
 Authentic tidings of invisible things; 
 
 Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power; 
 
 And central peace, subsisting at the heart 
 
 Of endless agitation. Here you stand. 
 
 Adore, and worship, when you know it not ; 
 
 Pious beyond the intention of your thought ; 
 
 Devout above the meaning of your will. 
 
 I— Yes, you have felt, and may not cease to feel. 
 
 The estate of Man would be indeed forlorn 
 
 T false conclusions of the reasoning Power 
 
 Hade the Eye blind, and closed the passages 
 
 Through which tlie Ear converses with the heart. 
 
 las not the Soul, the Being of your Life, 
 
 leceived a shock uf awful consciousness, 
 
 a some calm season, when these lofty Rocks 
 
 it night's approach bring down the unclouded Sky, 
 
 !'o rest upon tlieir circumambient walls ; 
 
 L Temple framing uf dimensions vast, 
 
 Lnd yet not too enormous for the sound 
 
 )f human anthems, — choral song, or burst 
 
 ublime of instrumental harmony, 
 
 'o glorify the Eternal ! What if these 
 
 lid never break tlie stillness that prevails 
 
 !ere, if the solemn Nightingale be mute, 
 
 jnd the soft Woodlark here did never chant 
 
 i'er vespers, Nature fails not to provide 
 
 inpulse and utterance. The whispering Air 
 
 ends inspiration from the shadowy heights, 
 
 nd blind recesses of the caverned rocks; 
 
 Ihe little Rills, and Waters numberless, 
 
 jiaudible by daylight, blend their notes 
 
 |i''ith the loud Streams : and often, at the hour 
 
 j/'hen issue forth the first pale Stars, is heard, 
 
 /ithin the circuit of this Fabric huge, 
 
 ne Voice — the solitary Raven, flying 
 
 thwart the concave of the dark-blue dome, 
 
 nseen, perchance above all power of sight — 
 
 |n iron knell ! with echoes from afar 
 
 *[- 
 
 -" Of pearly hue 
 
 Within, and they that lustre have imbibed 
 
 In the Sun's palace porch ; where, when unyoked, 
 
 His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave, 
 
 Shalce one, and it awakens ; then apply 
 
 Its polished lips to your attentive ear, 
 
 And it remembers its august abodes. 
 
 And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there." 
 
 Landor. H. R.] 
 
 3E 
 
 Faint — and still fainter — as the cry, with which 
 The wanderer accompanies her flight 
 Through the calm region, fades upon the ear. 
 Diminishing by distance till it seemed 
 To expire, yet from the Abyss is caught again, 
 And yet again recovered ! 
 
 "But descending 
 From these Imaginative Heights, that yield 
 Far-stretching views into Eternity 
 Acknowledge that to Nature's humbler power 
 Your cherished sullenness is forced to bend 
 Even here, where her amenities are sown 
 With sparing hand. Then trust yourself abroad 
 To range her blooming bowers, and spacious fields. 
 Where on the labours of the happy Throng 
 She smiles, including in her wide embrace 
 City, and Town, and Tower, — and Sea with Ships 
 Sprinkled ; — be our Companion while we track 
 Her rivers populous with gliding life ; 
 While, free as air, o'er printless sands we march. 
 Or pierce the gloom of her majestic woods ; 
 Roaming, or resting under grateful shade 
 In peace and meditative cheerfulness ; 
 Where living Things, and Things inanimate. 
 Do speak, at Heaven's command, to eye and ear, 
 And speak to social Reason's inner sense, 
 With inarticulate language. 
 
 "For the Man, 
 Who, in this spirit, communes with the Forms 
 Of Nature, who with understanding heart 
 Doth know and love such Objects as excite 
 No morbid passions, no disquietude. 
 No vengeance, and no hatred, needs must feel 
 The joy of that pure principle of Love 
 So deeply, that, unsatisfied with aught 
 Less pure and exquisite, he cannot choose 
 But seek for objects of a kindred love 
 In Fellow-natures and a kindred joy. 
 Accordingly he by degrees perceives 
 His feelings of aversion softened down ; 
 A holy tenderness pervade his frame. 
 His sanity of reason not impaired. 
 Say rather, all his thoughts now flowing clear, 
 From a clear Fountain flowing, he looks round 
 And seeks for good ; and finds the good he seeks: 
 Until abhorrence and contempt are things 
 He only knows by name ; and, if he hear. 
 From other mouths, the language which they speak. 
 He is compassionate; and has no thought. 
 No feeling, which can overcome his love. 
 
 " And fiirther ; by contemplating these Forms 
 In the relations which they bear to Man, 
 He shall discern, how, through the various means 
 Which silently they yield, are multiplied 
 The spiritual Presences of absent Things. 
 37 
 
434 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Trust me, that for the Instructed, time will come 
 
 When they shall meet no object but may teach 
 
 Some acceptable lesson to their minds 
 
 Of human suffering, or of human joy. 
 
 So shall they learn, while all things speak of Man, 
 
 Their duties from all forms ; and general laws, 
 
 And local accidents, shall tend alike 
 
 To rouse, to urge ; and, with the will, confer 
 
 The ability to spread the blessings wide 
 
 Of true philanthropy. The light of love 
 
 Not failing, perseverance from their steps 
 
 Departing not, for them shall be confirmed 
 
 The glorious habit by which Sense is made 
 
 Subservient still to moral purposes, 
 
 Auxiliar to divine. That change shall clothe 
 
 The naked Spirit, ceasing to deplore 
 
 The burthen of existence. Science then 
 
 Shall be a precious Visitant ; and then, 
 
 And only then, be worthy of her name. 
 
 For then her Heart shall kindle ; her dull Eye, 
 
 Dull and inanimate, no more shall hang 
 
 Chained to its object in brute slavery ; 
 
 But taught with patient interest to watch 
 
 The processes of things, and serve the cause 
 
 Of order and distinctness, not for this 
 
 Shall it forget that its most noble use. 
 
 Its most illustrious province, must be found 
 
 In furnishing clear guidance, a support 
 
 Not treacherous to the Mind's excursive Power. 
 
 — So build we up the Being that we are ; 
 
 Thus deeply drinking-in the Soul of Things, 
 
 We shall be wise perforce ; and while inspired 
 
 By choice, and conscious that the Will is free, 
 
 Unswerving shall we move, as if impelled 
 
 By strict necessity, along the path 
 
 Of order and of good. Whate'er we see, 
 
 Whate'er we feel, by agency direct 
 
 Or indirect, shall tend to feed and nurse 
 
 Our faculties, shall fix in calmer seats 
 
 Of moral strength, and raise to loftier heights 
 
 Of love divine, our intellectual soul." 
 
 Here closed the Sage that eloquent harangue, 
 Poured forth with fervour in continuous stream ; 
 Such as, remote, 'mid savage wilderness. 
 An Indian Chief discharges from his breast 
 
 Into the hearing of assembled Tribes, 
 In open circle seated round, and hushed 
 As the unbreathing air, when not a leaf 
 Stirs in the mighty woods. — - So did he speak : 
 The words he uttered shall not pass away ; 
 For they sank into me — the bounteous gift 
 Of One whom time and nature had made wise, 
 Gracing his language with authority 
 Which hostile spirits silently allow ; 
 Of One accustomed to desires that feed 
 On fruitage gathered from the Tree of Life; 
 To hopes on knowledge and experience built; 
 Of One in whom persuasion and belief 
 Had ripened into faith, and faith become 
 A passionate intuition ; whence the Soul, 
 Though bound to Earth by ties of pity and love, 
 From all injurious servitude was free. 
 
 The Sun, before his place of rest were reached, 
 
 Had yet to travel far, but unto us. 
 
 To us who stood low in that hollow Dell, 
 
 He had become invisible, — a pomp 
 
 Leaving behind of yellow radiance spread 
 
 Upon the mountain sides, in contrast bold 
 
 With ample shadows, seemingly, no less 
 
 Than those resplendent lights, his rich bequest, 
 
 A dispensation of his evening power. 
 
 — Adown the path that from the Glen had led 
 
 The funeral Train, the Shepherd and his Mate 
 
 Were seen descending ; — forth to greet them ran 
 
 Our little Page; the rustic Pair approach; 
 
 And in the Matron's aspect may be read 
 
 A plain assurance that the words which told 
 
 How that neglected Pensioner was sent 
 
 Before his time into a quiet grave. 
 
 Had done to her humanity no wrong: 
 
 But we are kindly welcomed — promptly served 
 
 With ostentatious zeal. — Along the floor 
 
 Of the small Cottage in the lonely Dell 
 
 A grateful Couch was spread for our repose ; 
 
 Where, in the guise of Mountaineers, we slept. 
 
 Stretched upon fragrant heath, and lulled by sound 
 
 Of far-off torrents charming the still night. 
 
 And to tired limbs and over-busy thoughts 
 
 Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 BOOK THE FIFTH. 
 
 THE PASTOR. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Farewell to the Valley — Reflections — Sight of a large and populous Vale — Solitary consents to go forward 
 
 Vale described — The Pastor's Dwelling, and some account of him — The Churchyard — Church and iVfonnments 
 — The Solitary musing, and where — Roused — In the Church-yard the Solitary communicates the thoughts which 
 had recently passed through his mind — Lofty tone of the Wanderer's discourse of yesterday adverted to — Rite of 
 Baptism, and the professions accompanying it, contrasted with the real state of human life — Inconsistency of the 
 best men — Aclvnowledgment that practice falls far below the injunctions of duty as existing in tlie mind — General 
 complaint of a falling-ofT in the value of life after the time of youth — Outward appearances of content and happiness 
 
 in degree illusive — Pastor approaches — Appeal made to him — His answer — Wanderer in sympathy with him 
 
 Suggestion that the least ambitious Inquirers may be most free from error — The Pastor is desired to give some Por- 
 traits of the living or dead from his own observations of life among these Mountains — and for what purpose Pastor 
 
 consents — Mountain Cottage — Excellent qualities of its Inhabitants — Solitary expresses his pleasure; but denies 
 the praise of virtue to worth of this liind — Feelings of the Priest before he enters upon his account of Persons 
 interred in the Church-yard — Graves of unbaptized Infants — What sensations they excite — Funeral and sepulchral 
 Observances, whence — Ecclesiastical Establishments, whence derived — Profession of Belief in the doctrine of 
 Immortality. 
 
 Parewell, deep Valley, with thy one rude House, 
 
 And its small lot of life-supporting fields, 
 
 And guardian rocl?s! — Farewell, attractive Seat! 
 
 To the still influx of the morning light 
 
 Open, and day's pure cheerfulness, but veiled 
 
 iFroin human observation, as if yet 
 
 jPrimeval Forests wrapped thee round with dark 
 
 jlmpenetrable shade ; once more farewell. 
 
 Majestic Circuit, beautiful Abyss, 
 
 By Nature destined from the birth of things 
 
 For quietness profound ! 
 
 Upon the side 
 ;0f that brown Slope, the outlet of the Vale, 
 iiLingering behind my Comrades, thus I breathed 
 A parting tribute to a spot that seemed 
 Like the fixed centre of a troubled World. 
 And now, pursuing leisurely my way. 
 How vain, thought I, it is by change of place 
 To seek that comfort which the mind denies; 
 Vet trial and temptation oft are shunned 
 Wisely ; and by such tenure do we hold 
 Frail Life's possessions, that even they whose fate 
 Vields no peculiar reason of complaint 
 
 Might, by the promise that is here, be won 
 
 To steal from active duties, and embrace 
 
 Obscurity, and calm forgetfulness. 
 
 — Knowledge, methinks, in .these disordered times 
 
 Should be allowed a privilege to have 
 
 Her Anchorites, like Piety of old ; 
 
 Men, who, from faction sacred, and unstained 
 
 By war, might, if so minded, turn aside 
 
 Uncensured, and subsist, a scattered few 
 
 Living to God and Nature, and content 
 
 With that communion. Consecrated be 
 
 The Spots where such abide ! But happier still 
 
 The Man, whom, furthermore, a hope attends 
 
 That meditation and research may guide 
 
 His privacy to principles and powers 
 
 Discovered or invented ; or set forth, 
 
 Through his acquaintance with the vi'ays of truth. 
 
 In lucid order ; so that, when his course 
 
 Is run, some faithful Eulogist may say, 
 
 He sought not praise, and praise did overlook 
 
 His unobtrusive merit ; but his life. 
 
 Sweet to himself, was exercised in good 
 
 That shall survive his name and memory. 
 
436 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Acknowledgments of gratitude sincere 
 Accompanied these musings ; — fervent thanks 
 For my own peaceful lot and happy choice ; 
 A choice that from the passions of the world 
 Withdrew, and fixed me in a still retreat, 
 Sheltered, but not to social duties lost, 
 Secluded, but not buried ; and with song 
 Cheering my days, and with industrious thought. 
 With ever-welcome company of books, 
 By virtuous friendship's soul-sustaining aid, 
 And with the blessings of domestic love. 
 
 Thus occupied in mind I paced along, 
 
 Following the rugged road, by sledge or wheel 
 
 Worn in the moorland, till I overtook 
 
 My two Associates, in the morning sunshine 
 
 Halting together on a rocky knoll. 
 
 From which the road descended rapidly 
 
 To the green meadows of another Vale. 
 
 Here did our pensive Host put forth his hand 
 In sign of farewell. " Nay," the Old Man said, 
 " The fragrant Air its coolness still retains ; 
 The Herds and Flocks are yet abroad to crop 
 The dewy grass ; you cannot leave us now, 
 We must not part at this inviting hour." 
 He yielded, though reluctant ; for his Mind 
 Instinctively disposed him to retire 
 To his own Covert; as a billow, heaved 
 Upon the beach, rolls back into the Sea. 
 — So we descend ; and winding round a rock 
 Attain a point that showed the Valley — stretched 
 In length before us ; and, not distant far, 
 Upon a rising ground a gray Church-tower, 
 Whose battlements were screened by tufted trees. 
 And, towards a crystal Mere, that lay beyond 
 Among steep hills and woods embosomed, flowed 
 A copious Stream with boldly-winding course; 
 Here traceable, there hidden — there again 
 To sight restored, and glittering in the Sun. 
 On the Stream's bank, and everywhere, appeared 
 Fair Dwellings, single, or in social knots; 
 Some scattered o'er the level, others perched 
 On the hill sides, a cheerful quiet scene, 
 Now in its morning purity arrayed. 
 
 "As, 'mid some happy Valley of the Alps," 
 Said I, "once happy, ere tyrannic Power, 
 Wantonly breaking in upon the Swiss, 
 Destroyed their unoffending Commonwealth, 
 A popular equality reigns here. 
 Save for one House of State beneath whose roof 
 A rural Lord might dwell." — "No feudal pomp," 
 Replied our Friend, a Chronicler who stood 
 Wliere'er he moved upon familiar ground, 
 " Nor feudal power is there ; but there abides, 
 In his allotted Home, a genuine Priest, 
 The Shepherd of his Flock ; or, as a King 
 
 Is styled, when most afTectionately praised, 
 
 The Father of his People. Such is he; 
 
 And ricli and poor, and young and old, rejoice 
 
 Under liis spiritual sway. He hath vouchsafed 
 
 To me some portion of a kind regard ; 
 
 And something also of his inner mind 
 
 Hath he imparted — but I speak of him 
 
 As he is known to all. The calm delights 
 
 Of unambitious piety he chose. 
 
 And learning's solid dignity ; though born 
 
 Of knightly race, nor wanting powerful friends. 
 
 Hither, in prime of manhood, he withdrew 
 
 From academic bowers. He loved the spot. 
 
 Who does not love his native soil 1 he prized 
 
 The ancient rural character, composed 
 
 Of simple manners, feelings unsuppressed 
 
 And undisguised, and strong and serious thought; 
 
 A character reflected in himself. 
 
 With such embellishment as well beseems 
 
 His rank and sacred function. This deep vale 
 
 Winds far in reaches hidden from our eyes. 
 
 And one, a turreted manorial Hall 
 
 Adorns, in which the good's Man's Ancestors 
 
 Have dwelt through ages — Patrons of this Cure. 
 
 To them, and to his own judicious pains. 
 
 The Vicar's Dwelling, and the whole Domain, 
 
 Owes that presiding aspect which might well 
 
 Attract your notice; statelier than could else 
 
 Have been bestowed, through course of common chance.r 
 
 On an unwealthy mountain Benefice." 
 
 This said, oft halting we pursued our way ; 
 Nor reached the Village Churchyard till the sun, 
 Travelling at steadier pace than ours, had risen 
 Above the summits of the highest hills. 
 And round our path darted oppressive beams. 
 
 As chanced, the Portals of the sacred Pile 
 
 Stood open, and we entered. On my frame, 
 
 At such transition from the fervid air, 
 
 A grateful coolness fell, that seemed to strike 
 
 The heart, in concert with that temperate awe 
 
 And natural reverence, which the Place inspired. 
 
 Not raised in nice proportions was the Pile, 
 
 But large and massy; for duration built; 
 
 With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld 
 
 By naked rafters intricately crossed. 
 
 Like leafless underboughs, 'mid some thick grove, 
 
 All withered by the depth of shade above. 
 
 Admonitory Te.xts inscribed the walls. 
 
 Each, in its ornamental scroll, enclosed, 
 
 Each also crowned with winged heads — a pair 
 
 Of rudely-painted Cherubim. The floor 
 
 Of nave and aisle, in unpretending guise, 
 
 Was occupied by oaken benches, ranged 
 
 In seemly rows ; the chancel only showed 
 
 Some inoflfensive marks of earthly state 
 
 And vain distinction. A capacious pew 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 437 
 
 Of sculptured oak stood here, with drapery lined ; 
 And marble Monuments were here displayed 
 Thronging the walls ; and on the floor beneath 
 Sepulchral stones appeared, with emblems graven 
 And foot-worn epitaphs, and some with small 
 And shining effigies of brass inlaid. 
 
 The tribute by these various records claimed, 
 
 Without reluctance did we pay ; and read 
 
 The ordinary chronicle of birth. 
 
 Office, alliance, and promotion — all 
 
 Ending in dust ; of upright Magistrates, 
 
 Grave Doctors strenuous for the JMother Church, 
 
 And uncorrupted Senators, alike 
 
 To King and People true. A brazen plate. 
 
 Not easily deciphered, told of One 
 
 Whose course of earthly honour was begun 
 
 In quality of page among the Train 
 
 Of the eighth Henry, when he crossed the seas 
 
 His royal state to show, and prove his strength 
 
 In tournament, upon the Fields of France. 
 
 Another Tablet registered the death, 
 
 And praised the gallant bearing, of a Knight 
 
 Tried in the sea-fights of the second Charles. 
 
 Near this brave Knight his Father lay entombed ; 
 
 And, to the silent language giving voice, 
 
 I read, — how in his manhood's earlier day 
 
 He, 'mid the afflictions of intestine War 
 
 And rightful Government subverted, found 
 
 One only solace — that he had espoused 
 
 A virtuous Lady tenderly beloved 
 
 For her benign perfections ; and yet more 
 
 Endeared to him, for this, that in her state 
 
 Of wedlock richly crowned with Heaven's regard, 
 
 She with a numerous Issue filled his House, 
 
 Who throve, like Plants, uninjured by the Storm 
 
 That laid their Country waste. No need to speak 
 
 Of less particular notices assigned 
 
 To youth or Maiden gone before their time, 
 
 And Matrons and unwedded Sisters old; 
 
 I Whose charity and goodness were rehearsed 
 
 'In modest panegyric. " These dim lines. 
 
 What would they tell 1" said I, — but, from the task 
 
 Of puzzling out that faded Narrative, 
 
 With whisper soft my venerable Friend 
 
 Called me; and, looking down the darksome aisle, 
 
 I saw the Tenant of the lonely Vale 
 
 Standing apart ; with curved arm reclined 
 
 On the baptismal Font ; his pallid face 
 
 Upturned, as if his mind were wrapt, or lost 
 
 In some abstraction ; — gracefully he stood. 
 
 The semblance bearing of a sculptured Form 
 
 That leans upon a monumental Urn 
 
 In peace, from morn to night, from year to year. 
 
 Him from that posture did the Sexton rouse ; 
 Who entered, humming carelessly a tune, 
 iContinuation haply of the notes 
 
 That had beguiled the work from which he came. 
 
 With spade and mattock o'er his shoulder hung. 
 
 To be deposited, for future need. 
 
 In their appointed place. The pale Recluse 
 
 Withdrew ; and straight we followed, — to a spot 
 
 Where sun and shade were intermixed ; for there 
 
 A broad Oak, stretching forth its leafy arms 
 
 From an adjoining pasture, overhung 
 
 Small space of tliat green churchyard with a light 
 
 And pleasant awning. On the moss-grown wall 
 
 My ancient Friend and I together took 
 
 Our seats; and thus the Solitary spake. 
 
 Standing before us. " Did you note the mien 
 
 Of that self solaced, easy-hearted Churl, 
 
 Death's Hireling, who scoops out his Neighbour's 
 
 grave. 
 Or wraps an old Acquaintance up in clay, 
 As unconcerned as when he plants a tree? 
 I was abruptly summoned by his voice 
 From some aifecting images and thoughts. 
 And from the company of serious words. 
 Much, yesterday, was said in glowing phrase 
 Of our sublime dependencies, and hopes 
 For future states of Being ; and the wings 
 Of speculation, joyfully outspread. 
 Hovered above our destiny on earth : — 
 But stoop, and place the prospect of the soul 
 In sober contrast with reality. 
 And Man's substantial life. If this mute earth 
 Of what it holds could speak, and every grave 
 Were as a volume, shut, yet capable 
 Of yielding its contents to eye and ear. 
 We should recoil, stricken with sorrow and shame 
 To see disclosed, by such dread proof, how ill 
 That which is done accords with what is known 
 To reason, and by conscience is enjoined ; 
 How idly, how perversely. Life's whole course, 
 To this conclusion, deviates from the line, 
 Or of the end stops short, proposed to all 
 At her aspiring outset. Mark the Babe 
 Not long accustomed to this breathing world ; 
 One that hath barely learned to shape a smile ; 
 Though yet irrational of Soul to grasp 
 With tiny fingers — to let fall a tear ; 
 And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves. 
 To stretch his limbs, bemocking, as might seem. 
 The outward functions of intelligent Man ; 
 A grave Proficient in amusive feats 
 Of puppetry, that from the lap declare 
 His expectations, and announce his claims 
 To that inheritance which millions rue 
 That they were ever born to ! In due time 
 A day of solemn ceremonial comes; 
 When they, who for this Minor hold in trust 
 Rights that transcend the humblest heritage 
 Of mere Humanity, present their Charge, 
 For this occasion daintily adorned, 
 37* 
 
438 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 At the baptismal Font. And when the pure 
 
 And consecrating element hath cleansed 
 
 Tlie original slain, the Child is there received 
 
 Into the second Ark, Christ's Church, with trust 
 
 That he, from wrath redeemed, therein shall float 
 
 Over tlie billows of this troublesome world 
 
 To the fair land of everlasting Life. 
 
 Corrupt afl^ections, covetous desires, 
 
 Are all renounced ; high as the thought of man 
 
 Can carry virtue, virtue is professed ; 
 
 A dedication made, a promise given 
 
 For due provision to control and guide, 
 
 And unremitting progress to ensure 
 
 In holiness and truth." 
 
 " You cannot blame," 
 Here interposing fervently I said, 
 " Rites which attest that Man by nature lies 
 Bedded for good and evil in a gulf 
 Fearfully low; nor will your judgment scorn 
 Those services, whereby attempt is made 
 To lift the Creature toward that eminence 
 On which, now fallen, erewhile in majesty 
 He stood ; or if not so, whose top serene 
 At least he feels 't is given him to descry ; 
 Not without aspirations, evermore 
 Returning, and injunctions from within 
 Doubt to cast off and weariness; in trust 
 That what the Soul perceives, if glory lost, 
 May be, through pains and persevering hope, 
 Recovered ; or, if hitherto unknown. 
 Lies within reach, and one day shall be gained." 
 
 "I blame them not," he calmly answered — "no; 
 The outward ritual and established forms 
 With which communities of Men invest 
 These inward feelings, and the aspiring vows 
 To wliich the lips give public utterance, 
 Are both a natural process; and by me 
 Shall pass uncensured ; thougli the is!?ue prove, 
 Bringing from age to age its own reproach. 
 Incongruous, impotent, and blank. — But, oh ! 
 If to be weak is to be wretched — miserable, 
 As the lost Angel by a human voice 
 Hath mournfully pronounced, then, in my mind, 
 Far better not to move at all than move 
 By impulse sent from such illusive Power, 
 That finds and cannot fasten down; that grasps; 
 And is rejoiced, and loses while it grasps; 
 That tempts, emboldens — doth a while sustain, 
 And then betrays; accuses and inflicts 
 Remorseless punishment; and so retreads 
 The inevitable circle : better far 
 Than this, to graze the herb in thoughtless peace, 
 By foresight, or remembrance, undisturbed ! 
 
 " Philosophy ! and thou more vaimted name 
 
 Religion ! with thy statelier retinue. 
 
 Faith, Hope, and Charity — from the visible world 
 
 Choose for your Emblems whatsoe'er ye find 
 Of safest guidance and of firmest trust, — 
 The Torch, the Star, the Anchor ; nor except 
 The Cross itself, at whose unconscious feet 
 The Generations of Mankind have knelt 
 Ruefully seized, and shedding bitter tears, 
 And through that conflict seeking rest — of you, 
 High-titled Powers, am I constrained to ask. 
 Here standing, with the unvoyageable sky 
 In faint reflection of infinitude 
 Stretched overhead, and at my pensive feet 
 A subterraneous magazine of bones, 
 In whose dark vaults my own shall soon be laid. 
 Where are your triumphs? your dominion where? 
 And in what age admitted and confirmed ? 
 
 — Not for a happy Land do I enquire. 
 Island or Grove, that hides a blessed few 
 Who, with obedience willing and sincere, 
 To your serene authorities conform ; 
 
 But whom, I ask, of individual Souls, 
 
 Have ye witlidrawn from Passion's crooked ways. 
 
 Inspired, and thoroughly fortified ! — If the Heart 
 
 Could be inspected to its inmost folds 
 
 By sight undazzled with the glare of praise. 
 
 Who shall be named — in the resplendent line 
 
 Of Sages, Martyrs, Confessors — the Man 
 
 Whom the best might of Conscience, Truth, and Hope, 
 
 For one day's little compass, has preserved 
 
 From painful and discreditable shocks 
 
 Of contradiction, from some vague desire 
 
 Culpably cherished, or corrupt relapse 
 
 To some unsanctioned fear V 
 
 " If this be so. 
 And Man," said I, " be in his noblest shape 
 Thus pitiably infirm ; then, He who made. 
 And who shall judge, the Creature, will forgive. 
 
 — Yet, in its general tenor, your complaint 
 Is all too true; and surely not misplaced: 
 
 For, from this pregnant spot of ground, such thoughta 
 
 Rise to the notice of a serious Mind 
 
 By natural exhalation. With the Dead 
 
 In their repose, the Living in their mirth. 
 
 Who can reflect, unmoved, upon the round 
 
 Of smooth and solemnized complacencies, 
 
 By which, on Christian Lands, from age to ago 
 
 Profession mocks Performance. Earth is sick. 
 
 And Heaven is weary, of the hollow words 
 
 Which States and Kingdoms utter when they talk 
 
 Of truth and justice. Turn to private life 
 
 And social neighbourhood; look we to ourselves; 
 
 A light of duty shines on every day 
 
 For all ; and yet how few are warmed or cheered! 
 
 How few who mingle with their fellow-men 
 
 And still remain self-governed, and apart, 
 
 Like this our honoured Friend ; and thence acquire 
 
 Right to expect his vigorous decline. 
 
 That promises to the end a blest old age !" 
 
 I 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 439 
 
 "Yet," with a smile of triumph thus exclaimed 
 
 The Solitary, "in the life of Man, 
 
 If to the poetry of common speech 
 
 Faith may be given, we see as in a glass 
 
 A true reflection of the circling year, 
 
 With all its seasons. Grant that ^Spring- is there. 
 
 In spite of many a rough untoward blast. 
 
 Hopeful and promising with buds and flowers ; 
 
 Yet where is glowing Summer's long rich day, 
 
 That ought to follow faithfully expressed 1 
 
 And mellow Autumn, charged with bounteous fruit. 
 
 Where is she imaged ? in what favoured clime 
 
 Her lavish pomp, and ripe magnificence'! 
 
 — Yet, while the better part is missed, the worse 
 
 In Man's autumnal season is set forth 
 
 With a resemblance not to be denied, 
 
 And that contents him ; bowers that hear no more 
 
 The voice of gladness, less and less supply 
 
 Of outward sunshine and internal warmth ; 
 
 And, with this change, sharp air and falling leaves, 
 
 Foretelling total Winter, blank and cold. 
 
 "How gay the Habitations that bedeck 
 This fertile Valley ! Not a House but seems 
 To give assurance of content within ; 
 Embosomed happiness, and placid love ; 
 I As if the sunshine of the day were met 
 ' With answering brightness in the hearts of all 
 Who walk this favoured ground. But chance-regards, 
 And notice forced upon incurious ears; 
 These, if these only, acting in despite 
 Of the encomiums by my Friend pronounced 
 On humble life, forbid the judging mind 
 To trust the smiling aspect of this fair 
 And noiseless Commonwealth. The simple race 
 Of Mountaineers (by Nature's self removed 
 From foul temptations, and by constant care 
 Of a good Shepherd tended as themselves 
 Do tend their flocks) partake Man's general lot 
 With little mitigation. They escape. 
 Perchance, guilt's heavier woes ; and do not feel 
 The tedium of fantastic idleness; 
 Yet life, as with the multitude, with them, 
 Is fashioned like an ill-constructed tale ; 
 That on the outset wastes its gay desires, 
 Its fair adventures, its enlivening hopes. 
 And pleasant interests — for the sequel leaving 
 Old things repeated with diminished grace ; 
 And all the laboured novelties at best 
 Imperfect substitutes, whose use and power 
 Evince the want and weakness whence they spring." 
 
 While in this serious mood we held discourse. 
 The reverend Pastor toward the Church-yard gate 
 Approached ; and, with a mild respectful air 
 Of native cordiality, our Friend 
 Advanced to greet him. With a gracious mien 
 Was he received, and mutual joy prevailed. 
 
 Awhile they stood in conference, and I guess 
 
 That He, who now upon the mossy wall 
 
 Sate by my side, had vanished, if a wish 
 
 Could have transferred him to his lonely House 
 
 Within the circuit of those guardian rocks. 
 
 — For me, I looked upon the pair, well pleased : 
 
 Nature had framed tliem both, and both were marked 
 
 By circumstance, with intermi.xture fine 
 
 Of contrast and resemblance. To an Oak 
 
 Hardy and grand, a weather-beaten Oak, 
 
 Fresh in the strength and majesty of age, 
 
 One might be likened : flourishing appeared, 
 
 Though somewhat past the fulness of his prime, 
 
 The Other — like a stately Sycamore, 
 
 That spreads, in gentler pomp, its honeyed shade. 
 
 A general greeting was exchanged ; and soon 
 
 The Pastor learned that his approach had given 
 
 A welcome interruption to discourse 
 
 Grave, and in truth too often sad. — " Is Man 
 
 A Child of hope 1 Do generations press 
 
 On generations, without progress made ] 
 
 Halts the Individual, ere his hairs be gray, 
 
 Perforce 1 are we a Creature in whom good 
 
 Preponderates, or evill Doth the Will 
 
 Acknowledge Reason's law ? A living Power 
 
 Is Virtue, or no belter than a name, 
 
 Fleeting as health or beauty, and unsound ■! 
 
 So that the only substance which remains, 
 
 (For thus the tenor of complaint hath run) 
 
 Among so many shadows, are the pains 
 
 And penalties of miserable life, 
 
 Doomed to decay, and then expire in dust ! 
 
 — Our cogitations this way have been drawn. 
 
 These are the points," the Wanderer said, " on which 
 
 Our inquest turns. — Accord, good Sir! the light 
 
 Of your experience to dispel this gloom : 
 
 By your persuasive wisdom shall the Heart 
 
 That frets, or languishes, be stilled and cheered." 
 
 " Our Nature," said the Priest, in mild reply, 
 
 " Angels may weigh and fathom : they perceive, 
 
 With undistempered and unclouded spirit, 
 
 The object as it is ; but, for ourselves. 
 
 That speculative height we may not reach. 
 
 The good and evil are our own ; and we 
 
 Are that which we would contemplate from far. 
 
 Knowledge, for us, is difiicult to gain — 
 
 Is difficult to gain, and hard to keep — 
 
 As Virtue's self; like Virtue, is beset 
 
 With snares ; tried, tempted, subject to decay. 
 
 Love, admiration, fear, desire, and hate. 
 
 Blind were we without these : through these alone 
 
 Are capable to notice or discern 
 
 Or to record ; we judge, but cannot be 
 
 Indifferent judges. 'Spite of proudest boast. 
 
 Reason, best Reason, is to imperfect Man 
 
 An effort only, and a noble aim ; 
 
440 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 A crown, an attribute of sovereign power, 
 Still to be courted — never to be won ! 
 — Look forth, or each man dive into himself; 
 What sees he but a Creature too perturbed, 
 That is transported to excess ; that yearns, 
 Regrets, or trembles, wrongly, or too much ; 
 Hopes rashly, in disgust as rash recoils; 
 Battens on spleen, or moulders in despair 1 
 Thus truth is missed, and comprehension fails ; 
 And darkness and delusion round our path 
 Spread, from disease, whose subtle injury lurks 
 Within the very faculty of sight. 
 
 " Yet for the general purposes of faith 
 
 In Providence, for solace and support. 
 
 We may not doubt that who can best subject 
 
 The will to Reason's law, and strictliest live 
 
 And act in that obedience, he shall gain 
 
 The clearest apprehension of those truths. 
 
 Which unassisted Reason's utmost power 
 
 Is too infirm to reach. But — waiving this. 
 
 And our regards confining within bounds 
 
 Of less e.\aUed consciousness — through which 
 
 The very multitude are free to range — 
 
 We safely may affirm that human life 
 
 Is either fair and tempting, a soft scene 
 
 Grateful to sight, refreshing to the soul. 
 
 Or a forbidding tract of cheerless view ; 
 
 Even as the same is looked at, or approached. 
 
 Thus, when in changeful April snow has fallen, 
 
 And fields are white, if from the sullen north 
 
 Your walk conduct you hither, ere the Sun 
 
 Hath gained his noontide height, this church-yard, filled 
 
 With mounds transversely lying side by side 
 
 From east to west, before you will appear 
 
 An unillumined, blank, and dreary plain. 
 
 With more than wintery cheerlessness and gloom 
 
 Saddening the heart. Go forward, and look back; 
 
 Look, from the quarter whence the lord of light, 
 
 Of life, of love, and gladness doth dispense 
 
 His beams; which, unexcluded in their fall, 
 
 Upon the southern side of every grave 
 
 Have gently exercised a melting power. 
 
 Then will a vernal prospect greet your eye, 
 
 All fresh and beautiful, and green and bright. 
 
 Hopeful and cheerful : — vanished is the snow. 
 
 Vanished or hidden ; and the whole Domain, 
 
 To some loo lightly minded might appear 
 
 A meadow carpet for the dancing hour.s. 
 
 — This contrast, not unsuitable to Life, 
 
 Is to that other state more apposite. 
 
 Death and its two-fold aspect ; wintry — one, 
 
 Cold sullen, blank, from hope and joy shut out; 
 
 The other, which the ray divine hath touched, 
 
 Replete with vivid promise, bright as spring." 
 
 " We see, then, as we feel," the Wanderer thus 
 With a complacent animation spake, 
 
 " And in your judgment. Sir ! the Mind's repose 
 
 On evidence is not to be ensured 
 
 By act of naked Reason. Moral truth 
 
 Is no mechanic structure, built by rule; 
 
 And which, once built, retains a steadfast shape 
 
 And undisturbed proportions; but a thing 
 
 Subject, you deem, to vital accidents; 
 
 And, like the water-lily, lives and thrives. 
 
 Whose root is fixed in stable earth, whose head 
 
 Floats on the tossing waves. With joy sincere 
 
 I re-salute these sentiments confirmed 
 
 By your authority. But how acquire 
 
 The inward principle that gives efliect 
 
 To outward argument ; the passive will 
 
 Meek to admit ; the active energy. 
 
 Strong and unbounded to embrace, and firm 
 
 To keep and cherish 1 How shall Man unite 
 
 With self-forgetting tenderness of heart 
 
 An earth-despising dignity of soul 1 
 
 Wise in that union, and without it blind !" 
 
 " The way," said I, " to court, if not obtain 
 The ingenuous Mind, apt to be set aright; 
 This, in the lonely Dell discoursing, you 
 Declared at large ; and by what exercise 
 From visible nature or the inner self 
 Power may be trained, and renovation brought 
 To those who need the gift. But, after all. 
 Is aught so certain as that man is doomed 
 To breathe beneath a vault of ignorance 1 
 The natural roof of that dark house in which 
 His soul is pent ! How little can be known — 
 This is the wise man's sigh; how far we err — 
 This is the good man's not unfrequent pang ! 
 And they perhaps err least, the lowly Class 
 Whom a benign necessity compels 
 To follow Reason's least ambitious course ; 
 Such do I mean who, unperplexed by doubt. 
 And unincited by a wish to look 
 Into high objects farther than they may. 
 Pace to and fro, from morn till even-tide. 
 The narrow avenue of daily toil 
 For daily bread." 
 
 " Yes," buoyantly exclaimed 
 The pale Recluse — " praise to the sturdy plough, 
 And patient spade, and shepherd's simple crook. 
 And ponderous loom — resounding while it holds 
 Body and mind in one captivity ; 
 And let the light mechanic tool be hailed 
 With honour ; which, encasing by the power 
 Of long companionship, the Artist's hand. 
 Cuts off that hand, with all its world of nerves, 
 From a too busy commerce with the heart ! 
 — Inglorious implements of craft and toil. 
 Both ye that shape and build, and ye that force, 
 By slow solicitation. Earth to yield 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 441 
 
 Her annual bounty, sparingly dealt forth 
 With wise reluctance, you would I extol, 
 Not for gross good alone which ye produce, 
 But for the impertinent and ceaseless strife 
 Of proofs and reasons ye preclude — in those 
 Who to your dull society are born, 
 And with their humble birtliright rest content. 
 Would I had ne'er renounced it !" 
 
 A slight flush 
 Of moral anger previously had tinged 
 The Old Man's cheek ; but, at this closing turn 
 Of self-reproach, it passed away. Said he, 
 " That which we feel we utter ; as we think 
 So have we argued ; reaping for our pains 
 No visible recompense. For our relief 
 You," to the Pastor turning thus he spake, 
 " Have kindly interposed. May I entreat 
 Your further help 1 The mine of real life 
 Dig for us ; and present us, in the shape 
 Of virgin ore, that gold which we, by pains 
 Fruitless as those of aery Alchemists, 
 Seek from the torturing crucible. There lies 
 Around us a domain where You have long 
 Watched both the outward course and inner heart ; 
 Give us, for our abstractions, solid facts ; 
 For our disputes, plain pictures. Say what Man 
 He is who cultivates yon hanging field ; 
 What qualities of mind She bears, who comes, 
 For morn and evening service, with her pail. 
 To that green pasture ; place before our sight 
 The Family who dwell within yon House 
 Fenced round with glittering laurel ; or in that 
 Below, from which the curling smoke ascends. 
 Or rather, as we stand on holy earth,* 
 lAnd have the Dead around us, take from them 
 i Your instances ; for they are both best known, 
 j And by frail Man most equitably judged. 
 Epitomise the life ; pronounce, You can. 
 Authentic epitaphs on some of these 
 Who, from their lowly mansions hither brought, 
 Beneath this turf lie mouldering at our feet. 
 So, by your records, may our doubts be solved ; 
 And so, not searching higher, we may learn 
 To prize the breath we share with human kind; 
 And look upon the dust of man with awe." 
 
 The Priest replied. — " An office you impose 
 For which peculiar requisites are mine ; 
 Yet much, I feel, is wanting — else the task 
 
 ' Leonard. You, Sir, would help me to the History 
 Of half these Graves? 
 
 Priest. For eight-score winters past 
 
 Willi what I 've witnessed, and with what I 've heard. 
 
 Perhaps I might; 
 
 By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, 
 
 We two could travel. Sir, through a strange round ; 
 
 Vet all in the broad high-way of the world. 
 
 Sea p. 61, 'Tlie Brothers: 
 oF 
 
 Would be most grateful. True indeed it is 
 
 That They whom Death has hidden from our sight 
 
 Are worthiest of the Mind's regard ; with tliese 
 
 The future cannot contradict the past: 
 
 Mortality's last exercise and proof 
 
 Is undergone; the transit made that shows 
 
 The very soul, revealed as she departs. 
 
 Yet, on your first suggestion, will I give, 
 
 Ere we descend into these silent vaults. 
 
 One Picture from the living. — 
 
 " You behold. 
 High on the breast of yon dark mountain — dark 
 With stony barrenness, a shining speck 
 Bright as a sunbeam sleeping till a shower 
 Brush it away, or cloud pass over it ; 
 And such it might be deemed — a sleeping sunbeam ; 
 But 't is a plot of cultivated ground. 
 Cut off, an island in the dusky waste ; 
 And that attractive brightness is its own. 
 The lofty Site, by nature framed to tempt 
 Amid a wilderness of rocks and stones 
 The Tiller's hand, a Hermit might have chosen. 
 For opportunity presented, thence 
 Far forth to send his wandering eye o'er land 
 And ocean, and look down upon the works. 
 The habitations, and the ways of men. 
 Himself unseen ! But no tradition tells 
 That ever Hermit dipped his maple dish 
 In the sweet spring that lurks 'mid yon green fields; 
 And no such visionary views belong 
 To those who occupy and till the ground. 
 And on the bosom of the mountain dwell 
 
 — A wedded Pair in childless solitude. 
 
 — A House of stones collected on the spot. 
 
 By rude hands built, with rocky knolls in front. 
 
 Backed also by a ledge of rock, whose crest 
 
 Of birch-trees waves above the chimney top : 
 
 A rough abode — in colour, shape, and size. 
 
 Such as in unsafe times of Border war 
 
 Might have been wished for and contrived, to elude 
 
 The eye of roving Plunderer — -for their need 
 
 Suffices ; and unshaken bears the assault 
 
 Of their most dreaded foe, the strong South-west 
 
 In anger blowing from the distant sea. 
 
 — Alone within her solitary Hut; 
 There, or within the compass of her fields. 
 At any moment may the Dame he found, 
 True as the Stock-dove to her shallow nest 
 And to the grove that holds it. She beguiles 
 By intermingled work of house and field 
 The summer's day, and winter's ; with success 
 Not equal, but sufficient to maintain. 
 
 Even at the worst, a smooth stream of content. 
 Until the e.xpected hour at which her Mate 
 From the far-distant Quarry's vault returns; 
 And by his converse crowns a silent day 
 With evening cheerfulness. In powers of mind. 
 
442 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 In scale of culture, few among my Flock 
 Hold lower rank than this sequestered Pair; 
 But humbleness of heart descends from Heaven ; 
 And that best gift of Heaven hath fallen on them ; 
 Abundant recompense for every want. 
 — Stoop from your height, ye proud, and copy these! 
 Who, in their noiseless dwelling-place, can hear 
 The voice of wisdom whispering Scripture texts 
 For the mind's government, or temper's peace; 
 And recommending, for their mutual need. 
 Forgiveness, patience, liope, and cliarity !" 
 
 " Much was I pleased," the gray-haired Wanderer said, 
 
 " When to those shining fields our notice first 
 
 You turned ; and yet more pleased have from your lips 
 
 Gathered this fair report of them who dwell 
 
 In that retirement; whither, by such course 
 
 Of evil hap and good as oft awaits 
 
 A lone wayfaring Man, I once was brought. 
 
 Dark on my road the autumnal evening fell 
 
 While I was traversing yon mountain-pass. 
 
 And night succeeded with unusual gloom; 
 
 So that my feet and hands at length became 
 
 Guides better than mine eyes — until a light 
 
 High in the gloom appeared, too high, methought 
 
 For human habitation ; but I longed 
 
 To reach it, destitute of other hope. 
 
 I looked with steadiness as Sailors look 
 
 On the north star, or watch-tower's distant lamp. 
 
 And saw the light — now fixed — and shifting now — 
 
 Not like a dancing meteor, but in line 
 
 Of never-varying mntion, to and fro. 
 
 It is no night-fire of the naked hills. 
 
 Thought I, some friendly covert must be near. 
 
 With this persuasion thitherward my steps 
 
 I turn, and reach at last the guiding Light; 
 
 Joy to myself! but to the heart of Her 
 
 Who there was standing on the open hill, 
 
 (The same kind Matron whom your tongue hath praised) 
 
 Alarm and disappointment! Tlje alarm 
 
 Ceased, when she learned through what mi.=^hap I came, 
 
 And by what help had gained those distant fields. 
 
 Drawn from her Cottage, on that open height, 
 
 Bearing a lantern in her hand she stood, 
 
 Or paced the ground — to guide her Husband home. 
 
 By that unwearied signal, kenned afar; 
 
 An anxious duty ! which the lofty Site, 
 
 Traversed but by a few irregular paths, 
 
 Imposes, whensoe'ev untoward chance 
 
 Detains him after his accustomed hour 
 
 Till night lies black upon the ground. 'But come, 
 
 Come,' said the Matron, 'to our poor Abode; 
 
 Those dark rocks hide it!' Entering, I beheld 
 
 A blazing fire — beside a cleanly hearth 
 
 Sate down ; and to her office, with leave asked, 
 
 The Dame returned. — Or ere that glowing pile 
 
 Of mountain turf required the Builder's hand 
 
 Its wasted splendour to repair, the door 
 
 Opened, and she re-entered with glad looks, 
 
 Her Helpmate following. Hospitable fare, ' 
 
 Frank conversation, made the evening's treat: 
 
 Need a bewildered Traveller wish for more' 
 
 But more was given ; I studied as we sate 
 
 By the bright fire, the good Man's face — composed ' 
 
 Of features elegant ; an open brow 
 
 Of undisturbed humanity ; a cheek 
 
 Sufl^used with something of a feminine hue; 
 
 Eyes beaming courtesy and mild regard ; 
 
 But, in the quicker turns of the discourse, 
 
 Expression slowly varying, that evinced 
 
 A tardy apprehension. From a fount 
 
 Lost, thought I, in the obscurities of time, 
 
 But honoured once, these features and that mien 
 
 May have descended, though I see them here. 
 
 In such a Man, so gentle and subdued, 
 
 Withal so graceful in his gentleness, 
 
 A race illustrious for heroic deeds, 
 
 Humbled, but not degraded, may expire. 
 
 This pleasing fancy (cherished and upheld 
 
 By sundry recollections of such fall 
 
 From high to low, ascent from low to high. 
 
 As books record, and even the careless mind 
 
 Cannot but notice among men and things) 
 
 Went with me to the place of my repose. 
 
 " Roused by the crowing cock at dawn of day, 
 
 I yet had risen too late to interchange 
 
 A morning salutation with my Host, 
 
 Gone forth already to the far-off" seat 
 
 Of his day's work. ' Three dark mid-winter months 
 
 ' Pass,' said the Matron, ' and I never see, 
 
 ' Save when the Sabbath brings its kind release, 
 
 'My Helpmate's face by light of day. He quits 
 
 ' His door in darkness, nor till dusk returns. 
 
 'And, through Heaven's blessing, thus we gain the 
 
 bread 
 'For which we pray; and for the wants provide 
 'Of sickness, accident, and helpless age. 
 'Companions have I many; many Friends, 
 'Dependants, Comforters — my Wheel, my Fire, 
 'All day the House-clock ticking in mine ear, 
 'The cackling Hen, the tender Chicken brood, 
 'And the wild Birds that gather round my porch. 
 'This honest Sheep-dog's countenance I read; 
 'With him can talk; nor blush to waste a word 
 'On Creatures less intelligent and shrewd. 
 'And if the blustering Wind that drives the clouds 
 ' Care not for me, he lingers round my door, 
 'And makes me pastime when our tempers suit; 
 ' — But, above all, my Thoughts are my support. 
 The Matron ended —nor could I forbear 
 To exclaim — ' O happy ! yielding to the law 
 Of these privations, richer in the main ! 
 While thankless thousands are opprest and clogged 
 By ease and leisure — by the very wealth 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 443 
 
 And pride of opportunity made poor ; 
 While tens of thousands falter in their path, 
 :And sink, through utter want of cheering light; 
 For you the hours of labour do not flag; 
 jjFor you each Evening hath its shining Star, 
 lAnd every Sabbath-day its golden Sun.' " 
 
 ("Yes!" said the Solitary with a smile 
 (That seemed to break from an expanding heart, 
 !," The untutored Bird may found, and so construct, 
 And with such soft materials line her nest. 
 Fixed in the centre of a prickly brake. 
 That the thorns wound her not; they only guard. 
 Powers not unjustly likened to those gifts 
 Of happy instinct which tin: woodland Bird 
 Shares with her species. Nature's grace sometimes 
 Upon the Individual doth confer, 
 lAmong her higher creatures born and trained 
 To use of reason. And, I own, that tired 
 Of the ostentatious world — a swelling stage 
 With empty actions and vain passions stuifed. 
 And from the private struggles of mankind 
 Hoping for less than I could wish to hope. 
 Far less than once I trusted and believed — 
 [ love to hear of Those, who, not contending 
 ^^or summoned to contend for Virtue's prize. 
 Miss not the humbler good at which they aim ; 
 Blest with a kindly faculty to blunt 
 The edge of adverse circumstance, and turn 
 [nto their contraries the petty plagues 
 iVnd hinderances with which they stand beset. 
 — In early youth, among my native hills, 
 1 knew a Scottish Peasant who possessed 
 K few small Crofts of stone-encumbered ground ; 
 Masses of every shape and size, that lay 
 Scattered about under the mouldering walls 
 3f a rough precipice; and some, apart, 
 n quarters unobnoxious to such chance, 
 \s if the Moon had showered them down in spite ; 
 i3ut he repined not. Though the plough was scared 
 5y these obstructions, ' round the shady stones 
 \ fertilising moisture,' said the Swain, 
 Gathers, and is preserved ; and feeding dews 
 And damps, through all the droughty Summer day. 
 From out their substance issuing maintain 
 Herbage that never fails ; no grass springs up 
 ; So green, so fresh, so plentiful, as mine !' 
 But thinly sown these Natures ; rare, at least, 
 The mutual aptitude of seed and soil 
 That yields such kindly product. He — whose bed 
 [Perhaps yon loose sods cover, the poor Pensioner 
 Jrought yesterday from our sequestered dell 
 ■lere to lie down in lasting quiet — he, 
 f living now, could otherwise report 
 )f rustic loneliness : that gray-haired Orphan — 
 io call him, for humanity to him 
 fo parent was — feelingly cnuld have told, 
 n life, in death, what Solitude can breed 
 
 Of selfishness, and cruelty, and vice; 
 
 Or, if it breed not, hath not power to cure. 
 
 — But your compliance. Sir ! with our request 
 My words too long have hindered." 
 
 Undeterred, 
 Perhaps incited rather, by these shocks. 
 In no ungracious opposition, given 
 To the confiding spirit of his own 
 Experienced faith, the reverend Pastor said. 
 Around him looking, " Where shall I begin? 
 Who shall be first selected from my Flock 
 Gathered together in their peaceful fold ]" 
 He paused — and having lifted up his eyes 
 To the pure Heaven, he cast them down again 
 Upon the earth beneath his feet; and spake. 
 
 — " To a mysteriously-consorted Pair 
 This place is consecrate ; to Death and Life 
 And to the best Aflections that proceed 
 From their conjunction; — consecrate to faith 
 In Him who bled for man upon the Cross; 
 Hallowed to Revelation ; and no less 
 
 To Reason's mandates ; and the hopes divine 
 
 Of pure Imagination ; — above all. 
 
 To Charity, and Love, that have provided, 
 
 Within these precincts, a capacious bed 
 
 And receptacle, open to the good 
 
 And evil, to the just and the unjust; 
 
 In which they find an equal resting-place : 
 
 Even as the multitude of kindred brooks 
 
 And streams, whose murmur fills this hollow vale. 
 
 Whether their course be turbulent or smooth. 
 
 Their waters clear or sullied, all are lost 
 
 Within the bosom of yon crystal Lake, 
 
 And end their journey in the same repose ! 
 
 " And blest are they who sleep ; and we that know. 
 
 While in a spot like this we breathe and walk. 
 
 That All beneath us by the wings are covered 
 
 Of motherly Humanity, outspread 
 
 And gathering all within their tender shade. 
 
 Though loth and slow to come ! A battle-field, 
 
 In stillness left when slaughter is no more. 
 
 With this compared, is a strange spectacle 
 
 A rueful sight the wild shore strewn with wrecks. 
 
 And trod by people in afilicted quest 
 
 Of friends and kindred, whom the angry Sea 
 
 Restores not to their prayer ! Ah ! who would think 
 
 That all the scattered subjects which compose 
 
 Earth's melancholy vision through the space 
 
 Of all her climes; these wretched, these depraved, 
 
 To virtue lost, insensible of peace. 
 
 From the delights of charity cut off, 
 
 To pity dead, the Oppressor and the Opprest; 
 
 Tyrants who utter the destroying word. 
 
 And slaves who will consent to be destroyed — 
 
 Were of one species with the sheltered few. 
 
 Who, with a dutiful and tender hand, 
 
444 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Did lodge, in an appropriated spot, 
 
 Tliis file of Infants ; some that never breathed 
 
 The vital air ; and others, wlio, allowed 
 
 That privilege, did yet expire too soon. 
 
 Or with too brief a warning, to admit 
 
 Administration of the holy rite 
 
 That lovingly consigns tlie Babe to the arms 
 
 Of Jesus, and his everlasting care. 
 
 These that in trembling hope are laid apart ; 
 
 And the besprinkled Nursling, unrequired 
 
 Till he begins to smile upon the breast 
 
 That feeds him ; and the tottering Little-one 
 
 Taken from air and sunshine when the rose 
 
 Of Infancy first blooms upon his cheek ; 
 
 The thinking, thoughtless Scliool-bny ; the bold Youth 
 
 Of soul impetuous, and the basliful Maid 
 
 Smitten while all the promises of life 
 
 Are opening round her; those of middle age. 
 
 Cast down while confident in strength they stand, 
 
 Like pillars fixed more firmly, as might seem. 
 
 And more secure, by very weight of all 
 
 That, for support, rests on them ; the decayed 
 
 And burthensome ; and lastly, that poor few 
 
 Whose light of reason is with age extinct ; 
 
 The hopeful and tlie hopeless, first and last, 
 
 Tiie earliest summoned and the longest spared — 
 
 Are here deposited, with tribute paid 
 
 Various, but unto each some tribute paid ; 
 
 As if, amid these peaceful hills and groves, 
 
 Society were touched with kind concern ; 
 
 And gentle 'Nature grieved, that One should die;"* 
 
 Or, if the change demanded no regret. 
 
 Observed the liberating stroke — and blessed. 
 
 — And whence that tribute? wherefore these regards If 
 
 Not from the naked Heart alone of Man 
 
 (Though claiming high distinction upon earth 
 
 * " And sufiering Nature grieved that one should die." 
 
 Southey's Retrospect. 
 
 + The sentiments and opinions here uttered are in unison witli 
 those expressed in an Essay upon Epitaphs, wliich \va.s furnished 
 by the author for Mr. Coleridge's periodical work, ' The Friend ;' 
 
 As the sole spring and fountain-head of tears, 
 
 His own peculiar utterance for distress 
 
 Or gladness.) No," the philosophic Priest 
 
 Continued, " 't is not in the vital seat 
 
 Of feeling to produce them, without aid 
 
 From the pure Soul, the Soul sublime and pure ; 
 
 With her two faculties of Eye and Ear, 
 
 The one by which a Creature, whom his sins 
 
 Have rendered prone, can upward look to Heaven; 
 
 The other that empowers him to perceive 
 
 The voice of Deity, on height and plain. 
 
 Whispering those truths in stillness, which the Wow), i 
 
 To the four quarters of the winds, proclaims. 
 
 Not without such assistance could the use 
 
 Of these benign observances prevail. 
 
 Thus are they born, thus fostered, and maintained; 
 
 And by the care prospective of our wise 
 
 Forefathers, who, to guard against the shocks. 
 
 The fluctuation and decay of things, 
 
 Embodied and established tliese high Truths 
 
 In solemn Institutions: — Men convinced 
 
 That Life is Love and Immortality, 
 
 The Being one, and one the Element. 
 
 There lies the channel, and original bed, 
 
 From the beginning, hollowed out and scooped 
 
 For Man's Affections — else betrayed and lost. 
 
 And swallowed up 'mid deserts infinite ! 
 
 — This is the genuine course, the aim, and end 
 
 Of prescient Reason ; all conclusions else 
 
 Are abject, vain, presumptuous, and perverse. 
 
 The faith partaking of those holy times. 
 
 Life, I repeat, is energy of Love 
 
 Divine or human ; exercised in pain. 
 
 In strife, and tribulation ; and ordained. 
 
 If so approved and sanctified, to pass. 
 
 Through shades and silent rest, to endless joy." 
 
 and as they are dictated by a spirit congenial to that whicli pe^ 
 vades this and the two succeeding books, the sympathising 
 reader will not be displeased to see the Essay here annexed. 
 [See Appendix V., to which the Essay upon Epitaphs has faefin 
 transferred. — H. R.] 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 BOOK THE SIXTH. 
 
 THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Poet's Address to the State and Church of England — The Pastor not inferior to the ancient Worthies of the 
 Church — He begins his Narratives with an Instance of unrequited Love — Anguish of Mind subd iied — and how — 
 The lonely Miner, an Instance of Perseverance, which leads by contrast to an Example of abused talents, irresolu- 
 tion, and weakness — Solitary, applying this covertly to his own case, asks for an Instance of some Stranger, whose 
 disposition may have led him to end his days here — Pastor, in answer, gives an account of the harmonising influence 
 of Solitude upon two Men of opposite principles, who had encountered agitations in public life — The Rule by 
 which Peace may be obtained expressed — and where — Solitary hints at an overpowering Fatality — Answer of 
 the Pastor — What subjects he will exclude from his Narratives — Conversation upon this — Instance of an un- 
 amiable character, a Female — and why given — Contrasted with this, a meek Sufferer from unguarded and betrayed 
 love — Instance of heavier guilt, and its consequences to the Oflfender — With this Instance of a Marriage Contract 
 broken is contrasted one of a Widower, evidencing his faithful aflection towards his deceased wife by his care of 
 their female Children. 
 
 jHah to the Crown by Freedom shaped — to gird 
 lAn English Sovereign's brow ! and to the Throne 
 jWhereon he sits ! Whose deep Foundations lie 
 jIn veneration and the People's love ; 
 [Whose steps are equity, whose seat is law. 
 ! — Hail to the State of England ! And conjoin 
 iWith this a salutation as devout, 
 [Made to the spiritual Fabric of her Church ; 
 [Founded in truth ; by blood of Martyrdom 
 Cemented ; by the hands of Wisdom reared 
 In beauty of Holiness, with ordered pomp, 
 Decent, and unreproved. Tlie voice, that greets 
 The majesty of both, shall pray for both ; 
 That, mutually protected and sustained, 
 They may endure long as the sea surrounds 
 This favoured Land, or sunshine warms her soil. 
 — And O, ye swelling hills, and spacious plains ! 
 Besprent from shore to shore with steeple-towers 
 And spires whose " silent finger points to Heaven ;"* 
 
 * "An instinctive taste teaches men to build their churches 
 in flat countries with spire-steeples, which, as they cannot be 
 referred to any other object, point as with silent linger to the 
 sky and stars, and sometimes, when they reflect the brazen light 
 of a rich though rainy sunset, appear like a pyramid of flame 
 
 burning heaven-ward." S. T. Coleridge : ' Biograplda Lite- 
 
 raria,' ch. xxii. ' Satyrane's Letters,' No. 1. 
 
 Nor wanting, at wide intervals, the bulk 
 Of ancient Minster, lifled above the cloud 
 Of the dense air, which town or city breeds 
 To intercept the sun's glad beams — may ne'er 
 That true succession fail of English Hearts, 
 Who, with Ancestral feeling, can perceive 
 What in those holy Structures ye possess 
 Of ornamental interest, and the charm 
 Of pious sentiment diffused afar, 
 And human charity, and social love. 
 
 — Thus never shall the indignities of Time 
 Approach their reverend graces, unopposed ; 
 Nor shall the Elements be free to hurt 
 Their fair proportions ; nor the blinder rage 
 Of bigot zeal madly to overturn ; 
 
 And, if the desolating hand of war 
 
 Spare them, they shall continue to bestow — 
 
 Upon the thronged abodes of busy Men 
 
 (Depraved, and ever prone to fill their minds 
 
 Exclusively with transitory things) 
 
 An air and mien of dignified pursuit ; 
 
 Of sweet civility — on rustic wilds. 
 
 — The poet, fostering for his native land 
 Such hope, entreats that Servants may abound 
 Of those pure Altars worthy ; Ministers 
 Detached from pleasure, to the love of gain 
 
 38 4« 
 
446 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Superior, insusceptible of pride, 
 
 And by ambitious longings undisturbed ; 
 
 Men, whose delight is where their duty leads 
 
 Or fixes them; whose least distinguished day 
 
 Shines with some portion of that heavenly lustre 
 
 Which makes the Sabbath lovely in tlie siglit 
 
 Of blessed angels, pitying human cares. 
 
 — And, as on eartli it is the doom of Truth 
 
 To be perpetually attacked by foes 
 
 Open or covert, be that Priesthood still. 
 
 For her defence, replenished with a Band 
 
 Of strenuous Champions, in scholastic arts 
 
 Thoroughly disciplined ; nor (if in course 
 
 Of the revolving World's disturbances 
 
 Cause should recur, which righteous Heaven avert! 
 
 To meet such trial) from their spiritual Sires 
 
 Degenerate ; who, constrained to wield the sword 
 
 Of disputation, shrunk not, though assailed 
 
 With hostile din, and combating in sight 
 
 Of angry umpires, partial and unjust; 
 
 And did, thereafter, bathe their hands in fire, 
 
 So to declare the conscience satisfied : 
 
 Nor for their bodies would accept release; 
 
 But, blessing God and praising him, bequeathed 
 
 With their last breath, from out the smouldering flame. 
 
 The faith which they by diligence had earned, 
 
 Or, through illuminating grace, received. 
 
 For their dear Countrymen, and all mankind. 
 
 O high example, constancy divine ! 
 
 Even such a man (inheriting the zeal 
 And from the sanctity of elder times 
 Not deviating, — a Priest, the like of whom. 
 If multiplied, and in their stations set, 
 Would o'er the bosom of a joyful Land 
 Spread true Religion, and her genuine fruits) 
 Before me stood that day ; on holy ground 
 Frauglit with the relics of mortality, 
 Exalting tender themes, by just degrees 
 To lofty raised ; and to tiic highest, last; 
 The head and mighty paramount of truths; 
 Immortal life, in never-fading worlds, 
 For mortal Creatures, conquered and secured. 
 
 That basis laid, those principles of faith 
 Announced, as a preparatory act 
 Of reverence to the spirit of the place ; 
 The Pastor cast his eyes upon the ground, 
 Not, as before, like one oppressed with awe. 
 But with a mild and social cheerfulness, 
 Then to the Solitary turned, and spake. 
 
 " At morn or eve, in your retired Domain, 
 Perchance you not unfrequently have marked 
 A Visitor — in quest of herbs and flowers; 
 Too delicate employ, as would appear. 
 For One, who, though of drooping mien, had yet 
 
 From Nature's kindliness received a frame 
 Robust as ever rural labour bred." 
 
 The Solitary answered : " Such a Form 
 Full well I recollect. We often crossed 
 Eacli other's path ; but, as the Intruder seemed 
 Fondly to prize the silence which he kept. 
 And I as willingly did cherish mine. 
 We met, and passed, like shadows. I have heard. 
 From my good Host, that he was crazed in brain 
 By unrequited love ; and scaled the rocks, 
 Dived into caves, and pierced the matted woods, 
 In hope to find some virtuous herb of power 
 To cure his malady !" 
 
 The Vicar smiled, 
 "Alas! before to-morrow's sun goes down 
 His habitation will be here: for him 
 That open grave is destined." 
 
 "Died he then 
 Of pain and grief?" the Solitary asked, 
 "Believe it not — oh ! never could that be!" 
 
 "He loved," the Vicar answered, "deeply loved. 
 
 Loved fondly, truly, fervently ; and dared 
 
 At length to tell his love, but sued in vain ; 
 
 — Rejected — yea repelled — and, if with scorn 
 
 Upon the haughty maiden's brow, 'tis but 
 
 A high-prized plume which female beauty wears 
 
 In wantonness of conquest, or puts on 
 
 To cheat the world, or from herself to hide 
 
 Humiliation, when no longer free. 
 
 That ho could brook, and glory in ; — but when 
 
 The tidings came that she whom he had wooed 
 
 Was wedded to another, and his heart 
 
 Was forced to rend away its only hope. 
 
 Then, Pity could have scarcely found on earth 
 
 An Object worthier of regard than he, 
 
 In the transition of that bitter hour ! 
 
 Lost was she, lost ; nor could the Sufferer say 
 
 That in the act of preference he had been 
 
 Unjustly dealt with; but the Maid was gone! 
 
 Had vanished from his prospects and desires ; 
 
 Not by translation to the heavenly Choir 
 
 Who have put ofl' their mortal spoils — ah no! 
 
 She lives another's wishes to complete, — 
 
 ' Joy be their lot, and happiness,' he cried, 
 
 ' His lot and hers, as misery is mine !' 
 
 " Such was that strong concussion ; but the Man 
 
 Who trembled, trunk and limbs, like some huge Oak 
 
 By a fierce tempest shaken, soon resumed 
 
 The steadfast quiet natural to a Mind 
 
 Of composition gentle and sedate, 
 
 And in its movements circumspect and slow. 
 
 To books, and to the long-forsaken desk, 
 
 O'er which enchained by science he had loved 
 
 To bend, he stoutly re-addressed himself. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 447 
 
 Resolved to quell his pain, and search for truth 
 With keener appetite (if that might be) 
 iAnd closer industry. Of what ensued 
 Iwithin the heart no outward sign appeared 
 Till a betraying sicldiness was seen 
 To tinge his cheek ; and through his frame it crept 
 With slow mutation unconcealable ; 
 Such universal change as autumn makes 
 [n the fair body of a leafy grove 
 Discoloured, then divested. 'T is affirmed 
 By Poets skilled in Nature's secret ways 
 That Love will not submit to be controlled 
 By mastery : — and the good Man lacked not Friends 
 iWho strove to instil this truth into his mind, 
 iA. mind in all heart-mysteries unversed. 
 Go to the hills,' said one, ' remit a while 
 This baneful diligence : — at early morn 
 j Court the fresh air, explore the heaths and woods ; 
 ' And, leaving it to others to foretell. 
 ' By calculations sage, the ebb and flow 
 I Of tides, and when the moon will be eclipsed. 
 Do you, for your own benefit, construct 
 A calendar of flowers, plucked as they blow 
 Where health abides, and cheerfulness, and peace.' 
 Phe attempt was made ; — 't is needless to report 
 low hopelessly: — but Innocence is strong, 
 ind an entire simplicity of mind 
 \. thing most sacred in the eye of Heaven, 
 That opens, for such Sufferers, relief 
 yithin their souls, a fount of grace divine ; 
 ind doth commend their weakness and disease 
 Po Nature's care, assisted in her office 
 !!y all the Elements that round her wait 
 po generate, to preserve, and to restore ; 
 ind by her beautiful array of Forms 
 Shedding sweet influence from above, or pure 
 )elight exhaling from the ground they tread." 
 
 Impute it not to impatience, if," exclaimed 
 ^'he Wanderer, " I infer that he was healed 
 !y perseverance in the course prescribed." 
 
 You do not err : the powers, that had been lost 
 iy slow degrees, were gradually regained ; 
 The fluttering nerves composed ; the beating heart 
 u rest established ; and the jarring thoughts 
 To harmony restored. — But yon dark mould 
 j'Vill cover him, in the fulness of his strength — 
 jlastily smitten, by a fever's force; 
 'let not with stroke so sudden as refused 
 ^ime to look back with tenderness on her 
 Vhom he had loved in passion, — and to send 
 'ome farewell words — with one, but one, request, 
 |. hat, from his dying hand, she would accept 
 i)f his possessions that which most he prized ; 
 i. Book, upon whose leaves some chosen plants 
 ty his own hand disposed with nicest care, 
 
 In undecaying beauty were preserved; 
 Mute register, to him, of time and place, 
 And various fluctuations in the breast ; 
 To her, a monument of faithful Love 
 Conquered, and in tranquillity retained ! 
 
 " Close to his destined habitation, lies 
 
 One who achieved a humbler victory. 
 
 Though marvellous in its kind. A Place there is 
 
 High in these mountains, that allured a Band 
 
 Of keen Adventurers to unite their pains 
 
 In search of precious ore : who tried, were foiled — 
 
 And all desisted, all, save him alone. 
 
 He, taking counsel of his own clear thoughts. 
 
 And trusting only to his own weak hands, 
 
 Urged unremittingly the stubborn work, 
 
 Unseconded, uncountenanced ; then, as time 
 
 Passed on, while still his lonely efforts found 
 
 No recompense, derided ; and at length, 
 
 By many pitied, as insane of mind ; 
 
 By others dreaded as the luckless Thrall 
 
 Of subterranean Spirits feeding hope 
 
 By various mockery of sight and sound ; 
 
 Hope after hope, encouraged and destroyed. 
 
 — But when the Lord of seasons had matured 
 
 The fruits of earth through space of twice ten years, 
 
 The mountain's entrails offered to his view 
 
 And trembling grasp the long-deferred reward. 
 
 Not with more transport did Columbus greet 
 
 A world, his rich discovery ! But our Swain, 
 
 A very Hero till his point was gained. 
 
 Proved all unable to support the weight 
 
 Of prosperous fortune. On the fields he looked 
 
 With an unsettled liberty of thought. 
 
 Of schemes and wishes; in the daylight walked 
 
 Giddy and restless ; ever and anon 
 
 Quafled in his gratitude immoderate cups; 
 
 And truly might be said to die of joy ! 
 
 He vanished ; but conspicuous to this day 
 
 The Path remains that linked his Cottage-door 
 
 To the Mine's mouth ; a long, and slanting track, 
 
 Upon the rugged mountain's stony side, 
 
 Worn by his daily visits to and from 
 
 The darksome centre of a constant hope. 
 
 This Vestige, neither force of beating rain, 
 
 Nor the vicissitudes of frost and thaw, 
 
 Shall cause to fade, till ages pass away ; 
 
 And it is named, in memory of the event, 
 
 The Patu of Perseverance." 
 
 " Thou from whom 
 Man has his strength," exclaimed the Wanderer, "oh ! 
 Do thou direct it ! — to the Virtuous grant 
 The penetrative eye which can perceive 
 In this blind world the guiding vein of hope, 
 That, like this Labourer, such may dig their way, 
 
448 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 'Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified ;' 
 Grant to the Wise his firmness of resolve !" 
 
 " That prayer were not superfluous," said the Priest, 
 
 " Amid the noblest relics, proudest dust. 
 
 That Westminster, for Britain's glory, holds 
 
 Within the bosom of her awful Pile, 
 
 Ambitiously collected. Yet the sigh. 
 
 Which wafts tliat prayer to Heaven, is due to all. 
 
 Wherever laid, who living fell below 
 
 Their virtue's humbler mark ; a sigh of pain 
 
 If to the opposite extreme they sank. 
 
 How would you pity Her who yonder rests ; 
 
 Him, farther off; the Pair, who here are laid ; 
 
 But, above all, that mixture of Earth's Mould 
 
 Whom sight of this green Hillock to my mind 
 
 Recalls ! — He lived not till his locks were nipped 
 
 By seasonable frost of age ; nor died 
 
 Before his temples, prematurely forced 
 
 To mix the manly brown with silver gray. 
 
 Gave obvious instance of the sad effect 
 
 Produced, when thoughtless Folly hath usurped 
 
 The natural crown that sage experience wears. 
 
 — Gay, volatile, ingenious, quick to learn. 
 
 And prompt to exhibit all that he possessed 
 
 Or could perform ; a zealous actor — hired 
 
 Into the troop of mirth, a soldier — sworn 
 
 Into the lists of giddy enterprise — 
 
 Such was he ; yet, as if within his frame 
 
 Two several Souls alternately had lodged. 
 
 Two sets of manners could the Youth put on ; 
 
 And, fraught with antics as the Indian bird 
 
 That writhes and chatters in her wiry cage ; 
 
 Was graceful, when it pleased him, smooth and still 
 
 As the mute Swan that floats adown the stream. 
 
 Or, on the waters of the unruffled lake, 
 
 Anchors her placid beauty. Not a Leaf 
 
 That flutters on the bough, more light than He ; 
 
 And not a flower, that droops in the green shade. 
 
 More winningly reserved ! If ye enquire 
 
 How such consummate elegance was bred 
 
 Amid these wilds, this answer may suffice, 
 
 'T was Nature's will ; who sometimes undertakes, 
 
 For the reproof of human vanity. 
 
 Art to outstrip in her peculiar walk. 
 
 Hence, for this Favourite, lavishly endowed 
 
 With personal gifts, and bright instinctive wit, 
 
 While both, embellishing each other, stood 
 
 Yet farther recommended by the charm 
 
 Of fine demeanour, and by dance and song. 
 
 And skill in letters, every fancy shaped 
 
 Fair expectations ; nor, when to the World's 
 
 Capacious field forth went the Adventurer, there 
 
 Were he and his attainments overlooked, 
 
 Or scantily rewarded ; but all hopes, 
 
 Cherished for him, he suffered to depart. 
 
 Like blighted buds ; or clouds that mimicked Land 
 
 Before the Sailor's eye ; or diamond drops 
 
 That sparkling decked the morning grass; or aught 
 
 That was attractive — and hath ceased to be! 
 
 — Yet, when this Prodigal returned, the rites 
 
 Of joyful greeting were on him bestowed, 
 
 Wlio, by humiliation undeterred. 
 
 Sought for his weariness a place of rest 
 
 Within his Father's gates. — Whence came Hel- 
 
 clothed 
 In tattered garb, from hovels where abides 
 Necessity, the stationary Host 
 Of vagrant Poverty ; from rifted barns 
 Where no one dwells but the wide-staring Owl 
 And the Owl's Prey ; from these bare Haunts, to whic ! 
 He had descended from the proud Saloon, 
 He came, the Ghost of beauty and of health. 
 The Wreck of gaiety ! But soon revived 
 In strength, in power refitted, he renewed 
 His suit to Fortune ; and she smiled again 
 Upon a fickle Ingrate. Thrice he rose. 
 Thrice sank as willingly. For He, whose nerves 
 Were used to thrill with pleasure, while his voice 
 Softly accompanied the tuneful harp. 
 By the nice finger of fair Ladies, touched 
 In glittering Halls, was able to derive 
 No less enjoyment from an abject choice. 
 Wlio happier for the moment — who more blithe 
 Than this fallen Spirit 1 in those dreary Holds 
 His Talents lending to exalt the freaks 
 Of merry-making Beggars, — now, provoked 
 To laughter multiplied in louder peals 
 By his malicious wit; then, all enchained 
 With mute astonishment, themselves to see 
 In their own arts outdone, their fame eclipsed, 
 As by the very presence of the Fiend 
 Who dictates and inspires illusive feats, 
 For knavish purposes ! The City, too, 
 (With shame I speak it) to her guilty bowers 
 Allured him, sunk so low in self-respect 
 As there to linger, there to eat his bread, 
 Hired Minstrel of voluptuous blandishment; 
 Charming the air with skill of hand or voice, 
 Listen who would, be wrought upon who might, 
 Sincerely wretched Hearts, or falsely gay. 
 — Such the too frequent tenor of his boast 
 In ears that relished the report; — but all 
 Was from his Parents happily concealed ; 
 Who saw enough for blame and pitying love. 
 They also were permitted to receive 
 His last, repentant breath ; and closed his eyes, 
 No more to open on that irksome world 
 Where he had long existed in the state 
 Of a young Fowl beneath one Blolher hatched. 
 Though from another sprung — of different kind: 
 Where he had lived, and could not cease to live. 
 Distracted in propensity; content 
 With neither element of good or ill; 
 And yet in both rejoicing ; man unblest ; 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 449 
 
 Of contradictions infinite the slave, 
 
 Til! his deliverance, wlien Mercy made him 
 
 One with Himself, and one with them who sleep." 
 
 " 'T is strange," observed the Solitary, "strange 
 It seems, and scarcely less than pitiful, 
 That in a Land where Charity provides 
 For all that can no longer feed themselves, 
 
 I A Man like this should choose to bring his shame 
 To the parental door; and with his sighs 
 Infect the air which he had freely breathed 
 In happy infancy. He could not pine, 
 Through lack of converse, no, he must have found 
 Abundant exercise for thought and speech, 
 In his dividual Being, self-reviewed. 
 Self-catechised, self-punished. — Some there are 
 Who, drawing near their final Home, and much 
 
 i And daily longing that the same were reached, 
 Would rather shun than seek the fellowship 
 Of kindred mould. — Such haply here are laid !" 
 
 " Yes," said the Priest, " the Genius of our Hills, 
 Who seems, by these stupendous barriers cast 
 Round his Domain, desirous not alone 
 To keep his own, hut also to exclude 
 All other progeny, doth sometimes lure, 
 Even by this studied depth of privacy, 
 The unhappy Alien hoping to obtain 
 Concealment, or seduced by wish to find, 
 In place from outward molestation free. 
 Helps to internal ease. Of many such 
 Could I discourse ; hut as their stay was brief, 
 So their departure only left behind 
 Fancies, and loose conjectures. Other trace 
 'Survives, for worthy mention, of a Pair 
 Who, from the pressure of their several fates. 
 Meeting as Strangers, in a petty Town 
 Whose blue roofs ornament a distant reach 
 [Of this far-winding Vale, remained as Friends 
 ['True to their choice; and gave their bones in trust 
 I To this loved Cemetery, here to lodge 
 With unescutcheoned privacy interred 
 Far from the Family-vault. — A Chieftain One 
 By right of birth ; within whose spotless breast 
 The fire of ancient Caledonia burned. 
 He, with the foremost whose impatience hailed 
 The Stuart, landing to resume, by force 
 Of arms, the crown which Bigoti-y had lost. 
 Aroused his clan ; and, figliting at their head. 
 With his brave sword endeavoured to prevent 
 Culloden's fatal overthrow. — Escaped 
 From that disastrous rout, to foreign shores 
 He fled ; and when the lenient hand of time 
 Tliose troubles had appeased, he sought and gained, 
 For his obscured condition, an obscure 
 Retreat, within this nook of English ground. 
 — The Other, born in Britain's southern tract. 
 Had fixed his milder loyalty, and placed 
 3G 
 
 His gentler sentiments of love and hate. 
 
 There, where they placed them who in conscience 
 
 prized 
 The new succession, as a line of Kings 
 Whose oath had virtue to protect the Land 
 Against the dire assaults of Papacy 
 And arbitrary Rule. But launch thy Bark 
 On the distempered flood of public life, 
 And cause for most rare triumph will be thine 
 If, spite of keenest eye and steadiest hand. 
 The Stream, that bears thee forward, prove not, soon 
 Or late, a perilous Master. He, who oft. 
 Under the battlements and stately trees 
 That round his Mansion cast a sober gloom. 
 Had moralized on this, and other truths 
 Of kindred import, pleased and satisfied. 
 Was forced to vent his wisdom with a sigh 
 Heaved from the heart in fortune's bitterness, 
 When he had crushed a plentiful estate 
 By ruinous Contest, to obtain a Seat 
 In Britain's Senate. Fruitless was the attempt: 
 And while the uproar of that desperate strife 
 Continued yet to vibrate on his ear, 
 The vanquished Whig, beneath a borrowed name, 
 (For the mere sound and echo of Iiis own 
 Haunted him with sensations of disgust 
 That he was glad to lose) slunk from the World 
 To the deep shade of these untravelled Wilds ; 
 In which the Scottish Laird had long possessed 
 An undisturbed Abode. — Here, then, they met, 
 Two doughty Champions ; flaming Jacobite 
 And sullen Hanoverian ! You might think 
 That losses and vexations, less severe 
 Than those which they had severally sustained, 
 Would have inclined each to abate his zeal 
 For his ungrateful cause ; no, — I have heard 
 My reverend Father tell that, 'mid the calm 
 Of that small Town encountering thus, they filled. 
 Daily, its Bowling-green with harmless strife ; 
 Plagued with uncharitable thoughts the Church ; 
 And vexed the Market-place. But in the breasts 
 Of these Opponents gradually was wrought. 
 With liltle change of general sentiment. 
 Such change towards each other, that their days 
 By choice were spent in constant fellowship ; 
 And if, at times, they fretted with the yoke. 
 Those very bickerings made them love it more. 
 
 " A favourite boundary to their lengthened walks 
 This Church-yard was. And, whether they had come 
 Treading their path in sympathy and linked 
 In social converse, or by some short space 
 Discreetly parted to preserve the peace. 
 One Spirit seldom filled to extend its sway 
 Over both minds, when they awhile had marked 
 The visible quiet of this holy ground. 
 And breathed its soothing air ; — the Spirit of hope 
 And saintly magnanimity; that, spurning 
 38* 
 
450 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 The field of selfish difference and dispute, 
 
 And every care which transitory things, 
 
 Earth, and the kingdoms of the earth, create, 
 
 Doth, by a rapture of forgetfulness, 
 
 Preclude forgiveness, from the praise debarred, 
 
 Which else the Cliristian Virtue might have claimed. 
 
 — There live who yet remember here to have seen 
 
 Their courtly Figures, — seated on the stump 
 
 Of an old Yew, their favourite resting-place. 
 
 But, as the Remnant of the long-lived Tree 
 
 Was disappearing by a swift decay, 
 
 They, with joint care, determined to erect, 
 
 Upon its site, a Dial, that might stand 
 
 For public use preserved, and thus survive 
 
 As their own private monument; for this 
 
 Was the particular spot, in which they wished 
 
 (And heaven was pleased to accomplish the desire) 
 
 That, undivided, tlieir remains should lie. 
 
 So, where the mouldered Tree had stood, vvas raised 
 
 Yon Structure, framing, with the ascent of steps 
 
 That to the decorated Pillar lead, 
 
 A work of art more sumptuous than might seem 
 
 To suit this Place; yet built in no proud scorn 
 
 Of rustic homeliness; they only aimed 
 
 To ensure for it respectful guardianship. 
 
 Around the margin of the Plate, whereon 
 
 The Shadow falls to note the stealthy hours. 
 
 Winds an inscriptive Legend." — At these words 
 
 Thither we turned ; and, gathered, as we read, 
 
 The appropriate sense, in Latin numbers couched. 
 
 Time flies ; it is his melancholy task 
 
 To bring, and bear away, delusive hopes. 
 
 And re-produce the troubles he destroys. 
 
 But, while his blindness thus is occupied, 
 
 Discerning Mortal ! do thou serve the will 
 
 Of Timers eternal Master, and that peace 
 
 Which the World wants, shall be for Thee confirmed." 
 
 " Smooth verse, inspired by no unlettered Muse," 
 
 Exclaimed the Sceptic, "and the strain of thought 
 
 Accords with Nature's language; — the soft voice 
 
 Of yon white torrent falling down the rocks 
 
 Speaks, less distinctly, to the same effect. 
 
 If, then, their blended influence be not lost 
 
 Upon our hearts, not wholly lost, I grant. 
 
 Even upon mine, the more are we required 
 
 To feel for those, among our fellow-men. 
 
 Who, offering no obeisance to the world. 
 
 Are yet made desperate by 'too quick a sense 
 
 Of constant infelicity,' — cut off" 
 
 From peace like Exiles on some barren rock. 
 
 Their life's appointed prison; not more free 
 
 Than Sentinels, between two armies, set, 
 
 With nothing better, in the chill night air. 
 
 Than their own thouglits to comfort them. — Say why 
 
 That ancient story of Prometheus chained ? 
 
 The Vulture — the inexhaustible repast 
 
 Drawn from his vitals ! Say what meant the woes 
 
 By Tantalus entailed upon his race. 
 
 And the dark sorrows of the line of Thebes 1 
 Fictions in form, but in their substance truths, 
 Tremendous truths! familiar to the men 
 Of long-past times, nor obsolete in ours. 
 
 — Exchange the Shepherd's frock of native gray 
 For robes with regal purple tinged ; convert 
 The crook into a sceptre ; — give the pomp 
 
 Of circumstance, and here the tragic Muse 
 Shall find apt subjects for her highest art. 
 
 — Amid the groves, beneath the shadowy hills, 
 The generations are prepared ; the pangs. 
 The internal pangs are ready ; the dread strife 
 Of poor humanity's afflicted will 
 Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny." 
 
 " Though," said the Priest in answer, " these be tennsr 
 
 Which a divine philosophy rejects. 
 
 We, whose established and unfailing trust 
 
 Is in controlling Providence, admit 
 
 That, through all stations, human life abounds 
 
 With mysteries ; — for, if Faith were left untried 
 
 How could the might, that lurks within her, then 
 
 Be shown 1 her glorious e.xcellence — that ranks 
 
 Among the first of Powers and virtues — proved 1 
 
 Our system is not fashioned to preclude 
 
 That sympathy which you for others ask; 
 
 And I could tell, not travelling for my theme 
 
 Beyond these humble graves, of grievous crimes 
 
 And strange disasters; but I pass them by. 
 
 Loth to disturb what Heaven hath hushed in peace. 
 
 — Still less, far less, am I inclined to treat 
 Of Man degraded in his Maker's sight 
 By the deformities of brutish vice : 
 
 For, in such Portraits, though a vulgar face 
 
 And a coarse outside of repulsive life 
 
 And unaffecting manners might at once 
 
 Be recognised by all — " " Ah ! do not think," 
 
 The Wanderer somewhat eagerly exclaimed, 
 
 " Wish could be ours that you, for such poor gain 
 
 (Gain shall I call it?— gain of what? — for whom?) 
 
 Should breathe a word lending to violate 
 
 Your own pure spirit. Not a step w-e look for 
 
 In slight of that forbearance and reserve 
 
 Which common human-heartedness inspires, 
 
 And mortal ignorance and frailty claim. 
 
 Upon this sacred ground, if nowhere else." 
 
 " True," said the Solitary, " be it far 
 From us to infringe the laws of charity. 
 Let judgment here in mercy be pronounced ; 
 This, self-respecting Nature prompts, and this 
 Wisdom enjoins ; but, if the thing we seek 
 Be genuine knowledge, bear we then in mind 
 How, from his lofty throne, the Sun can fling 
 Colours as bright on exhalations bred 
 By weedy pool or pestilential swamp 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 451 
 
 As by the rivulet sparkling where it runs, 
 iOr the pellucid Lake." 
 
 " Small risk," said I, 
 
 " Of such illusion do we here incur ; 
 
 Temptation here is none to exceed the truth ; 
 
 No evidence appears that they who rest 
 
 Within this ground, were covetous of praise. 
 
 Or of remembrance even, deserved or not. 
 
 Green is the Church-yard, beautiful and green, 
 
 Ridge rising gently by the side of ridge, 
 
 (A heaving surface — almost wholly free 
 
 IFrom interruption of sepulchral stones, 
 
 iAnd mantled o'er with aboriginal turf 
 
 ;And everlasting flowers. These Dalesmen trust 
 
 The lingering gleam of their departed Lives 
 
 ;,To oral records and the silent heart; 
 
 i' 
 
 'Depository faithful, and more kind 
 
 Than fondest Epitaphs: for, if that fail, 
 
 What boots the sculptured Tomb'! and who can blame. 
 
 Who rather would not envy, men that feel 
 
 This mutual confidence ; if, from such source. 
 
 The practice flow, — if thence, or from a deep 
 
 And general humility in death? 
 
 Nor should I much condemn it, if it spring 
 
 From disregard of Time's destructive power. 
 
 As only capable to prey on things 
 
 Of earth, and human nature's mortal part. 
 
 Yet — in less simple districts, where we see 
 
 Stone lift its forehead emulous of stone 
 
 In courting notice, and the ground all paved 
 
 With commendations of departed worth ; 
 
 Reading, where'er we turn, of innocent lives, 
 
 Of each domestic charity fulfilled. 
 
 And sufferings meekly borne — I, for my part. 
 
 Though with the silence pleased that here prevails. 
 
 Among those fair recitals also range. 
 
 Soothed by the natural spirit which they breathe. 
 
 And, in the centre of a world whose soil 
 
 Is rank with all unkindness, compassed round 
 
 iWith such Memorials, I have sometimes felt, 
 
 It was no momentary happiness 
 
 To have one Enclosure where the voice that speaks 
 
 Jn envy or detraction is not heard ; 
 
 iWhich malice may not enter ; where the traces 
 
 Of evil inclinations are unknown ; 
 
 IWhere love and pity tenderly unite 
 
 ;With resignation ; and no jarring tone 
 
 Intrudes, the peaceful concert to disturb 
 
 Of amity and gratitude." 
 
 " Thus sanctioned," 
 The Pastor said, " I willingly confine 
 My narratives to subjects that excite 
 Feelings with these accordant; love, esteem. 
 And admiration ; lifting up a veil, 
 A sunbeam introducing among hearts 
 Retired and covert; so that ye shall have 
 
 Clear images before your gladdened eyes 
 
 Of Nature's unambitious underwood, 
 
 And flowers that prosper in the shade. And when 
 
 I speak of such among my flock as swerved 
 
 Or fell, those only will I single out 
 
 Upon whose lapse, or error, something more 
 
 Than brotherly forgiveness may attend ; 
 
 To such will we restrict our notice — else 
 
 Better my tongue were mute. And yet there are, 
 
 I feel, good reasons why we should not leave 
 
 Wholly untraced a more forbidding way. 
 
 For strength to persevere and to support. 
 
 And energy to conquer and repel ; — 
 
 These elements of virtue, that declare 
 
 The native grandeur of the human Soul, 
 
 Are oft-times not unprofitably shown 
 
 In the perverseness of a selfish course: 
 
 Truth every day exemplified, no less 
 
 In the gray cottage by the murmuring stream ' 
 
 Than in fantastic Conqueror's roving camp. 
 
 Or 'mid the factious Senate, unappalled 
 
 While merciless proscription ebbs and flows. 
 
 — There," said the Vicar, pointing as he spake, 
 "A Woman rests in peace; surpassed by few 
 In power of mind, and eloquent discourse. 
 Tall was her stature ; her complexion dark 
 And saturnine ; her head not raised to hold 
 Converse with Heaven, nor yet deprest tow'rds earth, 
 But in projection carried, as she walked 
 
 For ever musing. Sunken were her eyes; 
 Wrinkled and furrowed with habitual thought 
 Was her broad forehead ; like the brow of One 
 Whose visual nerve shrinks from a painful glare 
 Of overpowering light. — While yet a Child, 
 She, 'mid the humble Flowerets of the vale, 
 Towered like the imperial Thistle, not unfurnished 
 With its appropriate grace, yet rather seeking 
 To be admired, than coveted and loved. 
 Even at that age she ruled, a sovereign Queen 
 Over her Comrades : else their simple sports. 
 Wanting all relish for her strenuous mind. 
 Had crossed her, only to be shunned with scorn. 
 
 — Oh ! pang of sorrowful regret for those 
 Whom, in their youth, sweet study has enthralled, 
 That they have lived for harsher servitude. 
 Whether in soul, in body, or estate ! 
 
 Such doom was hers; yet nothing could subdue 
 Her keen desire of knowledge, nor efl^ace 
 Those brighter images — by books imprest 
 Upon her memory, faithfully as stars 
 That occupy their places, — and, though oft 
 Hidden by clouds, and oft bedimmed by haze. 
 Are not to be extinguished, nor impaired. 
 
 " Two passions, both degenerate, for they both 
 Began in honour, gradually obtained 
 Rule over her, and vexed her daily life; 
 An unrelenting, avaricious thrift; 
 
453 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And a strange thraldom of maternal love, 
 
 That held her spirit, in its own despite, 
 
 Bonnd — by vexation, and regret, and scorn, 
 
 Constrained forgiveness, and relenting vows. 
 
 And tears, in pride suppressed, in shame concealed — 
 
 To a poor dissolute Son, her only Child. 
 
 — Her wedded days had opened with mishap, 
 
 Whence dire dependence. — What could she perform 
 
 To shake the burthen off! Ah ! there was felt, 
 
 Indignantly, the weakness of her sex. 
 
 She mused — resolved, adl)ered to her resolve; 
 
 The hand grew slack in alms-giving, the heart 
 
 Closed by degrees to charity; heaven's blessing 
 
 Not seeking from that source, she placed her trust 
 
 [n ceaseless pains and parsimonious care. 
 
 Which got, and sternly hoarded, each day's gain. 
 
 "Thus all was re-established, and a pile 
 
 Constructed, that sufficed for every end 
 
 Save the contentment of the Builder's mind ; 
 
 A Mind by nature indisposed to aught 
 
 So placid, so inactive, ns content; 
 
 A Mind intolerant of lasting peace, 
 
 And cherishing the pang which it deplored. 
 
 Dread life of conflict ! which I oft compared 
 
 To the agitation of a brook that runs 
 
 Dovi'n rocky mountains — buried now and lost 
 
 In silent pools, now in strong eddies chained, — 
 
 But never to be charmed to gentleness ; 
 
 Its best attainment fits of such repose 
 
 As timid eyes might shrink from fathoming. 
 
 " A sudden illness seized her in the strength 
 
 Of life's autumnal season. — Shall I tell 
 
 IIow on her bed of death the Matron lay, 
 
 To Providence submissive, so she thought ; 
 
 But fretted, vexed, and wrought upon — almost 
 
 To anger, by the malady that griped 
 
 Her prostrate frame with unrelaxing power. 
 
 As the fierce Eagle fastens on the Lamb 1 
 
 She prayed, she moaned — her husband's Sister watched 
 
 Her dreary pillow, waited on her needs; 
 
 And yet the very sound of that kind foot 
 
 Was anguish to her ears'. — 'And must she rule,' 
 
 This was the dying Woman heard to say 
 
 In bitterness, 'and must she rule and reign, 
 
 'Sole Mistress of this house, when I am gone'? 
 
 ' Sit by my fire — possess what I possessed — 
 
 'Tend what I tended — calling it her own !' 
 
 Enough; — I fear, too much. — One vernal evening. 
 
 While she was yet in prime of health and strength, 
 
 I well remember, while I passed her door. 
 
 Musing with loitering step, and upward eye 
 
 Turned tow'rds the Planet Jupiter that hung 
 
 Above the centre of the Vale, a voice 
 
 Roused me, her voice ; it said, ' That glorious Star 
 
 ' In its untroubled element will shine 
 
 ' As now it shines, when we are laid in earth 
 'And safe from all our sorrows.' — She is safe. 
 And her uncharitable acts, I trust, 
 And harsh unkindnesses, are all forgiven; 
 Though, in this Vale, remembered with deep awe !" 
 
 The Vicar paused ; and tow'rd a seat advanced, 
 A long stone-seat, fi,xed in the Church-yard wall; 
 Part shaded by cool sycamore, and part 
 Offering a sunny resting-place to them 
 Who sock the House of worship, while the Bells 
 Yet ring with all their voices, or before 
 The last hath ceased its solitary knoll. 
 Under the shade we all sate down ; and there 
 His office, uninvited, he resumed. 
 
 " As on a sunny bank, a tender Lamb 
 
 Lurks in safe shelter from the winds of March, 
 
 Screened by its Parent, so that little mound 
 
 Lies guarded by its neighbour ; the small heap 
 
 Speaks for itself; — an Infant there doth rest. 
 
 The sheltering Hillock is the Mother's grave. 
 
 If mild discourse, and manners that conferred 
 
 A natural dignity on humblest rank ; 
 
 If gladsome spirits, and benignant looks, 
 
 That for a face not beautiful did more 
 
 Than beauty for the fairest face can do: 
 
 And if religious tenderness of heart. 
 
 Grieving for sin, and penitential tears 
 
 Shed when the clouds had gathered and distaincd 
 
 The spotless ether of a maiden life; 
 
 If these may make a hallowed spot of earth 
 
 More holy in the sight of God or Man ; 
 
 Then, o'er that mould, a sanctity shall brood 
 
 Till the stars sicken at the day of doom. 
 
 " Ah ! what a warning for a thoughtless Man, 
 Could field or grove, could any spot of earth. 
 Show to his eye an image of the pangs 
 Which it hath witnessed ; render back an echo 
 Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod ! 
 There, by her innocent Baby's precious grave. 
 Yea, doubtless, on the turf that roofs her own, 
 The Mother oft was seen to stand, or kneel 
 In the broad day, a weeping Magdalene. 
 Now she is not; the swelling turf reports 
 Of the fresh shower, but of poor Ellen's tears 
 Is silent; nor is any vestige left 
 Of the path worn by mournful tread of Her 
 Who, at her heart's light bidding, once had moved 
 In virgin fearlessness, with step that seemed 
 Caught from the pressure of elastic turf 
 Upon the mountains gemmed with morning dew, 
 In the prime hour of sweetest scents and airs. 
 — Serious and thoughtful was her mind; and yet, 
 By reconcilement exquisite and rare, 
 
u 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 453 
 
 The form, port, motions of tliis Cottage-girl 
 Were such as might have quickenpd and inspired 
 A Titian's hand, addrest to picture forth 
 Oread or Dryad glancing through the shade 
 What time the Hunter's earliest horn is heard 
 i Startling the golden hills. A wide-spread Elm 
 Stands in our Valley, named The Joyful Tree ; 
 From .dateless visage which our Peasants hold 
 i Of giving welcome to the first of May 
 ; By dances round its trunk. — And if the sky 
 
 Permit, like honours, dance and song, are paid 
 j To the Twelfth Night, beneath the frosty Stars 
 I Or the clear Moon. The Queen of these gay sports, 
 If not in beauty yet in sprightly air. 
 Was hapless Ellen. — No one touched the ground 
 So deftly, and the nicest Maiden's locks 
 Less gracefully were braided; — but this praise, 
 ; Methinks, would better suit another place. 
 
 " She loved, and fondly deemed herself beloved. 
 
 — The road is dim, the current unperceived, 
 The weakness painful and most pitiful, 
 
 i By which a virtuous Woman, in pure youth, 
 
 ' May be delivered to distress and shame. 
 Such fate was hers. — The last time Ellen danced. 
 Among her Equals, round The Joyful Tree, 
 She bore a secret burthen ; and full soon 
 Was left to tremble for a breaking vow, — 
 Then, to bewail a sternly-broken vow. 
 Alone, within her widowed Mother's house. 
 
 j It was the season sweet, of budding leaves. 
 Of days advancing tow'rd their utmost length, 
 And small birds singing to their happy mates. 
 
 : Wild is the music of the autumnal wind 
 
 I Among the faded woods; but these blithe notes 
 Strike the deserted to the heart; — I speak 
 Of what I know, and what we feel within. 
 
 i — Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt 
 Stands a tall ash-tree; to whose topmost twig 
 A Thrush resorts, and annually chants, 
 
 I At morn and evening from that naked perch, 
 While all the undergrove is thick witli leaves, 
 A time-beguiling ditty, for delight 
 Of his fond partner, silent in the nest. 
 
 — 'Ah why,' said Ellen, sighing to herself, 
 
 j ' Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge ; 
 i 'And nature that is kind in Woman's breast, 
 And reason that in Man is wise and good, 
 ' And fear of Him who is a righteous Judge, 
 'Why do not these prevail for human life, 
 'To keep two Hearts together, that began 
 j 'Their spring-time with one love, and that have need 
 Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet 
 ' To grant, or be received ; while that poor Bird, 
 ' — O come and hear him ! Thou who hast to me 
 'Been faithless, hear him, though a lowly Creature, 
 One of God's simple children that yet know not 
 ' The universal Parent, how he sings 
 
 ' As if he wished the firmament of Heaven 
 ' Should listen, and give back to him the voice 
 'Of his triumphant constancy and love; 
 ' The proclamation that he makes, how far 
 ' His darkness doth transcend our fickle light !' 
 
 " Such was the tender passage, not by me 
 
 Repeated without loss of simple phrase. 
 
 Which I perused, even as the words had been 
 
 Committed by forsaken Ellen's hand 
 
 To the blank margin of a Valentine, 
 
 Bedropped with tears. 'T will please you to be told 
 
 That, studiously withdrawing from the eye 
 
 Of all companionship, the Sufferer yet 
 
 In lonely reading found a meek resource; 
 
 How thankful for the warmth of summer days. 
 
 When she could slip into the Cottage-barn, 
 
 And find a secret oratory there ; 
 
 Or, in the garden, under friendly veil 
 
 Of their long twilight, pore upon her book 
 
 By the last lingering help of open sky, 
 
 Till the dark night dismissed her to her bed ! 
 
 Thus did a waking Fancy sometimes lose 
 
 The unconquerable pang of despised love. 
 
 " A kindlier passion opened on her soul 
 
 When that poor Child was born. Upon its face 
 
 She looked as on a pure and spotless gift 
 
 Of unexpected promise, where a grief 
 
 Or dread was all that had been thought of — joy 
 
 Far livelier than bewildered Traveller feels 
 
 Amid a perilous waste, that all night long 
 
 Hath harassed him — toiling through fearful storm, 
 
 When he beholds the first pale speck serene 
 
 Of day-spring, in the gloomy east revealed. 
 
 And greets it with thanksgiving. ' Till this hour,' 
 
 Thus, in her Mother's hearing Ellen spake, 
 
 ' There vjas a stony region in my heart ; 
 
 'But He, at whose command the parched rock 
 
 ' Was smitten, and poured forth a quenching stream, 
 
 'Hath softened that obduracy, and made 
 
 'Unlooked-for gladness in the desert place, 
 
 'To save the perishing; and, henceforth, I look 
 
 ' Upon the light with cheerfulness, for thee, 
 
 ' My Infant ! and for that good Mother dear, 
 
 ' Who bore me, — and hath prayed for me in vain ; — 
 
 ' Yet not in vain, it shall not be in vain.' 
 
 She spake, nor was the assurance unfulfilled, 
 
 And if heart-rending thoughts would oft return, 
 
 They stayed not long. — The blameless Infant grew; 
 
 The Child whom Ellen and her Mother loved 
 
 They soon were proud of; tended it and nursed, 
 
 A soothing comforter, although forlorn ; 
 
 Like a poor singing-bird from distant lands ; 
 
 Or a choice shrub, which he, who passes by 
 
 With vacant mind, not seldom may observe 
 
 Fair-flowering in a thinly-peopled house. 
 
 Whose window, somewhat sadly, it adorns. 
 
454 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL' WORK S. 
 
 — Through four months' space the Infant drew its food 
 From the maternal breast ; then scruples rose ; 
 Thoughts, which the rich are free from, came and 
 
 crossed 
 The sweet affection. She no more could bear 
 By her offence to lay a twofold weight 
 On a kind parent willing to forget 
 Their slender means ; so, to that parent's care 
 Trusting her child, she lefl their common home, 
 And with contented spirit undertook 
 A Foster-Mother's office. 
 
 'Tis, perchance. 
 Unknown to you that in these simple Vales 
 The natural feeling of equality 
 Is by domestic service unimpaired; 
 Yet, though such service be, with us, removed 
 From sense of degradation, not the less 
 The ungentle mind can easily find means 
 To impose severe restraints and laws unjust, 
 Which hapless Ellen now was doomed to feel. 
 
 — For (blinded by an over-anxious dread 
 Of such excitement and divided thought 
 As with her office would but ill accord) 
 
 The Pair, whose Infant she was bound to nurse, 
 Forbad her all communion with her ovi/n ; 
 Week after week, the mandate they enforced. 
 
 — So near ! — yet not allowed, upon that sight 
 To fi.\ her eyes — alas ! 't was hard to bear ! 
 But worse affliction must be borne — far worse : 
 For 'tis Heaven's will — that, after a disease 
 Begun and ended within three days' space, 
 Her Child should die; as Ellen now exclaimed. 
 Her own — deserted Child ! — Once, only once, 
 She saw it in that mortal malady ; 
 
 And, on the burial day, could scarcely gain 
 Permission to attend its obsequies. 
 She reached the house — last of the funeral train ; 
 And some One, as she entered, having chanced 
 To urge unthinkingly their prompt departure, 
 'Nay,' said she, with commanding look, a spirit 
 Of anger never seen in her before, 
 'Nay, ye must wait my time !' and down she sate, 
 And by the unclosed coffin kept her seat 
 Weeping and looking, looking on and weeping, 
 Upon the last sweet slumber of her Child, 
 Until at length her soul was satisfied. 
 
 " You see the Infant's Grave ; — and to this Spot, 
 The Mother, oft as she was sent abroad. 
 And whatsoe'er the errand, urged her steps : 
 Hither she came ; here stood, and sometimes knelt 
 In the broad day —a rueful Magdalene ! 
 So call her; for not only she bewailed 
 A Mother's loss, but mourned in bitterness 
 Her own transgression, Pwiitent sincere 
 As ever raised to Heaven a streaming eye. 
 — At length the Parents of the Foster-child, 
 
 Noting that in despite of their commands 
 
 She still renewed and could not but renew 
 
 Those visitations, ceased to send her forth ; 
 
 Or, to the garden's narrow bounds, confined. 
 
 I failed not to remind them that they erred ; 
 
 For holy nature might not thus be crossed, 
 
 Thus wronged in woman's breast : in vain I pleaded — 
 
 But the green stalk of Ellen's life was snapped. 
 
 And the flower drooped ; as every eye could see, 
 
 It hung its head in mortal languiehment. 
 
 — Aided by this appearance, I at length 
 Prevailed ; and, from those bonds released, she went 
 Home to her mother's house. The Youth was fled ; 
 The rash Betrayer could not face the shame 
 
 Or sorrow which his senseless guilt had caused; 
 
 And little would his presence, or proof given 
 
 Of a relenting soul, have now availed ; 
 
 For, like a shadow, he was passed away 
 
 From Ellen's thoughts ; had perished to her mind 
 
 For all concerns of fear, or hope, or love. 
 
 Save only those which to their common shame, 
 
 And to his moral being, appertained : 
 
 Hope from that quarter would, I know, have brought 
 
 A heavenly comfort; there she recognised 
 
 An unrelaxing bond, a mutual need ; 
 
 There, and, as seemed, there only. — She had built, 
 
 Her fond maternal Heart had built, a Nest 
 
 In blindness all too near the river's edge; 
 
 That Work a summer flood with hasty swell 
 
 Had swept away ; and now her Spirit longed 
 
 For its last flight to Heaven's security. 
 
 — The bodily frame was wasted day by day ; 
 Meanwhile, relinquishing all other cares. 
 Her mind she strictly tutored to find peace 
 And pleasure in endurance. Much she thought, 
 And much she read ; and brooded feelingly 
 Upon her own unworthiness. — To me, 
 
 As to a spiritual comforter and friend. 
 
 Her heart she opened ; and no pains were spared 
 
 To mitigate, as gently as I could. 
 
 The sting of self-reproach, with healing words. 
 
 — Meek Saint ! through patience glorified on earth ! 
 
 In whom, as by her lonely hearth she sate. 
 
 The ghastly face of cold decay put on 
 
 A sun-like beauty, and appeared divine ! 
 
 May I not mention — that, within those walls, 
 
 In due observance of her pious wish. 
 
 The Congregation joined with me in prayer 
 
 For her Soul's good ? Nor was that office vain. 
 
 — Much did she suffer : but, if any Friend, 
 Beholding her condition, at the sight 
 Gave way to words of pity or complaint. 
 
 She stilled them with a prompt reproof, and said, 
 ' He who afflicts me knows what I can bear; 
 'And, when I fail, and can endure no more, 
 ' Will mercifully take me to himself.' 
 So, through the cloud of death, her Spirit passed 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 455 
 
 i Into that pure and unknown world of love 
 
 ■ Where injury cannot come : — and here is laid 
 
 , The mortal Body by her Infant's side." 
 
 The Vicar ceased ; and downcast looks made known 
 That Each had listened with his inmost heart. 
 For me, the emotion scarcely was less strong 
 Or less benign than that which I had felt 
 When, seated near my venerable Friend, 
 Beneath those shady elms, from him I heard 
 The story that retraced the slow decline 
 Of Margaret sinking on the lonely Heath, 
 I With the neglected House to which she clung. 
 — I noted that the Solitary's cheek 
 Confessed the Power of nature. — Pleased though sad, 
 More pleased than sad, the gray-haired Wanderer sate ; 
 Thanks to his pure imaginative soul 
 I Capacious and serene, his blameless life, 
 I His knowledge, wisdom, love of truth, and love 
 j Of human kind ! He was it who first broke 
 j The pensive silence, saying, " Blest are they 
 : Whose sorrow rather is to suffer wrong 
 Than to do wrong, although themselves have erred. 
 ( This Tale gives proof that Heaven most gently deals 
 With such, in their affliction. — Ellen's fate, 
 ! Her tender spirit, and her contrite heart, 
 : Call to my mind dark hints which I have heard 
 I Of One who died within this Vale, by doom 
 j Heavier, as his oflience was heavier far. 
 Where, Sir, I pray you, where are laid the bones 
 Of Wilfred Armathwaite ■!" — The Vicar answered, 
 " In that green nook, close by the Church-yard wall. 
 Beneath yon hawthorn, planted by myself 
 In memory and for warning, and in sign 
 Of sweetness where dire anguish had been known. 
 Of reconcilement after deep offence. 
 There doth he rest. — No theme his fate supplies 
 For the smooth glozings of the indulgent world ; 
 Nor need the windings of his devious course 
 Be here retraced ; — enough that, by mishap 
 And venial error, robbed of competence, 
 ; And her obsequious shadow, peace of mind, 
 He craved a substitute in troubled joy ; 
 j Against his conscience rose in arms, and, braving 
 I Divine displeasure, broke the marriage-vow. 
 That which he had been weak enough to do 
 Was misery in remembrance ; he was stung, 
 Stung by his inward thoughts, and by the smiles 
 , Of Wife and Children stung to agony. 
 I Wretched at home, he gained no peace abroad ; 
 1 Ranged through the mountains, slept upon the earth, 
 i Asked comfort of the open air, and found 
 ; No quiet in the darkness of the night, 
 { No pleasure in the beauty of the day. 
 I His flock he slighted ; his paternal fields 
 ; Became a clog to him, whose spirit wished 
 To fly, but whither! and this gracious Church, 
 That wears a look so full of peace and hope 
 
 And love, benignant Mother of the Vale, 
 How fair amid her brood of Cottages! 
 She was to him a sickness and reproach. 
 Much to the last remained unknown : but this 
 Is sure, that through remorse and grief he died ; 
 Though pitied among Men, absolved by God, 
 He could not find forgiveness in himself; 
 Nor could endure the weight of his own shame. 
 
 " Here rests a Mother. But from her I turn 
 
 And from her Grave. — Behold — upon that Ridge, 
 
 That, stretching boldly from the mountain side, 
 
 Carries into the centre of the Vale 
 
 Its rocks and woods — the Cottage where she dwelt 
 
 And yet where dwells her faithful Partner, left, 
 
 Full eight years past) the solitary prop. 
 
 Of many helpless Children. I begin 
 
 With words that might be prelude to a Tale 
 
 Of sorrow and dejection ; but I feel 
 
 No sadness, when I think of what mine eyes 
 
 See daily in that happy Family. 
 
 — Bright Garland form they for the pensive brow 
 Of their undrooping Father's widowhood. 
 Those six fair Daughters, budding yet — not one, 
 Not one of all the band, a full-blown Flower! 
 Deprest, and desolate of soul, as once 
 
 That Father was, and filled with anxious fear, 
 Now, by experience taught, he stands assured. 
 That God, who takes away, yet takes not half 
 Of what he seems to take ; or gives it back, 
 Not to our prayer, but far beyond our prayer ; 
 He gives it — the boon produce of a soil 
 Which our endeavours have refused to till, 
 And Hope hath never watered. The Abode, 
 Whose grateful Owner can attest these truths. 
 Even were the object nearer to our sight, 
 Would seem in no distinction to surpass 
 The rudest habitations. Ye might think 
 That it had sprung self-raised from earth, or grown 
 Out of the living rock, to be adorned 
 By nature only ; but, if thither led. 
 Ye would discover, then, a studious work 
 Of many fancies, prompting many hands. 
 
 — Brought from the woods, the honeysuckle twines 
 Around the porch, and seems, in that trim place, 
 
 A Plant no longer wild ; the cultured rose 
 There blossoms, strong in health, and will be soon 
 Roof-high ; the wild pink crowns the garden wall, 
 And with the flowers are intermingled stones 
 Sparry and bright, rough scatterings of the hills. 
 These ornaments, that fade not with the year, 
 A hardy Girl continues to provide ; 
 Who, mounting fearlessly the rocky heights 
 Her Father's prompt Attendant, does for him 
 All that a Boy could do, but with delight 
 More keen and prouder daring; yet hath she, 
 Within the garden, like the rest, a bed 
 For her own flowers and favourite herbs — a space. 
 
456 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 By sacred charter, holden for her use. 
 
 — These, and whatever else the garden bears 
 
 Of fruit or flower, permission asked or not, 
 
 I freely gather ; and my leisure draws 
 
 A not unfrequent pastime from the sigh 
 
 Of the Bees murmuring round their sheltered hives 
 
 In that Enclosure; while the mountain rill, 
 
 That sparkling thrids the rocks, attunes his voice 
 
 To the pure course of human life, which there 
 
 Flows on in solitude. But, when tlie gloom 
 
 Of night is falling round my steps, then most 
 
 This Dwelling charms me; often I stop short, 
 
 (Who could refrain ■!) and feed by stealth my sight 
 
 With prospect of the Company within, 
 
 Laid open through the blazing window: — there 
 I see the eldest daughter at her wheel 
 Spinning amain, as if to overtake 
 The never-halting Time ; or, in her turn, 
 Teaching some Novice of the Sisterhood 
 That skill in this or other household work, 
 Which, from her Fatlier's honoured hand, herself, 
 While she was yet a little-one, had learned, 
 
 — Mild Man ! he is not gay, but they are gay ; 
 And the whole house seems filled with gaiety. 
 
 — Thrice happy, then, the Mother may be deemed, 
 The Wife, from whose consolatory grave 
 
 I turned, that ye in mind might witness where 
 And how, her Spirit yet survives on Earth." 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 BOOK THE SEVENTH. 
 
 THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Impression of these Narratives upon tlte Aullior's mind — Pastor invited to give accotint of certain Graves that lie 
 apart — Clergj-man and his Family — Fortunate influence of change of situation — Activity in extreme old age — 
 Another Clergyman, a character of resolute Virtue — Lamentations over mis-directed applause — Instance of less 
 exalted excellence in a deaf man — Elevated character of a blmd man — Reflection upon Blindness — Interrupted 
 by a Feasant who passes — his animal cheerfulness and careless vivacity — He occasions a digression on the fall of 
 beautiful and interesting Trees — A female Infitnt's CIrave — Joy at her Birth — Sorrow at her Departure — A youthful 
 Peasant — his patriotic entliusiasm — distinguished qualities — and untimely death — Exultation of the Wanderer, 
 as a patriot, in this Picture— Solitary how affected — Monument of a Knight — Traditions concerning him — Peroration 
 of the Wanderer on the Iransitoriness of things and the revolutions of society — Hints at his own past Calling — 
 Thanks the Pastor. 
 
 WfltLE thus from theme to theme the Historian 
 
 The words he uttered, and the scene that lay 
 
 Before our eyes, awakened in my mind 
 
 Vivid reiuembrance of those long-past hours ; 
 
 When, in the hollow of some shadowy Vale, 
 
 (What time the splendour of the setting sun 
 
 Lay beautiful on Snowdon's sovereign brow, 
 
 On Cader Idris, or huge Penmanmaur) 
 
 A wandering Youth, I listened with delight 
 
 To pastoral melody or warlike air. 
 
 Drawn from the chords of the ancient British harp 
 
 By some accomplished Master, while he sate 
 
 Amid the quiet of the green recess, 
 
 And there did inexhaustibly dispense 
 
 An interchange of soft or solemn tunes. 
 
 Tender or blithe ; now, as the varying mood 
 
 Of his own spirit urged, — now, as a voice 
 
 Froin Youth or Maiden, or some honoured Chief 
 
 Of his compatriot villagers (that hung 
 
 Around him, drinking in the impassioned notes 
 
 Of the time-hallowed minstrelsy) required 
 
 For their heart's ease or pleasure. Strains of power 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 457 
 
 Were they, to seize and occupy the sense ; 
 But to a higher mark than song- can reach 
 Rose this pure eloquence. And, when the stream 
 ! Which overflowed the soul was passed away, 
 i A consciousness remained tliat it had left, 
 Deposited upon the silent shore 
 Of memory, images and precious thoughts. 
 That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed. 
 
 " These grassy heaps lie amicably close," 
 Said I, " like surges heaving in the wind 
 Upon the surface of a mountain pool; 
 
 — Whence comes it then, that yonder we behold 
 Five gra%'es, and only five, that rise together 
 Unsociably sequestered, and encroaching 
 
 On the smooth play-ground of the Village-school 1" 
 
 I The Vicar answered. " No disdainful pride 
 In them who rest beneath, nor any course 
 Of strange or tragic accident, hath helped 
 To place those Hillocks in that lonely guise. 
 
 — Once more look forth, and follow with your sight 
 The leng-th of road that from yon mountain's base 
 Through bare enclosures stretches, till its line 
 
 Is lost within a little tuft of trees, — 
 
 Then reappearing in a moment, quits 
 
 The cultured fields, — and up the heathy waste, 
 
 Slounts, as you see, in mazes serpentine, 
 
 Towards an easy outlet of the Vale. 
 
 — That little shady spot, that sylvan tuft. 
 By which the road is hidden, also hides 
 
 A Cottage from our view, — though I discern 
 
 (Ye scarcely can) amid its sheltering trees 
 
 The smokeless chimney-top. — All unembowered 
 
 And naked stood that lowly Parsonage 
 
 (For such in truth it is, and appertains 
 
 To a small Chapel in the Vale beyond) 
 
 When hither came its last Inhabitant. 
 
 " Rough and forbidding were the choicest roads 
 
 By which our Northern wilds could then be crossed ; 
 
 And into most of these secluded Vales 
 
 Was no access for wain, heavy or light. 
 
 So, at his Dwelling-place the Priest arrived 
 
 } With store of household goods, in panniers slung 
 
 ! On sturdy horses graced with jingling bells. 
 And on the back of more ignoble beast ; 
 
 I That, with like burthen of effects most prized 
 Or easiest carried, closed the motley train. 
 
 I Young was I then, a school-boy of eight years; 
 But still, methinks, I see them as they passed 
 In order, drawing tow'rd tlieir wished-for home. 
 
 — Rocked by the motion of a trusty Ass 
 
 Two ruddy Children hung, a well-poised freight. 
 Each in his basket nodding drowsily ; 
 Their bonnets, I remember, wreathed with flowers. 
 Which told it was the pleasant month of June ; 
 And, close behind, the comely Matron rode, 
 3H 
 
 A Woman of soft speech and gracious smile, 
 
 And with a Lady's mien. — From far they came. 
 
 Even from Northumbrian hills ; yet theirs had been 
 
 A merry journey — rich in pastime — cheered 
 
 By music, prank, and laughter-stirring jest ; 
 
 And freak put on, and arch word dropped — to swell 
 
 The cloud of fancy and uncouth surmise 
 
 That gathered round the slowly-moving train. 
 
 — ' Whence do they come ? and with what errand 
 
 charged "i 
 'Belong they to the fortune-telling Tribe 
 'Who pitch their tents beneath the green- wood Treel 
 'Or are they Strollers, furnished to enact 
 'Fair Rosamond, and the Children of the Wood, 
 ' And, by that whiskered Tabby's aid, set forth 
 'The lucky venture of sage Whittington, 
 ' When the next Village hears the Show announced 
 'By blast of trumpet!' Plenteous was the growth 
 Of such conjectures, overheard — or seen 
 On many a staring countenance portrayed 
 Of Boor or Burgher, as they marched along. 
 And more than once their steadiness of face 
 Was put to proof, and exercise supplied 
 To their inventive humour, by stern looks, 
 And questions in authoritative tone. 
 From some staid Guardian of the public peace. 
 Checking the sober steed on which he rode. 
 In his suspicious wisdom ; oftener still, 
 By notice indirect, or blunt demand 
 From Traveller halting in his own despite, 
 A simple curiosity to ease : 
 Of which adventures, that beguiled and cheered 
 Their grave migration, the good Pair would tell. 
 With undiminished glee, in hoary age. 
 
 " A Priest he was by function ; but his course 
 From his youth up, and high as manhood's noon, 
 (The hour of life to which he then was brought) 
 Had been irregular, I might say, wild ; 
 By books unsteadied, by his pastoral care 
 Too little checked. An active, ardent mind; 
 A fancy pregnant with resource and scheme 
 To cheat the sadness of a rainy day ; 
 Hands apt for all ingenious arts and games ; 
 A generous spirit, and a body strong 
 To cope with stoutest Champions of the bowl; 
 Had earned for him sure welcome, and the rights 
 Of a prized Visitant, in the jolly hall 
 Of country squire ; or at the statelier board 
 Of Duke or Earl, from scenes of courtly pomp 
 Withdrawn, — to while away the summer hours 
 In condescension among rural guests. 
 
 " With these high comrades he had revelled long, 
 Frolicked industriously, a simple Clerk 
 By hopes of coming patronage beguiled 
 Till the heart sickened. So each loftier aim 
 Abandoning and all his showy Friends 
 39 
 
458 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 1 
 
 For a life's slay, though slender yet assured, 
 
 He turned to this secluded Chapelry; 
 
 That had been offered to his doubtful choice 
 
 By an unthought-of Patron. Bleak and bare 
 
 They found the Cottage, their allotted home ; 
 
 Naked without, and rude within ; a spot 
 
 With which the scantily provided Cure 
 
 Not long had been endowed : and far remote 
 
 The Chapel stood, divided from that House 
 
 By an unpeopled tract of mountain waste. 
 
 — Yet cause was none, vvhate'er regret might hang 
 
 On his own mind, to quarrel with the choice 
 
 Or the necessity that fi.xed him here; 
 
 Apart from old temptations, and constrained 
 
 To punctual labour in his sacred charge. 
 
 See him a constant Preacher to the Poor ! 
 
 And visiting, though not with saintly zeal. 
 
 Yet, when need was, with no reluctant will, 
 
 The sick in body, or distrest in mind ; 
 
 And, by as salutary change, compelled 
 
 To rise from timely sleep, and meet the day 
 
 With no engagement, in his thoughts, more proud 
 
 Or splendid than his garden could afford. 
 
 His fields, — or mountains by the heath-cock ranged, 
 
 Or the wild brooks ; from which he now returned 
 
 Contented to partake the quiet meal 
 
 Of his own board, where sate his gentle Mate 
 
 And three fair Children, plentifully fed 
 
 Though simply, from their little household farm ; 
 
 With acceptable treat of fish or fowl 
 
 By nature yielded to his practised hand — 
 
 To help the small but certain comings-in 
 
 Of that spare Benefice. Yet not the less 
 
 Theirs was a hospitable board, and theirs 
 
 A charitable door. — So days and years 
 
 Passed on; — the inside of that rugged House 
 
 Was trimmed and brightened by the Matron's care, 
 
 And gradually enriched with things of price, 
 
 W"hich might be lacked for use or ornament. 
 
 What, though no soft and costly sofa there 
 
 Insidiously stretched out its lazy length. 
 
 And no vain mirror glittered on the walls. 
 
 Yet were the windows of the low Abode 
 
 By shutters weather-fended, which at once 
 
 Repelled the storm and deadened its loud roar. 
 
 There snow-white curtains hung in decent folds; 
 
 Tough moss, and long-enduring mountain plants, 
 
 That creep along the ground with sinuous trail. 
 
 Were nicely braided, and composed a work 
 
 Like Indian mats, that with appropriate grace 
 
 Lay at the threshold and the inner doors ; 
 
 And a fair carpet, woven of homespun wool. 
 
 But tinctured daintily with florid hues. 
 
 For seemliness and warmth, on festal days, 
 
 Covered the smooth blue slabs of mountain stone 
 
 With which the parlour-floor, in simplest guise 
 
 Of pastoral homesteads, had been long inlaid. 
 
 — These pleasing works the Housewife's skill pro- 
 duced : 
 Meanwhile the unsedentary Master's hand 
 Was busier with his task — to rid, to plant, 
 To rear for food, for shelter, and delight ; 
 A thriving covert ! And when wishes, formed 
 In youth, and sanctioned by the riper mind, 
 Restored me to my native Valley, here 
 To end my days ; well pleased was I to see 
 The once-bare Cottage, on the mountain-side, 
 Screened from assault of every bitter blast ; 
 While the dark shadows of the summer leaves 
 Danced in the breeze, upon its mossy roof. 
 Time, which had thus afforded willing help 
 To beautify with Nature's fairest growth 
 This rustic Tenement, had gently shed, 
 Upon its Master's frame, a wintry grace ; 
 The comeliness of unenfeebled age. 
 But how could I say, gently 1 for he still 
 Retained a flashing eye, a burning palm, 
 A stirring foot, a head which beat at nights 
 Upon its pillow with a thousand schemes. 
 Few likings had he dropped, few pleasures lost; 
 Generous and charitable, prompt to serve ; 
 And still his harsher passions kept their hold, 
 Anger and indignation ; still he loved 
 The sound of titled names, and talked in glee 
 Of long-past banquetings with high-born Friends : 
 Then, from those lulling fits of vain delight 
 Uproused by recollected injury, railed 
 At their false ways disdainfully, — and oft 
 In bitterness, and with a threatening eye 
 Of fire, incensed beneath its hoary brow. 
 — These transports, with staid looks of pure good-will 
 And with soft smile, his Consort would reprove. 
 She, far behind him in the race of years. 
 Yet keeping her first mildness, was advanced 
 Far nearer, in the habit of her soul. 
 To that still region whither all are bound. 
 — Him might we liken to the setting Sun 
 As seen not seldom on some gusty day. 
 Struggling and bold, and shining from the west 
 With an inconstant and unmellowed light; 
 She was a soft attendant Cloud, that hung 
 As if with wish to veil the restless orb ; 
 From which it did itself imbibe a ray 
 Of pleasing lustre. — But no more of this; 
 I better love to sprinkle on the sod 
 That now divides the Pair, or rather say 
 That still unites them, praises, like heaven's dew 
 Without reserve descending upon both. 
 
 " Our very first in eminence of years 
 
 This old Man stood, the Patriarch of the Vale ! 
 
 And, to his unmolested mansion. Death 
 
 Had never come, through space of forty years ; 
 
 Sparing both old and young in that Abode. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 459 
 
 Suddenly then they disappeared : not twice 
 
 Had summer scorched the fields ; not twice had fallen 
 
 On those high Peaks, the first autumnal snow, 
 
 Before the greedy visiting was closed. 
 
 And the long-privileged House left empty — swept 
 
 As by a plague : yet no rapacious plague 
 
 Had been among them ; all was gentle death, 
 
 One after one, with intervals of peace. 
 
 — A happy consummation ! an accord 
 
 Sweet, perfect — to be wished for ! save that here 
 
 Was something which to mortal sense might sound 
 
 Like harshness, — that the old gray-headed Sire, 
 
 The oldest, he was taken last, — survived 
 
 When the meek Partner of his age, his Son, 
 
 His Daughter, and that late and high-prized gift, 
 
 His little smiling Grandchild, were no more. 
 
 " ' All gone, all vanished ! he deprived and bare, 
 'How will he face the remnant of his life? 
 'What will become of him V we said, and mused 
 In sad conjectures — 'Shall we meet him now 
 i 'Haunting with rod and line the craggy brooks 1 
 I 'Or shall we overhear him, as we pass, 
 j 'Striving to entertain the lonely hours 
 i 'With music ■!' (for he had not ceased to touch 
 The harp or viol which himself had framed. 
 For their sweet purposes, with perfect skill.) 
 j 'What titles will he keepl will he remain 
 'Musician, Gardener, Builder, Mechanist, 
 'A Planter, and a rearer from the Seed? 
 i 'A Man of hope and forward-looking mind 
 ; 'Even to the last !' — Such was he, unsubdued. 
 j But Heaven was gracious ; yet a little while, 
 i And this Survivor, with his cheerful throng 
 i Of open schemes, and all his inward hoard 
 Of unsunned griefs, too many and too keen, 
 Was overcome by unexpected sleep, 
 In one blest moment. Like a shadow thrown 
 Softly and lightly from a passing cloud, 
 I Death fell upon him, while reclined he lay 
 For noontide solace on the summer grass. 
 The warm lap of his Mother Earth : and so. 
 Their lenient term of separation past. 
 That family (whose graves you there behold) 
 By yet a higher privilege once more 
 Were gathered to each other." 
 
 Calm of mind 
 And silence waited on these closing words ; 
 Until the Wanderer (whether moved by fear 
 Lest in those passages of life were some 
 That might have touched the sick heart of his Friend 
 Too nearly, or intent to reinforce 
 His own firm spirit in degree deprest 
 By tender sorrow for our mortal state) 
 Thus silence broke : — " Behold a thoughtless Man 
 From vice and premature decay preserved 
 By useful habits, to a fitter soil 
 
 Transplanted ere too late. — The Hermit, lodged 
 
 In the untrodden desert, tells his beads. 
 
 With each repeating its allotted prayer. 
 
 And thus divides and thus relieves the time ; 
 
 Smooth task, with his compared, whose mind could 
 
 string, 
 Not scantily, bright minutes on the thread 
 Of keen domestic anguish, — and beguile 
 A solitude, unchosen, unprofessed ; 
 Till gentlest death released him. — Far from us 
 Be the desire — too curiously to ask 
 How much of this is but the blind result 
 Of cordial spirits and vital temperament, 
 And what to higher powers is justly due. 
 But you. Sir, know that in a neighbouring Vale 
 A Priest abides before whose life such doubts* 
 Fall to the ground ; whose gifts of Nature lie 
 Retired from notice, lost in attributes 
 Of Reason — honourably eflaced by debts 
 Which her poor treasure-house is content to owe. 
 And conquests over her dominion gained, 
 To which her frowardness must needs submit. 
 In this one Man is shown a temperance — proof 
 Against all trials; industry severe 
 And constant as the motion of the day ; 
 Stern self-denial round him spread, with shade 
 That might be deemed forbidding, did not there 
 All generous feelings flourish and rejoice; 
 Forbearance, charity in deed and thought, 
 And resolution competent to take 
 Out of the bosom of simplicity 
 All that her holy customs recommend. 
 And the best ages of the world prescribe. 
 — Preaching, administering, in every work 
 Of his sublime vocation, in the walks 
 Of worldly intercourse 'twixt man and man, 
 And in his humble dwelling, he appears 
 A Labourer, with moral virtue girt, 
 With spiritual graces, like a glory, crowned." 
 
 " Doubt can be none," the Pastor said, " for whom 
 This Portraiture is sketched. — The Great, the Good, 
 The Well-beloved, the Fortunate, the Wise, 
 These Titles Emperors and Chiefs have borne. 
 Honour assumed or given : and Him, the Wonderful, 
 Our simple Shepherds, speaking from the heart. 
 Deservedly have styled. — From his Abode 
 In a dependent Chapelry, that lies 
 Behind yon hill, a poor and rugged wild. 
 Which in his soul he lovingly embraced, — 
 And, having once espoused, would never quit; 
 Hither, ere long, that lowly, great, good Man 
 Will be conveyed. An unelaborate Stone 
 May cover him; and by its help, perchance, 
 A century shall hear his name pronounced, 
 With images attendant on the sound ; 
 
 * See conclusion of Note 9, to Poems of Imagination, p. 318, 
 and Appendix III. 
 
460 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Then, shall the slowly gatherinsr twilight close 
 
 In utter night ; and of his course remain 
 
 No cognizable vestiges, no more 
 
 Than of this breath, which shapes itself in words 
 
 To speak of him, and instantly dissolves. 
 
 — Noise is there not enough in doleful vt-ar, 
 But that the heaven-born poet must stand forth, 
 And lend the echoes of his sacred shell. 
 
 To multiply and aggravate the din ? 
 Pangs are there not enough in hopeless love — 
 And, in requited passion, all too much 
 Of turbulence, anxiety, and fear — 
 But that the Minstrel of the rural shade 
 Must tune his pipe insidiously to nurse 
 The perturbation in the suffering breast, 
 And propagate its kind, far as he may 7 
 
 — Ah who (and with such rapture as befits 
 The hallowed theme) will rise and celebrate 
 The good Man's deeds and purposes; retrace 
 His struggles, his discomfiture deplore, 
 
 Ilis triumphs hail, and glorify his end ! 
 
 That Virtue, like the fumes and vapoury clouds 
 
 Through Fancy's heat redounding in the brain, 
 
 And like the soft infections of the heart, 
 
 By charm of measured words may spread o'er field, 
 
 Hamlet, and town; and Piety survive 
 
 Upon the lips of Men in hall or bower ; 
 
 Not for reproof, but high and warm delight, 
 
 And grave encouragement, by song inspired. 
 
 — Vain thought ! but wherefore murmur or repine ? 
 The memory of the just survives in Heaven : 
 And, without sorrow, will this ground receive 
 That venerable clay. Meanwhile the best 
 
 Of what it holds confines us to degrees 
 
 In excellence less difficult to reach, 
 
 And milder worth : nor need we travel far 
 
 From those to whom our last regards were paid. 
 
 For such e.xample. 
 
 " Almost at the root 
 Of that tall Pine, the shadow of whose bare 
 And slender stem, while here I sit at eve. 
 Oft stretches tow'rds me, like a long straight path 
 Traced faintly in the greensward ; there, beneath 
 A plain blue Stone, a gentle Dalesman lies. 
 From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn 
 The precious gift of hearing. He grew up 
 From year to year in loneliness of soul ; 
 And this deep mountain Valley was to him 
 Soundless, with all its streams. The bird of dawn 
 Did never rouse this Cottager from sleep 
 With startling summons; not for his delight 
 The vernal cuckoo shouted ; not for him 
 Murmured the labouring bee. When stormy winds 
 Were working the broad bosom of the lake 
 Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves. 
 Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud 
 Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags, 
 
 The agitated scene before his eye 
 
 Was silent as a picture: evermore 
 
 Were all things silent, wheresoe'er he moved. 
 
 Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts 
 
 Upheld, he duteously pursued the round 
 
 Of rural labours; the steep mountain-side 
 
 Ascended with his staff and faithful dog ; 
 
 The plough he guided, and the scythe he swayed; 
 
 And the ripe corn before his sickle fell 
 
 Among the jocund reapers. For himself 
 
 All watchful and industrious as he was. 
 
 He wrought not; neither field nor flock he owned: 
 
 No wish for wealth had place within his mind ; 
 
 Nor husband's love, nor father's hope or care. 
 
 Though born a younger Brother, need was none 
 
 That from the floor of his paternal home 
 
 He should depart, to plant himself anew. 
 
 And when, mature in manhood, he beheld 
 
 His Parents laid in earth, no loss ensued 
 
 Of rights to him ; but he remained well pleased. 
 
 By the pure bond of independent love 
 
 An inmate of a second family. 
 
 The fellow-labourer and friend of hira 
 
 To whom the small inheritance had fallen. 
 
 — Nor deem that his mild presence was a weight 
 That pressed upon his Brother's house, for books 
 Were ready comrades whom he could not tire, — 
 Of whose society the blameless Man 
 
 Was never satiate. Their familiar voice, 
 Even to old age, with unabated charm 
 Beguiled his leisure hours; refreshed his thoughts; 
 Beyond its natural elevation raised 
 His introverted spirit ; and bestowed 
 Upon his life an outward dignity 
 Which all acknowledged. The dark winter night, 
 The stormy day, had each its own resource ; 
 Song of the muses, sage historic tale. 
 Science severe, or word of Holy Writ 
 Announcing immortality and joy 
 To the assembled spirits of the just. 
 From imperfection and decay secure. 
 
 — Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field. 
 To no perverse suspicion he gave way. 
 
 No languor, peevishness, nor vain complaint: 
 And they, who were about him, did not fail 
 In reverence, or in courtesy ; they prized 
 His gentle manners: — and his peaceful smiles, 
 The gleams of his slow-varying countenance. 
 Were met with answering sympathy and love. 
 
 " At length, when sixty years and five were told, 
 
 A slow disease insensibly consumed 
 
 The powers of nature: and a few short steps 
 
 Of friends and kindred bore him from his home 
 
 (Yon Cottage shaded by the woody crags) 
 
 To the profounder stillness of the grave. 
 
 — Nor was his funeral denied the grace 
 
 Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtful grief; 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 461 
 
 Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by gratitude. 
 And now that monumental Stone preserves 
 His name, and unambitiously relates 
 How long, and by what kindly outward aids, 
 And in what pure contentedness of mind, 
 The sad privation was by him endured. 
 
 — And yon tall Pine-tree, whose composing sound 
 Was wasted on the good Man's living ear, 
 
 Hath now its own peculiar sanctity ; 
 
 And, at the touch of every wandering breeze. 
 
 Murmurs, not idly, o'er his peaceful grave. 
 
 " Soul-cheering Light, most bountiful of Things ! 
 
 Guide of our way, mysterious Comforter ! 
 
 Whose sacred influence, spread through earth and 
 
 heaven. 
 We all too thanklessly participate, 
 Thy gifts were utterly withheld from Him 
 Whose place of rest is near yon ivied Porch. 
 Yet, of the wild brooks ask if he complained ; 
 Ask of the channelled rivers if they held 
 A safer, easier, more determined course. 
 What terror doth it strike into the mind 
 To think of One, who cannot see, advancing 
 Toward some precipice's airy brink ! 
 But, timely warned, He would have stayed his steps ; 
 Protected, say enlightened, by his ear, 
 And on the very edge of vacancy 
 Not more endangered than a Man whose eye 
 Beholds the gulf beneath. — No floweret blooms 
 Throughout the lofty range of these rough hills, 
 Or in the woods, that could from him conceal 
 Its birth-place ; none whose figure did not live 
 Upon his touch. The bowels of the earth 
 Enriched with knowledge his industrious mind ; 
 The ocean paid him tribute from the stores 
 Lodged in her bosom ; and, by science led, 
 His genius mounted to the plains of Heaven. 
 
 — Methinks I see him — how his eye-balls rolled 
 Beneath his ample brow, in darkness paired, — 
 But each instinct with spirit ; and the frame 
 
 Of the whole countenance alive with thought. 
 Fancy, and understanding; while the voice 
 Discoursed of natural or moral truth 
 With eloquence, and such authentic power. 
 That, in his presence, humbler knowledge stood 
 Abashed, and tender pity overawed." 
 
 " A noble — and, to unreflecting minds, 
 A marvellous spectacle," the Wanderer said, 
 " Beings like these present ! But proof abounds 
 Upon the earth that faculties, which seem 
 Extinguished, do not, therefore, cease to be. 
 And to the mind among her powers of sense 
 This transfer is permitted, — not alone 
 That the bereft their recompense may win ; 
 But for remoter purposes of love 
 
 And charity; nor last nor least for this, 
 
 That to the imagination may be given 
 
 A type and shadow of an awful truth ; 
 
 How, likewise, under sufferance divine, 
 
 Darkness is banished from the realms of Death, 
 
 By man's imperishable spirit, quelled. 
 
 Unto the men who see not as we see 
 
 Futurity was thought, in ancient times. 
 
 To be laid open, and they prophesied. 
 
 And know we not that from the blind have flowed 
 
 The highest, holiest, raptures of the lyre ; 
 
 And wisdom married to immortal verse 1" 
 
 Among the humbler Worthies, at our feet 
 Lying insensible to human praise. 
 Love, or regret, — whose lineaments would next 
 Have been portrayed, I guess not ! but it chanced 
 That, near the quiet church-yard where we sate, 
 A Team of horses, with a ponderous freight 
 Pressing behind, adown a rugged slope. 
 Whose sharp descent confounded their array. 
 Came at that moment, ringing noisily. 
 
 " Here," said the Pastor, " do we muse, and mourn 
 The waste of death ; and lo ! the giant Oak 
 Stretched on his bier — that massy timber wain; 
 Nor fail to note the Man who guides the team." 
 
 He was a Peasant of the lowest class : 
 Gray locks profusely round his temples hung 
 In clustering curls, like ivy, which the bite 
 Of Winter cannot thin ; the fresh air lodged 
 Within his cheek, as light within a cloud; 
 And he returned our greeting with a smile. 
 When he had passed, the Solitary spake ; 
 — "A Man he seems of cheerful yesterdays 
 And confident to-morrows, — with a face 
 Not worldly-minded, for it bears too much 
 Of Nature's impress, gaiety and health. 
 Freedom and hope ; but keen, withal, and shrewd. 
 His gestures note, — and hark ! his tones of voice 
 Are all vivacious as his mien and looks." 
 
 The Pastor answered. " You have read him well. 
 Year after year is added to his store 
 With silent increase : summers, winters — past, 
 Past or to come ; yea, boldly might I say, 
 Ten summers and ten winters of a space 
 That lies beyond life's ordinary bounds, 
 Upon his sprightly vigour cannot fix 
 The obligation of an anxious mind, 
 A pride, in having, or a fear to lose ; 
 Possessed like outskirts of some large Domain, 
 By any one more thought of than by him 
 Who holds the land in fee, its careless Lord ! 
 — Yet is the creature rational — endowed 
 With foresight ; hears, too, every Sabbath day, 
 The Christian promise with attentive ear; 
 39* 
 
462 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Nor will, I trust, the Majesty of Heaven 
 
 Reject the incense offered up by him. 
 
 Though of the kind which beasts and birds present 
 
 In grove or pasture; cheerfulness of soul. 
 
 From trepidation and repining free. 
 
 How many scrupulous worshippers fall down 
 
 Upon their knees, and daily homage pay 
 
 Less worthy, less religious even, than his ! 
 
 "This qualified respect, the Old Man's due, 
 
 Is paid without reluctance; but in truth, 
 
 (Said the good Vicar with a fond half-smile) 
 
 " I feel at times a motion of despite 
 
 Tow'rds One, whose bold contrivances and skill, 
 
 As you have seen, bear such conspicuous part 
 
 In works of havoc ; taking from these vales, 
 
 One after one, their proudest ornaments. 
 
 Full oft his doings leave me to deplore 
 
 Tall ash-tree sown by winds, by vapours nursed, 
 
 In the dry crannies of the pendent rocks ; 
 
 Light birch aloft upon the horizon's edge, 
 
 A veil of glory for the ascending moon ; 
 
 And oak whose roots by noontide dew were damped. 
 
 And on whose forehead inaccessible 
 
 The raven lodged in safety. — Many a Ship 
 
 Launched into Morecamb Bay, to him hath owed 
 
 Her strong knee-timbers, and the mast that bears 
 
 The loftiest of her pendants ; He, from Park 
 
 Or Forest, fetched the enormous axle-tree 
 
 That whirls (how slow itself!) ten thousand spindles : — 
 
 And the vast engine labouring in the mine. 
 
 Content with meaner prowess, must have lacked 
 
 The trunk and body of its marvellous strength, 
 
 If his undaunted enterprise had failed 
 
 Among the mountain coves. 
 
 "Yon household Fir, 
 A guardian planted to fence off the blast 
 But towering high the roof above, as if 
 Its humble destination were forgot ; 
 That Sycamore, which annually holds 
 Within its shade, as in a stately tent* 
 On all sides open to the fanning breeze, 
 A grave assemblage, seated while they shear 
 The fleece-encumbered flock ; — the Joyful Elm, 
 Around whose trunk the Maidens dance in May ; — 
 And the Lord's Oak; — would plead their several 
 
 rights 
 In vain, if He were master of their fate; 
 His sentence to the axe would doom them all. 
 — But, green in age and lusty as he is. 
 And promising to keep his hold on earth 
 Less, as might seem, in rivalship with men 
 Than with the forest's more enduring growth. 
 
 * This Sycamore, oft nmsical with bees,- 
 Surh teiils the Patriarchs loved '. 
 
 S. T CoLEUiOGE; ■Inscription for a fountain on a Heath.' 
 
 His own appointed hour will come at last ; 
 
 And, like the haughty Spoilers of the world. 
 
 This keen Destroyer in his turn, must fall. 
 
 "Now from the living pass we once again: 
 
 From Age," the Priest continued, " turn your thoughts ; 
 
 From Age, that often unlamented drops, 
 
 And mark that daisied hillock, three spans long! 
 
 — Seven lusty Sons sate daily round the board 
 
 Of Gold-rill side ; and, when the hope had ceased 
 
 Of other progeny, a Daughter then 
 
 Was given, the crowning bounty of the whole; 
 
 And so acknowledged with a tremulous joy 
 
 Felt to the centre of that heavenly calm 
 
 With which by nature every Mother's Soul 
 
 Is stricken, in the moment when her throes 
 
 Are ended, and her ears have heard the cry 
 
 Which tells her that a living Child is born, — 
 
 And she lies conscious in a blissful rest. 
 
 That the dread storm is weathered by them both. 
 
 "The Father — Him at this unlooked-for gift 
 
 A bolder transport seizes. From the side ^ 
 
 Of his bright hearth, and from his open door, 
 
 Day after day the gladness is diffused 
 
 To all that come, and almost all that pass; 
 
 Invited, summoned, to partake the cheer 
 
 Spread on the never-empty board, and drink 
 
 Health and good wishes to his new-born Girl, 
 
 From cups replenished by his joyous hand. 
 
 — Those seven fair Brothers variously were moved 
 Each by the thoughts best suited to his years: 
 But most of all and with most thankful mind 
 
 The hoary Grandsire felt himself enriched ; 
 A happiness that ebbed not, but remained 
 To fill the total measure of the soul ! 
 
 — Froin the low tenement, his own abode. 
 Whither, as to a little private cell, 
 
 He had withdrawn from bustle, care, and noise, 
 To spend the Sabbath of old age in peace. 
 Once every day he duteously repaired 
 To rock the cradle of the slumbering Babe: 
 For in that female Infant's name he heard 
 The silent Name of his departed Wife ; 
 Heart-stirring music! hourly heard that name; 
 Full blest he was, ' Another Margaret Green,' 
 Oft did he say, ' was come to Gold-rill side.' 
 
 — Oh ! pang unthought of, as the precious boon 
 Itself had been unlooked for ; — oh ! dire stroke 
 Of desolating anguish for them all ! 
 
 — Just as the Child could totter on the floor. 
 And, by some ftiendly finger's help upstayed. 
 Range round the garden walk, while She perchance 
 Was catching at some novelty of Spring, 
 Ground-flower, or glossy insect from its cell 
 Drawn by the sunshine — at that hopeful season 
 The winds of March, smiting insidiously, 
 
 Raised in the tender passage of the throat 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 463 
 
 Viewless obstruction ; whence — all unforewarned, 
 The Household lost their pride and soul's delight. 
 
 But Time hath power to soften all regrets, 
 
 And prayer and thought can bring to worst distress 
 
 Due resignation. Therefore, though some tears 
 
 Fail not to spring from either Parent's eye 
 
 Oft as they hear of sorrow like their own, 
 
 Yet this departed Little-one, too long 
 
 The innocent troubler of their quiet, sleeps 
 
 In what may now be called a peaceful grave. 
 
 "On a bright day, the brightest of the year, 
 These mountains echoed with an unknown sound, 
 A volley, thrice repeated o'er the Corse 
 Let down into the hollow of that Grave, 
 Whose shelving sides are red with naked mould. 
 Ye Rains of April, duly wet this earth ! 
 Spare, burning Sun of Midsummer, these sods. 
 That they may knit together, and therewith 
 Our thoughts unite in kindred quietness ! 
 Nor so the Valley shall forget her loss. 
 Dear Youth, by young and old alike beloved. 
 To me as precious as my own ! — Green herbs 
 May creep (I wish that they would softly creep) 
 Over thy last abode, and we may pass 
 Reminded less imperiously of thee ; — 
 The ridge itself may sink into the breast 
 Of earth, the great abyss, and be no more ; 
 Yet shall not thy remembrance leave our hearts, 
 Thy image disappear ! 
 
 " The mountain Ash 
 No eye can overlook, when 'mid a grove 
 Of yet unfaded trees she lifts her head 
 Decked with autumnal berries, that outshine 
 Spring's richest blossoms ; and ye may have marked. 
 By a brook side or solitary tarn. 
 How she her station doth adorn ; — the pool 
 Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks 
 Are brightened round her. In his native Vale 
 Such and so glorious did this Youth appear; 
 A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts 
 By his ingenuous beauty, by the gleam 
 Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow. 
 By all the graces with which Nature's hand 
 Had lavishly arrayed him. As old Bards 
 Tell in their idle songs of wandering Gods, 
 Pan or Apollo, veiled in human form ; 
 Yet, like the sweet-breathed violet of the shade, 
 Discovered in their own despite to sense 
 Of Mortals (if such fables without blame 
 May find chance-mention on this sacred ground) 
 So, through a simple rustic garb's disguise. 
 And through the impediment of rural cares, 
 In him revealed a Scholar's genius shone ; 
 And so, not wholly hidden from men's sight. 
 In him the spirit of a Hero walked 
 Our unpretending valley. — How the coit 
 
 Whizzed from the Stripling's arm ! If touched by him, 
 The inglorious foot-ball mounted to the pitch 
 Of the lark's flight, — or shaped a rainbow curve, 
 Aloft, in prospect of the shouting field ! 
 The indefatigable fox had learned 
 To dread his perseverance in the chase. 
 With admiration would he lift his eyes 
 To the wide-ruling eagle, and his hand 
 Was loth to assault the majesty he loved : 
 Else had the strongest fastnesses proved weak 
 To guard the royal brood. The sailing glead. 
 The wheeling swallow, and the darting snipe. 
 The sportive sea-gull dancing with the waves. 
 And cautious water-fowl, from distant climes, 
 Fixed at their seat, the centre of the Mere, 
 Were subject to young Oswald's steady aim. 
 
 " From Gallia's coast a Tyrant hurled his threats ; 
 
 Our Country marked the preparation vast 
 
 Of hostile Forces ; and she called — with voice 
 
 That filled her plains, that reached her utmost shores. 
 
 And in remotest vales was heard — to Arms ! 
 
 — Then, for the first time, here you might have seen 
 
 The Shepherd's gray to martial scarlet changed. 
 
 That flashed uncouthly through the woods and fields. 
 
 Ten hardy Striplings, all in bright attire. 
 
 And graced with shining weapons, weekly marched, 
 
 From this lone valley, to a central spot. 
 
 Where, in assemblage with the Flower and Choice 
 
 Of the surrounding district, they might learn 
 
 The rudiments of war; ten — hardy, strong. 
 
 And valiant; but young Oswald, like a Chief 
 
 And yet a modest Comrade, led them forth 
 
 From their shy solitude, to face the world, 
 
 With a gay confidence and seemly pride ; 
 
 Measuring the soil beneath their happy feet 
 
 Like Youths released from labour, and yet bound 
 
 To most laborious service, though to them 
 
 A festival of unencumbered ease ; 
 
 The inner spirit keeping holiday. 
 
 Like vernal ground to sabbath sunshine left. 
 
 " Oft have I marked him, at some leisure hour. 
 
 Stretched on the grass or seated in the shade 
 
 Among his Fellows, while an ample Map 
 
 Before their eyes lay carefully outspread. 
 
 From which the gallant Teacher would discourse. 
 
 Now pointing this way and now that. — ' Here flows,' 
 
 Thus would he say, 'the Rhine, that famous Stream! 
 
 'Eastward, the Danube tow'rd this inland sea, 
 
 'A mightier river, winds from realm to realm; — 
 
 ' And, like a serpent, shows his glittering back 
 
 ' Bespotted with innumerable isles : 
 
 ' Here reigns the Russian, there the Turk ; observe 
 
 ' His capital city !' — Thence — along a tract 
 
 Of livelier interest to his hopes and fears — 
 
 His finger moved, distinguishing the spots 
 
464 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Where wide-spread conflict then most fiercely raged ; 
 
 Nor left unstigmatized those fatal Fields 
 
 On which the Sons of mighty Germany 
 
 Were taught a base submission. — ' Here behold 
 
 'A nobler race, the Switzers, and their Land ; 
 
 ' Vales deeper far than these of ours, huge woods, 
 
 'And mountains white with everlasting snow!' 
 
 — And, surely, he, that spake with kindling brow 
 
 Was a true Patriot, hopeful as the best 
 
 Of that young Peasantry, who, in our days, 
 
 Have fought and perished for Helvetia's rights, — 
 
 Ah, not in vain ! — or those who, in old time, 
 
 For work of happier issue, to the side 
 
 Of Tell came trooping from a thousand huts, 
 
 When he had risen alone ! No braver Youth 
 
 Descended from Judean heights, to march 
 
 With righteous Joshua; or appeared in arms 
 
 When grove was felled, and altar was cast down. 
 
 And Gideon blew the trumpet, soul-inflamed, 
 
 And strong in hatred of idolatry." 
 
 This spoken, from his seat the Pastor rose. 
 
 And moved towards the grave ; instinctively 
 
 His steps we followed ; and my voice e.xclaimed, 
 
 " Power to the Oppressors of the world is given, 
 
 A might of which they dream not. Oh ! the curse. 
 
 To be the Awakener of divinest thoughts. 
 
 Father and Founder of exalted deeds, 
 
 And to whole nations bound in servile straits 
 
 The liberal Donor of capacities 
 
 More than heroic ! this to be, nor yet 
 
 Have sense of one connatural wish, nor yet 
 
 Deserve the least return of human thanks; 
 
 Winning no recompense but deadly hate 
 
 With pity mixed, astonishment with scorn!" 
 
 When these involuntary words had ceased. 
 
 The Pastor said, " So Providence is served ; 
 
 The forked weapon of the skies can send 
 
 Illumination into deep, dark Holds, 
 
 Which the mild sunbeam hath not power to pierce. 
 
 Why do ye quake, intimidated Thrones! 
 
 For, not unconscious of the mighty debt 
 
 Which to outrageous Wrong the Sufferer owes, 
 
 Europe, tlirough all her habitable seats, 
 
 Is thirsting for their overthrow, who still 
 
 Exist, as pagan Temples stood of old. 
 
 By very horror of their impious rites 
 
 Preserved ; are suffered to extend their pride, 
 
 Like Cedars on the top of Lebanon 
 
 Darkening the sun. — But less impatient thoughts. 
 
 And love 'all hoping and expecting all,' 
 
 This hallowed Grave demands, where rests in peace 
 
 A humble Champion of the better Cause ; 
 
 A Peasant-youth, so call him, for he asked 
 
 No higher name; in whom our Country showed, 
 
 As in a favourite Son, most beautiful. 
 
 In spite of vice, and misery, and disease, 
 
 Spread with the spreading of her wealthy arts, 
 England, the ancient and the free, appeared, 
 In him to stand before my swimming eyes, 
 Unconquerably virtuous and secure. 
 
 — No more of this, lest I offend his dust : 
 Short was his life, and a brief tale remains. 
 
 " One summer's day — a day of annual pomp 
 And solemn chase — from morn to sultry noon 
 His steps had followed, fleetest of the fleet, 
 The red-deer driven along its native heights 
 With cry of hound and horn ; and, from that toil 
 Returned with sinews weakened and rela.xed. 
 This generous Youth, too negligent of self. 
 Plunged — 'mid a gay and busy throng convened 
 To wash the fleeces of his Father's flock — 
 Into the chilling flood. 
 
 "Convulsions dire 
 Seized him, that self-same night; and through the 
 
 space 
 Of twelve ensuing days his frame was wrenched. 
 Till nature rested from her work in death. 
 
 — To him, thus snatched away, his Comrades paid 
 A Soldier's honours. At his funeral hour 
 Bright was the sun, the sky a cloudless blue — 
 
 A golden lustre slept upon the hills ; 
 
 And if by chance a Stranger, wandering there, 
 
 From some commanding eminence had looked 
 
 Down on this spot, well pleased would he have seen 
 
 A glittering Spectacle ; but every face 
 
 Was pallid, — seldom hath that eye been moist 
 
 With tears, that wept not then ; nor were the few 
 
 Who from their Dwellings came not forth to join 
 
 In this sad service, less disturbed than we. 
 
 They started at tlie tributary peal 
 
 Of instantaneous thunder, which announced 
 
 Through the still air the closing of the Grave ; 
 
 And distant mountains echoed with a sound 
 
 Of lamentation, never heard before I" 
 
 The Pastor ceased. — My venerable Friend 
 Victoriously upraised his clear bright eye ; 
 And, when that eulogy was ended, stood 
 Enrapt, — as if his inward sense perceived 
 The prolongation of some still response. 
 Sent by the ancient Soul of this wide Land, 
 The Spirit of its mountains and its seas. 
 Its cities, temples, fields, its awful power, 
 Its rights and virtues — by that Deity 
 Descending, and supporting his pure heart 
 With patriotic confidence and joy. 
 And, at the last of those memorial words. 
 The pining Solitary turned aside, 
 Whether through manly instinct to conceal 
 Tender emotions spreading from the heart 
 To his worn cheek ; or with uneasy shame 
 For those cold humours of habitual spleen, 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 465 
 
 That fondly seeking in dispraise of Man 
 Solace and self-excuse, had sometimes urged 
 To self-abuse a not ineloquent tongue. 
 
 Right tovv'rd the sacred Edifice his steps 
 
 Had been directed ; and we saw him now 
 Intent upon a monumental Stone, 
 Whose uncouth Form was grafted on the wall, 
 Or rather seemed to have grown into the side 
 Of the rude Pile ; as oft-times trunks of trees, 
 Where Nature works in wild and craggy spots, 
 Are seen incorporate with the living rock — 
 To endure for aye. The Vicar, taking note 
 Of his employment, with a courteous smile 
 Exclaimed, " The sagest Antiquarian's eye 
 That task would foil ;" then, letting fall his voice 
 While he advanced, thus spake : " Tradition tells 
 That, in Eliza's golden days, a Knight 
 Came on a war-horse sumptuously attired, 
 And fixed his home in this sequestered Vale. 
 'Tis left untold if here he first drew breath, 
 Or as a Stranger reached this deep recess. 
 Unknowing and unknown. A pleasing thought 
 I sometimes entertain, that, haply bound 
 To Scotland's court in service of his Queen, 
 Or sent on mission to some northern Chief 
 Of England's Realm, this Vale he might have seen 
 With transient observation ; and thence caught 
 An Image fair, which, brightening in his soul 
 When joy of war and pride of Chivalry 
 Languished beneath accumulated years. 
 Had power to draw him from the world — resolved 
 To make that paradise his chosen home 
 To which his peaceful Fancy oft had turned. 
 — Vague thoughts are these; but, if belief may rest 
 Upon unwritten story fondly traced 
 From sire to son, in this obscure Retreat 
 The Knight arrived, with pomp of spear and shield, 
 And borne upon a Charger covered o'er 
 With gilded housings. And the lofty Steed — 
 His sole companion, and his faithful friend. 
 Whom he, in gratitude, let loose to range 
 In fertile pastures — was beheld with eyes 
 Of admiration and delightful awe. 
 By those untravelled Dalesmen. With less pride. 
 Yet free from touch of envious discontent, 
 They saw a Mansion at his bidding rise. 
 Like a bright star, amid the lowly band 
 Of their rude Homesteads. Here the Warrior dwelt; 
 And, in that Mansion, Children of his own, 
 Or Kindred, gathered round him. As a Tree 
 That falls and disappears, the House is gone; 
 And, through improvidence or want of love 
 For ancient worth and honourable things. 
 The spear and shield are vanished, which the Knight 
 Hung in his rustic Hall. One ivied arch 
 Myself have seen, a gateway, last remains 
 Of that Foundation in domestic care 
 31 
 
 Raised by his hands. And now no trace is left 
 Of the mild-hearted Champion, save this Stone, 
 Faithless memorial ! and his family name 
 Borne by yon clustering cottages, that sprang 
 From out the ruins of his stately lodge : 
 These, and the name and title at full length, — 
 ©ir 2tI|T.-cb Srt()'t"3/ w'ith appropriate v/ords 
 Accompanied, still extant, in a wreath 
 Or posy — girding round the several fronts 
 Of three clear-sounding and harmonious bells, 
 That in the steeple hang, his pious gift." 
 
 " So fails, so languishes, grows dim, and dies," 
 
 The gray-haired Wanderer pensively exclaimed, 
 
 " All that this World is proud of From their spheres 
 
 The stars of human glory are cast down ; 
 
 Perish the roses and the flowers of Kings,* 
 
 Princes, and Emperors, and the crowns and palms 
 
 Of all the Mighty, withered and consumed ! 
 
 Nor is power given to lowliest Innocence 
 
 Long to protect her own. The Man himself 
 
 Departs; and soon is spent the Line of those 
 
 Who, in the bodily image, in the mind, 
 
 In heart or soul, in station or pursuit. 
 
 Did most resemble him. Degrees and Ranks, 
 
 Fraternities and Orders — heaping high 
 
 New wealth upon the burthen of the old. 
 
 And placing trust in privilege confirmed 
 
 And re-confirmed — are scofied at with a smile 
 
 Of greedy foretaste, from the secret stand 
 
 Of Desolation, aimed : to slow decline 
 
 These yield, and these to sudden overthrow; 
 
 Their virtue, service, happiness, and state, 
 
 Expire ; and Nature's pleasant robe of green. 
 
 Humanity's appointed shroud, enwraps 
 
 Their monuments and their memory. The vast Frame 
 
 Of social Nature changes evermore 
 
 Her organs and her members with decay 
 
 Restless, and restless generation, powers 
 
 And functions dying and produced at need, — 
 
 And by this law the mighty Whole subsists : 
 
 With an ascent and progress in the main ; 
 
 Yet, oh ! how disproportioned to the hopes 
 
 And expectations of self-flattering minds ! 
 
 — The courteous Knight, whose bones are here interred, 
 
 Lived in an age conspicuous as our own 
 
 For strife and ferment in the minds of men; 
 
 Whence alteration, in the forms of things, 
 
 * The " Transit gloria mundi" is finely expressed in ihe Inrto- 
 dnction to the Foundation Charters of some of the ancient Ab- 
 beys. Some expressions here used are taken from that of the 
 Abbey of St. Mary's Furness, the tranelation of which is as fol- 
 lows ; — 
 
 " Considering every day the uncertainty of hfe, that the roses 
 and flowers of Kings, Emperors, and Dukes, and the crowns and 
 palms of all the great, w ither and decay ; and that all things, 
 with an uninterrupted course, tend to dissolution and death: 1 
 therefore," &c. 
 
466 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Various and vast. A memorable age ! 
 
 Which did to him assign a pensive lot — 
 
 To linger 'mid the last of those bright Clouds, 
 
 That, on the steady breeze of honour, sailed 
 
 In long procession calm and beautiful. 
 
 He who had seen his own bright Order fade. 
 
 And its devotion gradually decline, 
 
 (While War, relinquishing the lance and shield, 
 
 Her temper changed, and bowed to other laws) 
 
 Had also witnessed, in his morn of life. 
 
 That violent Commotion, which o'erthrew, 
 
 In town, and city, and sequestered glen. 
 
 Altar, and Cross, and Church of solemn roof. 
 
 And old religious House — Pile after Pile; 
 
 And shook the Tenants out into the fields. 
 
 Like wild Beasts without home ! Their hour was come; 
 
 But why no softening thought of gratitude. 
 
 No just remembrance, scruple, or wise doubt? 
 
 Benevolence is mild ; nor borrows help. 
 
 Save at worst need, from bold impetuous force, 
 
 Fitliest allied to anger and revenge. 
 
 But Human-kind rejoices in the might 
 
 Of Mutability, and airy Hopes, 
 
 Dancing around her, hinder and disturb 
 
 Those meditations of the soul that feed 
 The retrospective Virtues. Festive songs 
 Break from the maddened Nations at the sight 
 Of sudden overthrow ; and cold neglect 
 Is the sure consequence of slow decay. 
 
 — Even," said the Wanderer, "as that courteous 
 
 Knight, 
 Bound by his vow to labour for redress 
 Of all who suffer wrong, and to enact 
 By sword and lance the law of gentleness, 
 (If I may venture of myself to speak. 
 Trusting that not incongruously I blend 
 Low things with lofty) I too shall be doomed 
 To outlive the kindly use and fair esteem 
 Of the poor calling which my Youth embraced 
 With no unworthy prospect. But enough ; 
 
 — Thoughts crowd upon me — and 'twere seemlier 
 
 now 
 To stop, and yield our gracious Teacher thanks 
 For the pathetic Records which his voice 
 Hath here delivered ; words of heartfelt truth, 
 Tending to patience when Affliction strikes; 
 To hope and love; to confident repose 
 In God ; and reverence for the dust of Man," 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 BOOK THE EIGHTH. 
 
 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Pastor's apprehensions that he might have detained his Auditors too long — Invitation to his House — Solitary dis- 
 inclined to comply — rallies the Wanderer ; and somewhat playfully draws a comparison between his itinerant 
 profession and that of the Knight-errant — which leads to Wanderer's giving an account of changes in the Country 
 from the manufacturing spirit — Favourable effects — The other side of the picture, and chiefly as it has affected tho 
 humbler classes — Wanderer asserts the hollovvness of all national grandeur if unsupported by moral worth — gives 
 Instances— Physical science unable to support itself— Lamentations over an excess of manufacturing industry among 
 the humbler Classes of Society — Picture of a Child employed in a Cotton-mill — Ignorance and degradation of 
 Children among the agricultural Population reviewed — Conversation broken off by a renewed Invitation from the 
 Pastor — Path leading to his House — Its appearance described — His Daughter — His wife — His Son (a Boy) enteis 
 with his Companion — Their happy appearance — The Wanderer how affected by the sight of them. 
 
 The pensive Sceptic of the lonely Vale 
 To those acknowledgments subscribed his own, 
 With a sedate compliance, which the Priest 
 Failed not to notice, inly pleased, and said, 
 
 "If Ye, by whom invited I commenced 
 These narratives of calm and humble life. 
 Be satisfied, 'tis well, — the end is gained; 
 And, in return for sympathy bestowed 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 And patient listening, thanks accept from me. 
 
 — Life, Death, Eternity ! momentous themes 
 Are they — and might demand a Seraph's tongue, 
 Were they not equal to their own support; 
 
 And therefore no incompetence of mine 
 Could do them wrong. The universal forms 
 Of human nature, in a Spot like this, 
 Present themselves at once to all Men's view : 
 Ye wished for act and circumstance, that make 
 The Individual known and understood ; 
 And such as my best judgment could select 
 From what the place afforded have been given ; 
 Though apprehensions crossed me that my zeal 
 To his might well be likened, who unlocks 
 A Cabinet with gems or pictures stored, 
 And draws them forth — soliciting regard 
 i To this, and this, as worthier than the last, 
 ' Till the Spectator, who awhile was pleased 
 I More than the Exhibitor himself, becomes 
 i Weary and faint, and longs to be released. 
 
 — But let us hence ! my Dwelling is in sight, 
 And there — " 
 
 At this the Solitary shrunk 
 With backward will ; but, wanting not address 
 ' That inward motion to disguise, he said 
 To his Compatriot, smiling as he spake ; 
 — " The peaceable Remains of this good Knight 
 Would be disturbed, I fear, with wrathful scorn, 
 If consciousness could reach him where he lies 
 That One, albeit of these degenerate times. 
 Deploring changes past, or dreading change 
 Foreseen, had dared to couple, even in thought, 
 The fine Vocation of the sword and lance 
 With the gross aims and body-bending toil 
 Of a poor Brotherhood who walk the earth 
 Pitied, and where they are not known, despised. 
 — Yet, by the good Knight's leave, the two Estates 
 Are graced with some resemblance. Errant those, 
 Exiles and Wanderers — and the like are these; 
 Who, with their burthen, traverse hill and dale, 
 Carrying relief for Nature's simple wants. 
 — What though no higher recompense they seek 
 Than honest maintenance, by irksome toil 
 Full oft procured, yet Such may claim respect, 
 Among the Intelligent, for what this course 
 Enables them to be, and to perform. 
 Their tardy steps give leisure to observe. 
 While solitude permits the mind to feel ; 
 Instructs and prompts her to supply defects 
 By the division of her inward self. 
 For grateful converse : and to these poor Men 
 (As I have heard you boast with honest pride) 
 Nature is bountiful, where'er they go ; 
 Kind Nature's various wealth is all their own. 
 Versed in the characters of men ; and bound, 
 By ties of daily interest, to maintain 
 Conciliatory manners and smooth speech ; 
 
 Such have been, and still are in their degrei 
 Examples efficacious to refine 
 Rude intercourse; apt Agents to expel. 
 By importation of unlooked-for Arts, 
 Barbarian torpor, and blind prejudice ; 
 Raising, through just gradation, savage life 
 To rustic, and the rustic to urbane. 
 — Within their moving magazines is lodge ' 
 Power that comes forth to quicken and exalt 
 Affections seated in the Mother's breast. 
 And in the Lover's fancy ; and to feed 
 The sober sympathies of long-tried Friends. 
 — By these Itinerants, as experienced Men, 
 Counsel is given ; contention they appease 
 With gentle language ; in remotest Wilds, 
 Tears wipe away, and pleasant tidings bring; 
 Could the proud quest of Chivalry do more 1" 
 
 " Happy," rejoined the Wanderer, " they who gain 
 
 A panegyric from your generous tongue ! 
 
 But, if to these Wayfarers once pertained 
 
 Aught of romantic interest, 't is gone ; 
 
 Their purer service, in this realm at least, 
 
 Is past for ever. — An inventive Age 
 
 Has wrought, if not with speed of magic, yet 
 
 To most strange issues. I have lived to mark 
 
 A new and unforeseen Creation rise 
 
 From out the labours of a peaceful Land, 
 
 Wielding her potent Enginery to frame 
 
 And to produce, with appetite as keen 
 
 As that of War, which rests not night or day. 
 
 Industrious to destroy ! With fruitless pains 
 
 Might one like me now visit many a tract 
 
 Which, in his youth, he trod, and trod again, 
 
 A lone Pedestrian with a scanty freight. 
 
 Wished for, or welcome, wheresoe'er he came. 
 
 Among the Tenantry of Thorpe and Vill ; 
 
 Or straggling Burgh, of ancient charter proud, 
 
 And dignified by battlements and towers 
 
 Of some stern Castle, mouldering on the brow 
 
 Of a green hill or bank of rugged stream. 
 
 The foot-path faintly marked, the horse-track wild, 
 
 And formidable length of plashy lane, 
 
 (Prized avenues ere others had been shaped 
 
 Or easier links connecting place with place) 
 
 Have vanished, — swallowed up by stately roads 
 
 Easy and bold, that penetrate the gloom 
 
 Of Britain's farthest Glens. The Earth has lent 
 
 Her waters. Air her breezes ;* and the Sail 
 
 * In treating this subject, it was impossible not to recollect, 
 with gratitude, the pleasing picture, which, in his Poem of the 
 Fleece, the excellent and amiable Dyer has given of the influ- 
 ences of manufacturing industry upon the face of this Island. 
 He wrote at a time when machinery was first beginning to be 
 introduced, and lus benevolent heart prompted him to augur 
 from it nothing but good. Truth has compelled me to dwell 
 upon the banelul effects arising out of an ill-regulated and 
 excessive application of powers so admirable in themselves. 
 
408 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Of tr; Sc glides with ceaseless interchange, 
 
 Glistening along the low and wooily dale, 
 
 Or on the naked mountain's lofty side. 
 
 Meanwhile, at social Industry's command, 
 
 How quick, how vast an increase ! From the germ 
 
 Of some poor Hamlet, rapidly produced 
 
 Here a huge Town, continuous and compact. 
 
 Hiding the face of earth for leagues — and there. 
 
 Where not a Habitation stood before. 
 
 Abodes of men irregularly massed 
 
 Like trees in forests, spread through spacious tracts, 
 
 O'er which tlie smoke of unremitting fires 
 
 Hangs permanent and plentiful as wreaths 
 
 Of vapour glittering in the morning sun. 
 
 And, wheresoe'er the Traveller turns his steps. 
 
 He sees the barren wilderness erased, 
 
 Or disappearing; triumph that proclaims 
 
 How much the mild Directress of the plough 
 
 Owes to alliance with these new-born Arts! 
 
 — Hence is the wide Sea peopled, hence the Shores 
 
 Of Britain arc resorted to by Ships 
 
 Freighted from every climate of the world 
 
 With the world's choicest produce. Hence that sum 
 
 Of Keels that rest within her crowded ports 
 
 Or ride at anchor in her sounds and bays; 
 
 That animating spectacle of Sails 
 
 Which, through her inland regions, to and fro 
 
 Pass with the respirations of the tide. 
 
 Perpetual, multitudinous! Finally, 
 
 Hence a dread arm of floating Power, a voice 
 
 Of Thunder daunting those who would approach 
 
 With hostile purposes the blessed Isle, 
 
 Truth's consecrated residence, the seat 
 
 Impregnable of Liberty and Peace. 
 
 "And yet, O happy Pastor of a Flock 
 
 Faithfully watched, and, by that loving care 
 
 And Heaven's good providence, preserved from taint! 
 
 With You I grieve, when on the darker side 
 
 Of this great change I look ; and there behold 
 
 Such outrage done to Nature as compels 
 
 The indignant Power to justify herself; 
 
 Yea, to avenge her violated rights. 
 
 For England's bane. — When soothing darkness spreads 
 
 O'er hill and vale," the Wanderer thus expressed 
 
 His recollections, "and the punctual stars. 
 
 While all things else are gathering to their homes. 
 
 Advance, and in the firmament of heaven 
 
 Gliuer — but undisturbing, undisturbed; 
 
 As if their silent company were charged 
 
 With peaceful admonitions for the heart 
 
 Of all-beholding Man, earth's thoughtful Lord; 
 
 Then, in full many a region, once like this 
 
 The assured domain of calm simplicity 
 
 And pensive quiet, an unnatural light 
 
 Prepared for never-resting Labour's eyes, 
 
 Breaks from a many-windowed Fabric huge; 
 
 And at the appointed hour a bell is heard, 
 
 Of harsher import than the Curfew-knoll 
 That spake the Norman Conqueror's stern behest — 
 A local summons to unceasing toil ! 
 Disgorged are now the ministers of day ; 
 And, as they issue from the illumined Pile, 
 A fresh Band meets them, at the crowded door — 
 And in the courts — and where the rumbling Stream, 
 I That turns the multitude of dizzy wheels, 
 I Glares, like a troubled Spirit, in its bed 
 ' Among the rocks below. Men, Maidens, Youths, 
 Mother, and little Children, Boys and Girls, 
 Enter, and each the wonted task resumes 
 Within this Temple, where is offered up 
 To Gain — the master Idol of the Realm — 
 Perpetual sacrifice. Even thus of old 
 Our Ancestors, within the still domain 
 Of vast Cathedral or Conventual Church, 
 Their vigils kept ; where tapers day and night 
 On the dim altar burned continually. 
 In token that the House was evermore 
 Watching to God. Religious Men were they ; 
 Nor would their Reason, tutored to aspire 
 Above this transitory world, allow 
 That there should pass a moment of the year. 
 When in their land the Almighty Service ceased. 
 
 " Triumph who will in these profaner rites 
 
 Which We, a generation self-extolled. 
 
 As zealously perform ! I cannot share 
 
 His proud complacency ; yet I exult. 
 
 Casting reserve away, exult to see 
 
 An Intellectual mastery exercised 
 
 O'er the blind Elements ; a purpose given, 
 
 A perseverance fed ; almost a soul 
 
 Imparted — to brute Matter. I rejoice. 
 
 Measuring the force of those gigantic powers. 
 
 That by the thinking Mind have been compelled 
 
 To serve the will of feeble-bodied Man. 
 
 For with the sense of admiration blends 
 
 The animating hope that time may come 
 
 When, strengthened, yet not dazzled, by the might 
 
 Of this dominion over Nature gained. 
 
 Men of all lands shall e.xercise the same 
 
 In due proportion to their Country's need ; 
 
 Learning, though late, that all true glory rests. 
 
 All praise, all safety, and all happiness. 
 
 Upon the moral law. Egyptian Thebes, 
 
 Tyre by the margin of the sounding waves, 
 
 Palmyra, central in the Desert, fell ; 
 
 And the Arts died by which they had been raised. 
 
 Call Archimedes from his buried Tomb 
 
 Upon the plain of vanished Syracuse, 
 
 And feelingly the Sage shall make report 
 
 How insecure, how baseless in itself. 
 
 Is the Philosophy, whose sway depends 
 
 On mere material instruments; — how weak 
 
 Those Arts, and high Inventions, if unpropped 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 469 
 
 By Virtue. — He with sighs of pensive grief, 
 Amid his cairn abstractions, would admit 
 That not the slender privilege is theirs 
 To save themselves from blank forgetfulness !" 
 
 When from the Wanderer's lips these words had fallen, 
 
 I said, "And, did in truth these vaunted Arts 
 
 Possess such privilege, how could we escape 
 
 Eegret and painful sadness, who revere. 
 
 And would preserve as things above all price, 
 
 The old domestic morals of the land. 
 
 Her simple manners, and the stable worth 
 
 That dignified and cheered a low estate? 
 
 Oh I where is now the character of peace, 
 
 Sobriety, and order, and chaste love, 
 
 And honest dealing, and untainted speech. 
 
 And pure good-will, and hospitable cheer ; 
 
 That made the very thought of Country-life 
 
 A thought of refuge, for a Mind detained 
 
 Reluctantly amid the bustling crowd 1 
 
 Where now the beauty of the Sabbath, kept 
 
 With conscientious reverence, as a day 
 
 By the Almighty Lavirgiver pronounced 
 
 Holy and blest 1 and where the winning grace 
 
 Of all the lighter ornaments attached 
 
 To time and season, as the year rolled round V 
 
 "Fled!" was the Wanderer's passionate response, 
 "Fled utterly ! or only to be traced 
 In a few fortunate Retreats like this; 
 Which I behold with trembling, when I think 
 What lamentable change, a year — a month — 
 May bring; that Brook converting as it runs 
 Into an Instrument of deadly bane 
 For those, who, yet untempted to forsake 
 The simple occupations of their Sires, 
 Drink the pure water of its innocent stream 
 With lip almost as pure. — Domestic bliss, 
 (Or call it comfort, by a humbler name,) 
 How art thou blighted for the poor Man's heart! 
 Lo ! in such neighbourhood, from morn to eve. 
 The Habitations empty ! or perchance 
 The Mother left alone, — no helping hand 
 To rock the cradle of her peevish babe; 
 No daughters round her, busy at the wheel, 
 Or in dispatch of each day's little growth 
 Of household occupation ; no nice arts 
 Of needle-work ; no bustle at the fire, 
 Where once the dinner was prepared with pride ; 
 Nothing to speed the day, or cheer the mind ; 
 Nothing to praise, to teach, or to command ! 
 — The Father, if perchance he still retain 
 His old employments, goes to field or wood. 
 No longer led or followed by the Sons; 
 Idlers perchance they were, — but in his sight ; 
 Breathing fresh air, and treading the green earth; 
 Till their short holiday of childhood ceased, 
 
 Ne'er to return I That birthright now is lost. 
 
 Economists will tell you that the State 
 
 Thrives by the forfeiture — -unfeeling thought. 
 
 And false as monstrous ! Can the Mother thrive 
 
 By the destruction of her innocent Sons ] 
 
 In whom a premature Necessity 
 
 Blocks out the forms of Nature, preconsumes 
 
 The reason, famishes the heart, shuts up 
 
 The Infant Being in itself, and makes 
 
 Its very spring a season of decay ! 
 
 The lot is wretched, the condition sad, 
 
 Whether a pining discontent survive, 
 
 And thirst for change ; or habit hath subdued 
 
 The soul deprest, dejected — even to love 
 
 Of her dull tasks, and close captivity. 
 
 — Oh, banish far such wisdom as condemns 
 A native Briton to tliese inward chains. 
 Fixed in his soul, so early and so deep, 
 Without his own consent, or knowledge, fixed ! 
 He is a Slave to whom release comes not. 
 
 And cannot come. The Boy, where'er he turns, 
 
 Is still a prisoner; when the wind is up 
 
 Among the clouds and in the ancient woods; 
 
 Or when the sun is shining in the east. 
 
 Quiet and calm. Behold hira — in the school 
 
 Of his attainments] no; but with the air 
 
 Fanning his temples under heaven's blue arch. 
 
 His raiment, whitened o'er with cotton flakes. 
 
 Or locks of wool, announces whence he comes. 
 
 Creeping his gait and cowering — his lip pale — 
 
 His respiration quick and audible ; 
 
 And scarcely could you fancy that a gleam 
 
 From out those languid eyes could break, or blush 
 
 Blantle upon his cheek. Is this the form. 
 
 Is that the countenance, and such the port. 
 
 Of no mean being] One who should be clothed 
 
 With dignity befitting his proud hope; 
 
 Who, in his very childhood, should appear 
 
 Sublime — from present purity and joy ! 
 
 The limbs increase, but liberty of mind 
 
 Is gone for ever; this organic Frame, 
 
 So joyful in her motions, is become 
 
 Dull, to the joy of her own motions dead ; 
 
 And even the Touch, so exquisitely poured 
 
 Through the whole body, with a languid Will 
 
 Performs her functions; rarely competent 
 
 To impress a vivid feeling on the mind 
 
 Of what there is delightful in the breeze. 
 
 The gentle visitations of the sun. 
 
 Or lapse of liquid element — by hand. 
 
 Or foot, or lip, in summer's warmth — perceived. 
 
 — Can hope look forward to a manhood raised 
 On such foundations 1" 
 
 " Hope is none for him !" 
 The pale Recluse indignantly exclaimed, 
 " And tens of thousands suffer wrong as deep. 
 Yet be it asked, in justice to our age, 
 40 
 
470 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 If there were not, before those Arts appeared, 
 
 These structures rose, commingling old and young, 
 
 And unripe sex with sex, for mutual taint ; 
 
 Then, if there were not, in our far-famed Isle, 
 
 Multitudes, who from infancy had breathed 
 
 Air unimprisoned, and had lived at large ; 
 
 Yet walked beneath the sun, in human shape. 
 
 As abject, as degraded 1 At this day. 
 
 Who shall enumerate the crazy huts 
 
 And tottering hovels, whence do issue forth 
 
 A ragged Offspring, with their own blanched hair 
 
 Crowned like the image of fantastic Fear; 
 
 Or wearing, we might say, in that white growth 
 
 An ill-adjusted turban, for defence 
 
 Or fierceness, wreathed around their sun-burnt brows, 
 
 By savage Nature's unassisted care. 
 
 Naked, and coloured like the soil, the feet 
 
 On which they stand ; as if thereby they drew 
 
 Some nourishment, as Trees do by their roots, 
 
 From Earth the common Mother of us all. 
 
 Figure and mien, complexion and attire, 
 
 Are leagued to strike dismay, but outstretched hand 
 
 And whining voice denote them Supplicants 
 
 For the least boon that pity can bestow. 
 
 Such on the breast of darksome heaths are found ; 
 
 And with their Parents dwell upon the skirts 
 
 Of furze-clad commons ; such are born and reared 
 
 At the mine's mouth, beneath impending rocks. 
 
 Or in the chambers of some natural cave ; 
 
 And where their Ancestors erected huts, 
 
 For the convenience of unlawful gain. 
 
 In forest purlieus; and the like are bred. 
 
 All England through, where nooks and slips of ground, 
 
 Purloined, in times less jealous than our own, 
 
 From the green margin of the public way, 
 
 A residence afford them, 'mid the bloom 
 
 And gaiety of cultivated fields. 
 
 — Such (we will hope the lowest in the scale) 
 Do I remember ofl-times to have seen 
 
 'Mid Buxton's dreary heights. Upon the watch, 
 Till the swift vehicle approach, they stand ; 
 Then, following closely with the cloud of dust. 
 An uncouth feat exhibit, and are gone 
 Heels over head, like Tumblers on a Stage. 
 
 — Up from the ground they snatch the copper coin, 
 And, on the freight of merry Passengers 
 
 Fixing a steady eye, maintain their speed ; 
 And spin — and pant — and overhead again, 
 Wild Pursuivants! until their breath is lost. 
 Or bounty tires — and every face, that smiled 
 Encouragement, hath ceased to look that way. 
 
 — But, like the Vagrants of the Gipsy tribe. 
 These, bred to little pleasure in themselves. 
 Are profitless to others. Turn we then 
 
 To Britons born and bred within the pale 
 
 Of civil polity, and early trained 
 
 To earn, by wholesome labour in the field, 
 
 The bread they eat. A sample should I give 
 
 Of what this stock produces to enrich 
 
 The tender age of life, ye would exclaim, 
 
 ' Is this the whistling Plough-boy whose shrill notes 
 
 Impart new gladness to the morning air !' 
 
 Forgive me if I venture to suspect 
 
 That many, sv/eet to hear of in soft verse, 
 
 Are of no finer frame : — his joints are stiff; 
 
 Beneath a cumbrous frock, that to the knees 
 
 Invests the thriving Churl, his legs appear. 
 
 Fellows to those that lustily upheld 
 
 The wooden stools for everlasting use. 
 
 Whereon our Fathers sate. And mark his brow ! 
 
 Under whose shaggy canopy are set 
 
 Two eyes, not dim, but of a healthy stare ; 
 
 Wide, sluggish, blank, and ignorant, and strange ; 
 
 Proclaiming boldly that they never drew 
 
 A look or motion of intelligence 
 
 From infant conning of the Christ-cross-row, [ 
 
 Or puzzling through a Primer, line by line. 
 
 Till perfect mastery crown the pains at last. 
 
 — What kindly warmth from touch of fostering hand, 
 
 What penetrating power of sun or breeze. 
 
 Shall e'er dissolve the crust wherein his soul 
 
 Sleeps, like a caterpillar sheathed in ice ? 
 
 This torpor is no pitiable work 
 
 Of modern ingenuity ; no Town 
 
 Nor crowded City may be taxed with aught 
 
 Of sottish vice or desperate breach of law, 
 
 To which in after years he may be roused. 
 
 — This Boy the Fields produce : his spade and hoe — 
 
 The Carter's whip that on his shoulder rests 
 
 In air high-towering with a boorish pomp. 
 
 The sceptre of his sway ; his Country's name. 
 
 Her equal right her churches and her schools — 
 
 What have they done for him ? And, let me ask. 
 
 For tens of thousands uninformed as he 7 
 
 In brief, what liberty of mind is here 1" 
 
 This ardent sally pleased the mild good Man, 
 
 To whom the appeal couched in its closing words 
 
 Was pointedly addressed ; and to the thoughts 
 
 That, in assent or opposition, rose 
 
 Within his mind, he seemed prepared to give 
 
 Prompt utterance; but, rising from our seat. 
 
 The hospitable Vicar interposed 
 
 With invitation urgently renewed. 
 
 — We followed, taking as he led, a Path 
 
 Along a hedge of hollies, dark and tall. 
 
 Whose flexile boughs, descending with a weight 
 
 Of leafy spray, concealed the stems and roots 
 
 That gave them nourishment. When frosty winds 
 
 Howl from the north, what kindly warmth, methought. 
 
 Is here, how grateful this impervious screen ! 
 
 Not shaped by simple wearing of the foot 
 
 On rural business passing to and fro 
 
 Was the commodious Walk ; a careful hand 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 471 
 
 Had marked the line, and strewn the surface o'er 
 With pure cerulean gravel, from the heights 
 Fetched by the neighbouring brook. — Across the Vale 
 The stately Fence accompanied our steps ; 
 And thus the Pathway, by perennial green 
 Guarded and graced, seemed fashioned to unite, 
 As by a beautiful yet solemn chain, 
 The Pastor's Mansion with the House of Prayer. 
 
 Like Image of solemnity, conjoined 
 
 I With feminine allurement soft and fair, 
 The Mansion's self displayed ; — a reverend Pile 
 With bold projections and recesses deep ; 
 
 : Shadowy, yet gay and lightsome as it stood 
 Fronting the noontide Sun. We paused to admire 
 The pillared Porch, elaborately embossed ; 
 The low wide windows with their mullions old; 
 The cornice richly fretted, of gray stone ; 
 And that smooth slope from which tlie Dwelling rose, 
 By beds and banks Arcadian of gay flowers 
 And flowering shrubs, protected and adorned ; 
 
 [ Profusion bright ! and every flower assuming 
 A more than natural vividness of hue, 
 
 ; From unaffected contrast with the gloom 
 Of sober cypress, and the darker foil 
 Of yew, in which survived some traces, here 
 Not unbecoming, of grotesque device 
 And uncouth fancy. From behind the roof 
 Rose the slim ash and massy sycamore, 
 
 i Blending their diverse foliage with the green 
 Of ivy, flourishing and thick, that clasped 
 The huge round chimneys, harbour of delight 
 For wren and redbreast, — where they sit and sing 
 Their slender ditties when the trees are bare. 
 Nor must I leave untouched (the picture else 
 Were incomplete) a relique of old times 
 Happily spared, a little Gothic niche 
 Of nicest workmanship ; that once had held 
 The sculptured Image of some Patron Saint, 
 Or of the Blessed Virgin, looking down 
 On all who entered those religious doors. 
 But lo ! where from the rocky garden Mount 
 Crowned by its antique summer-house — descends, 
 Light as the silver fawn, a radiant Girl ; 
 For she hath recognized her honoured Friend, 
 The Wanderer ever welcome ! A prompt kiss 
 The gladsome Child bestows at his request ; 
 And, up the flowery lawn as we advance. 
 Hangs on the Old Man with a happy look. 
 And with a pretty restless hand of love. 
 — We enter — by the Lady of the Place 
 Cordially greeted. Graceful was her port : 
 A lofty stature undepressed by Time, 
 Whose visitation had not wholly spared 
 The finer lineaments of form and face ; 
 To that complexion brought which prudence trusts in 
 And wisdom loves. — But when a stately Ship 
 
 Sails in smooth weather by the placid coast 
 On homeward voyage, what — if wind and wave 
 And hardship undergone in various climes. 
 Have caused her to abate the virgin pride. 
 And that full trim of inexperienced hope 
 With which she left her haven — not for this, 
 Should the sun strike her, and the impartial breeze 
 Play on her streamers, fails she to assume 
 Brightness and touching beauty of her own, 
 That charm all eyes. So bright, so fair, appeared 
 This goodly Matron, shining in the beams 
 Of unexpected pleasure. Soon the board 
 Was spread, and we partook a plain repast. 
 
 Here, resting in cool shelter, we beguiled 
 The mid-day hours with desultory talk ; 
 From trivial themes to general argument 
 Passing, as accident or fancy led. 
 Or courtesy prescribed. While question rose 
 And answer flowed, the fetters of reserve 
 Dropping from every mind, the Solitary 
 Resumed the manners of his happier days ; 
 And, in the various conversation, bore 
 A willing, nay, at times, a forward part; 
 Yet with the grace of one who in the world 
 Had learned the art of pleasing, and had now 
 Occasion given him to display his skill. 
 Upon the steadfast 'vantage ground of truth. 
 He gazed with admiration unsuppressed 
 Upon the landscape of the sun-bright vale, 
 Seen, from the shady room in which we sate, 
 In softened perspective ; and more than once 
 Praised the consummate harmony serene 
 Of gravity and elegance — diffused 
 Around the Mansion and its whole domain ; 
 Not, doubtless, without help of female taste 
 And female care. — "A blessed lot is yours !" 
 The words escaped his lip with a tender sigh 
 Breathed over them ; but suddenly the door 
 Flew open, and a pair of lusty Boys 
 Appeared — confusion checking their delight. 
 — Not Brothers they in feature or attire. 
 But fond Companions, so I guessed, in field. 
 And by the river's margin — whence they come, 
 Anglers elated with unusual spoil. 
 One bears a willow-pannier on his back, 
 The Boy of plainer garb, whose blush survives 
 More deeply tinged. Twin might the other be 
 To that fair Girl who from the garden Mount 
 Bounded — triumphant entry this for him ! 
 Between his hands he holds a smooth blue stone. 
 On whose capacious surface see outspread 
 Large store of gleaming crimson-spotted trouts ; 
 Ranged side by side, and lessening by degrees 
 Up to the Dwarf that tops the pinnacle. 
 Upon the Board he lays the sky-blue stone 
 With its rich freight; — their number he proclaims; 
 Tells from what pool the noblest had been dragged ; 
 
472 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And where the very monarch of the brook, 
 After long struggle, had escaped at last — 
 Stealing alternately at them and us 
 (As doth his Comrade too) a look of pride; 
 And, verily, the silent Creatures made 
 A splendid sight, together thus exposed ; 
 Dead — but not sullied or deformed by Death, 
 That seemed to pity what he could not spare. 
 
 But O, the animation in the mien 
 
 Of those two Boys ! Yea in the very words 
 
 With which the young Narrator was inspired, 
 
 When, as our questions led, he told at large 
 
 Of that day's prowess ! Him miglit I compare. 
 
 His look, tones, gestures, eager eloquence, 
 
 To a bold Brook that splits for better speed. 
 
 And, at the self-same moment, works its way 
 
 Through many channels, ever and anon 
 
 Parted and reunited : his Compeer 
 
 To the still Lake, whose stillness is to sight 
 
 As beautiful, as grateful to the mind. 
 
 — But to what object shall the lovely Girl 
 
 Be likened 1 She whose countenance and air 
 
 Unite the graceful qualities of both, 
 
 Even as she shares the pride and joy of both. 
 
 My gray-haired Friend was moved ; his vivid eye 
 Glistened with tenderness; his Mind, I knew. 
 Was full ; and had, I doubted not, returned. 
 Upon this impulse, to the theme erewhile 
 Abruptly broken off. The ruddy Boys 
 Withdrew, on summons to their well-earned meal; 
 And He — (to whom all tongues resigned their rights 
 With willingness, to whom the general ear 
 Listened with readier patience than to strain 
 Of music, lute or harp, — a long delight 
 That ceased not when his voice had ceased) as One 
 Who from truth's central point serenely views 
 The compass of his argument — began 
 Mildly, and with a clear and steady tone. 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 BOOK THE NINTH. 
 
 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, AND AN EVENING 
 VISIT TO THE LAKE. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Wanderer asserts that an active principle pervades the Universe. — Its noblest seat the human soul — How lively 
 this principle is in Childhood — Hence tlie delight in Old Age of looking back upon Childhood — The dignity, 
 powers, and privileges of Age asserted — These not to be looked for generally but under a just government — Right 
 of a human Creature to be exempt from being considered as a mere Instrument — Vicious inclinations are best kept 
 under by giving good ones an opportunity to show themselves — The condition of multitudes deplored, from want 
 of due respect to this truth on the part of their superiors in society. — Former conversation recurred to, and the 
 Wanderer's opinions set in a clearer light — Genuine principles of equality — Truth placed within reach of the 
 humblest — Happy state of the two Boys again adverted to — Earnest wish expressed for a System of National Edu- 
 cation established universally by Government — Glorious effects of this foretold — Wanderer breaks off — Walk to 
 the Lake — embark — Description of scenery and amusements — Grand spectacle from the side of a hill — Address 
 of Priest to the Supreme Being — In the course of which he contrasts with ancient Barbarism the present appear- 
 ance of the scene before him — The change ascribed to Christianity — Apostrophe to his Flock, hving and dead — 
 Gratitude to the Almighty — Return over the Lake — Parting with the SoUtary — Under what circuinstances. 
 
 "To every Form of being is assigned," 
 Thus calmly spake the venerable Sage, 
 "An active principle: — howe'er removed 
 From sense and observation, it subsists 
 
 In all things, in all natures, in the stars 
 Of azure heaven, the unenduring clouds. 
 In flower and tree, in every pebbly stone 
 That paves the brooks, the stationary rocks, 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 473 
 
 The moving waters, and the invisible air. 
 Whate'er exists hath properties that spread 
 Beyond itself, communicating' good, 
 A simple blessing, or with evil mixed; 
 Spirit that knows no insulated spot. 
 No chasm, no solitude ; from link to link 
 It circulates, the Soul of all the Worlds. :^ 
 This is the freedom of the Universe; 
 Unfolded still the more, more visible, 
 The more we know ; and yet is reverenced least, 
 And least respected, in the human Mind, 
 Its most apparent home. The food of hope 
 is meditated action ; robbed of this 
 Her sole support, she languishes and dies. 
 We perish also ; for we live by hope 
 And by desire ; we see by the glad light. 
 And breathe the sweet air of futurity, 
 And so we live, or else we have no life. 
 To-morrow — nay perchance this very hour, — 
 (For every moment hath its own to-morrow !) 
 Those blooming Boys, whose hearts are almost sick 
 With present triumph, will be sure to find 
 A field before them freshened with the dew 
 Of other expectations ; — in which course 
 Their happy year spins round. The youth obeys 
 A like glad impulse ; and so moves the Man 
 'Mid all his apprehensions, cares, and fears, — 
 Or so he ought to move. Ah ! why in age 
 Do vfe revert so fondly to the walks 
 Of Childhood — but that there the Soul discerns 
 The dear memorial footsteps unimpaired 
 Of her own native vigour — thence can hear 
 Reverberations ; and a choral song. 
 Commingling with the incense that ascends 
 Undaunted, tow'rd the imperishable heavens. 
 From her own lonely altar 1 — Do not think 
 That Good and Wise ever will be allowed. 
 Though strength decay, to breathe in such estate 
 As shall divide them wholly from the stir 
 Of hopeful nature. Rightly is it said 
 That Man descends into the Vale of years ; 
 Yet have I thought that we might also speak, 
 And not presumptuously, I trust, of Age, 
 As of a final Eminence, though bare 
 In aspect and forbidding, yet a Point 
 On which 'tis not impossible to sit 
 In awful sovereignty — a place of power — 
 A Throne, that may be likened unto his. 
 Who, in some placid day of summer, looks 
 Down from a mountain-top, — say one of those 
 High Peaks, that bound the vale where now we are. 
 Faint, and diminished to the gazing eye, 
 Forest and field, and hill and dale appear. 
 With all the shapes upon their surface spread: 
 But, while the gross and visible frame of things 
 Relinquishes its hold upon the sense. 
 Yea almost on the Mind herself, and seems 
 3K 
 
 All unsubstantialized, — how loud the voice 
 
 Of waters, with invigorated peal 
 
 From the full River in the vale below. 
 
 Ascending! — For on that superior height 
 
 Who sits, is disencumbered from the press 
 
 Of near obstructions, and is privileged 
 
 To breathe in solitude above the host 
 
 Of ever-humming insects, 'mid thin air 
 
 That suits not them. The murmur of the leaves 
 
 Blany and idle, visits not his ear ; 
 
 This he is freed from, and from thousand notes 
 
 Not less unceasing, not less vain than these, — 
 
 By which the finer passages of sense 
 
 Are occupied ; and the Soul, that would incline 
 
 To listen, is prevented or deterred. 
 
 " And may it not be hoped, that, placed by Age 
 
 In like removal tranquil though severe. 
 
 We are not so removed for utter loss ; 
 
 But for some favour, suited to our needl 
 
 What more than that the severing should confer 
 
 Fresh power to commune with the invisible world, 
 
 And hear the mighty stream of tendency 
 
 Uttering, for elevation of our thought, 
 
 A clear sonorous voice, inaudible 
 
 To the vast multitude ; whose doom it is 
 
 To run the giddy round of vain delight, 
 
 Or fret and labour on the Plain below. 
 
 " But, if to such sublime ascent the hopes 
 Of Man may rise, as to a welcome close 
 And termination of his mortal course. 
 Them only can such hope inspire whose minds 
 Have not been starved by absolute neglect ; 
 Nor bodies crushed by unremitting toil; 
 To whom kind Nature, therefore, may affiird 
 Proof of the sacred love she bears for all ; 
 Whose birthright Reason, therefore, may ensure. 
 For me, consulting what I feel within 
 In times when most existence with herself 
 Is satisfied, I cannot but believe. 
 That, far as kindly Nature hath free scope 
 And Reason's sway predominates, even so far, 
 Country, society, and time itself. 
 That saps the Individual's bodily frame. 
 And lays the generations low in dust, 
 Do, by the Almighty Ruler's grace, partake 
 Of one maternal spirit, bringing forth 
 And cherishing with ever-constant love. 
 That tires not, nor betrays. Our Life is turned 
 Out of her course, wherever Man is made 
 An offering, or a sacrifice, a tool 
 Or implement, a passive Thing employed 
 As a brute mean, without acknowledgment 
 Of common right or interest in the end ; 
 Used or abused, as selfishness may prompt. 
 Say, what can follow for a rational Soul 
 Perverted thus, but weakness in all good, 
 40* 
 
474 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And strengtli in evil ! Hence an after-call 
 
 For chastisement, and custody, and bonds, 
 
 And oft-times Death, avenger of the past, 
 
 And the sole guardian in whose hands we dare 
 
 Entrust the ftiture. — Not for these sad issues 
 
 Was Man created ; but to obey the law 
 
 Of life, and hope, and action. And 't is known 
 
 That wlien we stand upon our native soil, 
 
 Unelbowed by such objects as oppress 
 
 Our active powers, those powers themselves become 
 
 Strong to subvert our noxious qualities : 
 
 They sweep distemper from the busy day. 
 
 And make the Chalice of the big round Year 
 
 Run o'er with gladness ; whence the Being moves 
 
 In beauty through the world ; and all who see 
 
 Bless him, rejoicing in his neighbourhood." 
 
 " Then," said the Solitary, "by what force 
 
 Of language shall a feeling Heart express 
 
 Her sorrow for that multitude in whom 
 
 We look for health from seeds that have been sown 
 
 In sickness, and for increase in a power 
 
 That works but by extinction? On themselves 
 
 They cannot lean, nor turn to their own hearts 
 
 To know what they must do; their wisdom is 
 
 To look into the eyes of others, thence 
 
 To be instructed what they must avoid : 
 
 Or rather, let us say, how leart observed, 
 
 How with most quiet and most silent death, 
 
 With the least taint and injury to the air 
 
 The Oppressor breathes, their human Form divine, 
 
 And their immortal Soul, may waste away." 
 
 The Sage rejoined, "I thank you — you have spared 
 
 My voice the utterance of a keen regret, 
 
 A wide compassion which with you I share. 
 
 When, heretofore, I placed before your sight 
 
 A Little-one, subjected to the Arts 
 
 Of modern ingenuity, and made 
 
 The senseless member of a vast machine, 
 
 Serving as doth a spindle or a wheel; 
 
 Think not, that, pitying him, I could forget 
 
 The rustic Boy, who walks the fields, untaught; 
 
 The slave of ignorance, and oft of want, 
 
 And miserable hunger. Jluch, too much 
 
 Of this unhappy lot, in early youth 
 
 We both have witnessed, lot which I myself 
 
 Shared, though in mild and merciful degree: 
 
 Yet was the mind to hinderances exposed, 
 
 Through which I struggled, not without distress 
 
 And sometimes injury, like a Lamb enthralled 
 
 'Mid thorns and brambles; or a Bird tiiat breaks 
 
 Through a strong net, and mounts upon the wind. 
 
 Though with her plumes impaired. If they, whose souls 
 
 Should open while they range the richer fields 
 
 Of merry England, are obstructed less 
 
 By indigence, their ignorance is not less, 
 
 Nor less to be deplored. For who can doubt 
 
 That tens of thousands at this day exist 
 
 Such as the Boy you painted, lineal Heirs 
 
 Of those who once were Vassals of her soil. 
 
 Following its fortunes like the beasts or trees 
 
 Which it sustained. But no one takes delight 
 
 In this oppression ; none are proud of it ; 
 
 It bears no sounding name, nor ever bore; 
 
 A standing grievance, an indigenous vice 
 
 Of every country under heaven. My thoughts 
 
 Were turned to evils that are new and chosen, 
 
 A Bondage lurking under shape of good, — 
 
 Arts, in themselves beneficent and kind, 
 
 But all too fondly followed and too far; 
 
 To Victims, which the merciful can see 
 
 Nor think that they are Victims ; turned to wrongs 
 
 By Women, who have Children of their own, 
 
 Beheld without compassion, yea with praise! 
 
 I spake of mischief by the wise diffused 
 
 With gladness, thinking that the more it spreads 
 
 The healthier, the securer, we become ; 
 
 Delusion which a moment may destroy ! 
 
 Lastly, I mourned for those whom I had seen 
 
 Corrupted and cast down, on favoured ground, 
 
 Where circumstance and nature had combined 
 
 To shelter innocence, and cherish love; 
 
 Who, but for this intrusion, would have lived. 
 
 Possessed of health, and strength, and peace of mind; 
 
 Thus would have lived, or never have been born. 
 
 "Alas! what differs more than man from man ! 
 
 And whence that difference? whence but from himselfl 
 
 For see the universal Race endowed 
 
 With the same upright form ! — The sun is fi.ved, 
 
 And the infinite magnificence of heaven, 
 
 Fixed within reach of every human eye; 
 
 The sleepless Ocean murmurs for all ears; 
 
 The vernal field infuses fresh delight 
 
 Into all hearts. Throughout tlie world of sense, 
 
 Even as an object is sublime or fair, 
 
 That object is laid open to the view 
 
 Without reserve or veil ; and as a power 
 
 Is salutary, or an influence sweet. 
 
 Are each and all enabled to perceive 
 
 That power, that influence, by impartial law. 
 
 Gifts nobler are vouchsafed alike to all ; 
 
 Reason, — and, with that reason, smiles and tears; 
 
 Imagination, freedom in the will, 
 
 Conscience to guide and check ; and death to be 
 
 Foretasted, immortality presumed. 
 
 Strange, then, nor less than monstrous might be deemed 
 
 The failure, if the Almighty, to this point 
 
 Liberal and undistinguishing, should hide 
 
 The excellence of moral qualities 
 
 From common understanding ; leaving truth 
 
 And virtue, difficult, abstruse, and dark; 
 
 Hard to be won, and only by a few ; 
 
 Strange, should He deal herein with nice respects, 
 
 And frustrate all the rest ! Believe it not : 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 475 
 
 The primal duties shine aloft — like stars; 
 
 The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, 
 
 Are scatttered at the feet of Man — like flowers. 
 
 The generous inclination, the just rule, 
 
 Kind wishes, and good actions, and pure thoughts — 
 
 No mystery is here ; no special boon 
 
 For high and not for low, for proudly graced 
 
 And not for meek of heart. The smoke ascends 
 
 To heaven as lightly from the Cottage hearth 
 
 As from the haughty palace. He, whose soul 
 
 Ponders this true equality, may walk 
 
 The fields of earth with gratitude and hope ; 
 
 Yet, in that meditation, will he find 
 
 Motive to sadder grief, as we have found, — 
 
 Lamenting ancient virtues overthrown, 
 
 And for the injustice grieving, that hath made 
 
 So wide a difference betwixt Man and Man. 
 
 "But let us rather turn our gladdened thoughts 
 Upon the brighter scene. How blest that Pair 
 Of blooming Boys (whom we beheld even now) 
 Blest in their several and their common lot ! 
 A few short hours of each returning day 
 The thriving Prisoners of their Village school : 
 And thence let loose, to seek their pleasant homes 
 i Or range the grassy lawn in vacancy, 
 I To breathe and to be happy, run and shout 
 Idle, — but no delay, no harm, no loss; 
 For every genial Power of heaven and earth. 
 Through all the seasons of the changeful year, 
 ' Obsequiously doth take upon herself 
 To labour for them ; bringing each in turn 
 The tribute of enjoyment, knowledge, health, 
 i Beauty, or strength ! Such privilege is theirs, 
 I Granted alike in the outset of their course 
 To both ; and, if that partnership must cease, 
 I grieve not," to the Pastor here lie turned, 
 j " Much as I glory in that Child of yours, 
 I Repine not, for his Cottage-comrade, whom 
 Belike no higher destiny awaits 
 Than the old hereditary wish fulfilled. 
 The wish for liberty to live — content 
 With what Heaven grants, and die — in peace of mind. 
 Within the bosom of his native Vale. 
 At least, whatever fate the noon of life 
 } Reserves for either, this is sure, that both 
 I Have been permitted to enjoy the dawn ; 
 Whether regarded as a jocund time. 
 That in itself may terminate, or lead 
 ; In course of nature to a sober eve. 
 
 Both have been fairly dealt with ; looking back 
 I They will allow that justice has in them 
 Been shown — alike to body and to mind." 
 
 He paused, as if revolving in his soul 
 
 Some weighty matter, then, with fervent voice 
 
 And an impassioned majesty, exclaimed, 
 
 " O for the coming of that glorious time 
 
 When, prizing knowledge as her noblest wealth 
 
 And best protection, this Imperial Realm, 
 
 While she exacts allegiance, shall admit 
 
 An obligation, on her part, to teach 
 
 Them who are born to serve her and obey ; 
 
 Binding herself by Statute* to secure 
 
 For all the Children whom her soil maintains 
 
 The rudiments of Letters, and inform 
 
 The mind with moral and religious truth. 
 
 Both understood, and practised, — so that none. 
 
 However destitute, be left to droop 
 
 By timely culture unsustained ; or run 
 
 Into a wild disorder ; or be forced 
 
 To drudge through weary life without the aid 
 
 Of intellectual implements and tools ; 
 
 A savage Horde among the civilized, 
 
 A servile Band among the lordly free ! 
 
 This sacred right, the lisping Babe proclaims 
 
 To be inherent in him, by Heaven's will. 
 
 For the protection of his innocence ; 
 
 And the rude Boy, — who, having overpast 
 
 The sinless age, by conscience is enrolled. 
 
 Yet mutinously knits his angry brow, 
 
 And lifts his wilful hand on mischief bent, 
 
 Or turns the godlike faculty of speech 
 
 To impious use — by process indirect 
 
 Declares his due, while he makes known his need. 
 
 — This sacred right is fruitlessly announced. 
 
 This universal plea in vain addressed. 
 
 To eyes and ears of Parents who themselves 
 
 Did, in the time of their necessity. 
 
 Urge it in vain ; and, therefore, like a prayer 
 
 That from the humblest floor ascends to heaven, 
 
 It mounts to reach the State's parental ear ; 
 
 Who, if indeed she own a Mother's heart. 
 
 And be not most unfeelingly devoid 
 
 Of gratitude to Providence, will grant 
 
 The unquestionable good ; which England, safe 
 
 From interference of external force. 
 
 May grant at leisure; without risk incurred 
 
 That what in wisdom for herself she doth, 
 
 Others shall e'er be able to undo. 
 
 " Look ! and behold, from Calpe's sunburnt cliffs 
 To the flat margin of the Baltic sea. 
 Long-reverenced Titles cast away as weeds ; 
 Laws overturned ; — and Territory split. 
 Like fields of ice rent by the polar wind, 
 And forced to join in less obnoxious shapes, 
 Which, ere they gain consistence, by a gust 
 Of the same breath are shattered and destroyed. 
 Meantime the Sovereignty of these fair Isles 
 
 * The discovery of Dr. Bell aflbrds marvellous facilities for 
 carrying this into effect ; and it is impossible to over-rale the 
 benefit which might accrue to humanity from the universal ap- 
 plication of this simple engine under an enlightened and con- 
 scientious government. 
 
476 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Remains entire and indivisible ; 
 
 And, if tiiat ignorance were removed, wliicli breeds 
 
 Within the compass of their several shores 
 
 Dark discontent, or loud commotion, each 
 
 Might still preserve the beautiful repose 
 
 Of heavenly Bodies shining in their spheres. 
 
 — The discipline of slavery is unknown 
 Amongst us, — hence the more do we require 
 The discipline of virtue ; order else 
 Cannot subsist, nor confidence, nor peace. 
 Thus, duties rising out of good possessed, 
 And prudent caution needful to avert 
 Impending evil, equally require 
 
 That the whole people should be taught and trained. 
 So shall licentiousness and black resolve 
 Be rooted out, and virtuous habits take 
 Their place ; and genuine piety descend 
 Like an inheritance, from age to age. 
 
 " With such foundations laid, avaunt the fear 
 Of numbers crowded on their native soil, 
 To the prevention of all liealthful growth 
 Through mutual injury ! Rather in the law 
 Of increase and the mandate from above 
 Rejoice ! — and Ye have special cause for joy. 
 
 — For, as the element of air affords 
 An easy passage to the industrious bees 
 Fraught with their burthens ; and a way as smooth 
 For (hose ordained to take their sounding flight 
 From the thronged hive, and settle where they list 
 In fresh abodes, their labour to renew ; 
 
 So the wide waters, open to the power, 
 
 The will, the instincts, and appointed needs 
 
 Of Britain, do invite her to cast off 
 
 Her swarms, and in succession send them forth ; 
 
 Bound to establish new communities 
 
 On every shore whose aspect favours hope 
 
 Or bold adventure; promising to skill 
 
 And perseverance their deserved reward. 
 
 — Yes," he continued, kindling as he spake, 
 
 " Change wide, and deep, and silently performed. 
 
 This Land shall witness ; and as days roll on. 
 
 Earth's universal Frame shall feel the effect 
 
 Even till the smallest habitable Rock, 
 
 Beaten by lonely billows, hear the songs 
 
 Of humanized Society ; and bloom 
 
 With civil arts, that send their fragrance forth, 
 
 A grateful tribute to all-ruling Heaven. 
 
 From Culture, unexclusively bestowed 
 
 On Albion's noble Race in freedom born, 
 
 E.xpect these mighty issues; from the pains 
 
 And faithful care of unambitious Schools 
 
 Instructing simple Childhood's ready ear: 
 
 Thence look for these niarrnificent results ! 
 
 Vast the circumference of hope — and Ye 
 
 Are at its centre, British Lawgivers; 
 
 Ah ! sleep not there in shame ! Shall Wisdom's voice 
 
 From out the bosom of these troubled Times 
 Repeat the dictates of her calmer mind, 
 And shall the venerable Halls ye fill 
 Refuse to echo the sublime decree 1 
 Trust not to partial care a general good; 
 Transfer not to futurity a work 
 Of urgent need. — Your Country must complete 
 Her glorious destiny. — Begin even now. 
 Now, when Oppression, like the Egyptian plague 
 Of darkness, stretched o'er guilty Europe, makes 
 The brightness more conspicuous, that invests 
 The happy Island where ye think and act; 
 Now, when Destruction is a prime pursuit. 
 Show to the wretched Nations for what end 
 The Powers of civil Polity were given !" 
 
 Abruptly here, but with a graceful air. 
 
 The Sage broke off. No sooner had he ceased 
 
 Than, looking forth, the gentle Lady said, 
 
 " Behold the shades of afternoon have fallen 
 
 Upon this flowery slope; and see — beyond — 
 
 The Lake, though bright, is of a placid blue; 
 
 As if preparing for the peace of evening. 
 
 How temptingly the Landscape shines ! — The air 
 
 Breathes invitation ; easy is the walk 
 
 To the Lake's margin, where a boat lies moored 
 
 Beneath her sheltering tree." — Upon this hint 
 
 We rose together: all were pleased — but most 
 
 The beauteous Girl, whose cheek was flushed with joy 
 
 Light as a sunbeam glides along the hills 
 
 She vanished — eager to impart the scheme 
 
 To her loved Brother and his shy Compeer. 
 
 — Now was there bustle in the Vicar's house 
 
 And earnest preparation. — Forth we went, 
 
 And down the vale along the Streamlet's edge 
 
 Pursued our way, a broken Company, 
 
 Mute or conversing, single or in pairs. 
 
 Thus having reached a bridge, that overarched 
 
 The hasty rivulet where it lay becalmed 
 
 In a deep pool, by happy chance we saw 
 
 A two-fold Image ; on a grassy bank 
 
 A snow-white Ram, and in the crystal flood 
 
 Another and the same ! Most beautiful, 
 
 On the green turf, with his imperial front 
 
 Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns superb. 
 
 The breathing Creature stood ; as beautiful. 
 
 Beneath him, showed his shadowy counterpart. 
 
 Each had his glowing mountains, each his sky. 
 
 And each seemed centre of his own fair world: 
 
 Antipodes unconscious of each other. 
 
 Yet, in partition, with their several spheres. 
 
 Blended in perfect stillness, to our sight ! 
 
 " Ah ! what a pity were it to disperse, 
 Or to disturb, so fair a spectacle. 
 And yet a breath can do it!" 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 477 
 
 These few words 
 The Lady whispered, while we stood and gazed 
 Gathered together, all, in still delight, 
 Not without awe. Thence passing on, she said 
 In like low voice to my particular ear, 
 " I love to hear that eloquent Old Man 
 Pour forth his meditations, and descant 
 On human life from infancy to age. 
 How pure his spirit! in what vivid hues 
 His mind gives back the various forms of things, 
 Caught in their fairest, happiest attitude ! 
 While he is speaking, I have power to see 
 Even as he sees ; but when his voice hath ceased. 
 Then, with a sigh, sometimes I feel, as now, 
 That combinations so serene and bright. 
 Like those reflected in yon quiet Pool, 
 Cannot be lasting in a world like ours, 
 To great and small disturbances exposed." 
 More had she said — but sportive shouts were heard ; 
 Sent from the jocund hearts of those two Boys, 
 Who, bearing each a basket on his arm, 
 Down the green field came tripping after us. 
 — When we had cautiously embarked, the Pair 
 Now for a prouder service were addrest ; 
 But an inexorable law forbade. 
 And each resigned the oar which he had seized. 
 Whereat, with willing hand I undertook 
 The needful labour ; grateful task ! — to me 
 Pregnant with recollections of the time 
 When, on thy bosom, spacious Windermere! 
 A Youth, I practised this delightful art; 
 Tossed on the waves alone, or 'mid a crew 
 Of joyous comrades. — Now, the reedy marge 
 Cleared, with a strenuous arm I dipped the oar, 
 Free from obstruction ; and the Boat advanced 
 Through crystal water, smoothly as a Hawk, 
 That, disentangled from the shady boughs 
 Of some thick wood, her place of covert, cleaves 
 With correspondent wings the abyss of air. 
 — " Observe," the Vicar said, " yon rocky Isle 
 With birch-trees fringed ; my hand shall guide the 
 
 helm, 
 While thitherward we bend our course ; or while 
 We seek that other, on the western shore, — 
 Where the bare columns of those lofty firs. 
 Supporting gracefully a massy Dome 
 Of sombre foliage, seem to imitate 
 A Grecian Temple rising from the Deep." 
 
 " Turn where we may," said I, " we cannot err 
 In this delicious Region." — Cultured slopes. 
 Wild tracts of forest-ground, and scattered groves, 
 And mountains bare — or clothed with ancient woods. 
 Surrounded us ; and, as we held our way 
 Along the level of the glassy flood, 
 They ceased not to surround us ; change of place. 
 From kindred features diversely combined, 
 Producing change of beauty ever new. 
 
 — Ah ! that such beauty, varying in the light 
 Of living nature, cannot be portrayed 
 
 By words, nor by the pencil's silent skill ; 
 
 But is the property of him alone 
 
 Who hath beheld it, noted it with care, 
 
 And in his mind recorded it with love ! 
 
 Suffice it, therefore, if the rural Muse 
 
 Vouchsafe sweet influence, while her Poet speaks 
 
 Of trivial occupations well devised. 
 
 And unsought pleasures springing up by chance; 
 
 As if some friendly Genius had ordained 
 
 That, as the day thus far had been enriched 
 
 By acquisition of sincere delight, 
 
 The same should be continued to its close. 
 
 One spirit animating old and young, 
 
 A gipsy fire we kindled on the shore 
 
 Of the fair Isle with birch-trees fringed — and there, 
 
 Merrily seated in a ring, partook 
 
 The beverage drawn from China's fragrant herb. 
 
 — Lanched from our hands, the smooth stone skimmed 
 
 the lake ; 
 With shouts we roused the echoes ; — stiller sounds 
 The lovely Girl supplied — a simple song, 
 Whose low tones reached not to the distant rocks 
 To be repeated thence, but gently sank 
 Into our hearts ; and charmed the peaceful flood. 
 Rapaciously we gathered flowery spoils 
 From land and water ; Lilies of each hue — 
 Golden and white, that float upon the waves. 
 And court the wind ; and leaves of that shy Plant, 
 (Her flowers were shed) the Lily of the Vale, 
 That loves the ground, and from the sun withholds 
 Her pensive beauty, from the breeze her sweets. 
 
 Such product, and such pastime did tlie place 
 And season yield ; but, as we re-embarked. 
 Leaving, in quest of other scenes, the shore 
 Of that wild Spot, the Solitary said 
 In a low voice, yet careless who might hear, 
 " The fire, that burned so brightly to our wish, 
 Where is it now 1 Deserted on the beach 
 It seems extinct ; nor shall the fanning breeze 
 Revive its ashes. What care we for this, 
 Whose ends are gained ? Behold an emblem here 
 Of one day's pleasure, and all mortal joys ! 
 And, in this unpremeditated slight 
 Of that which is no longer needed, see 
 The common course of human gratitude !" 
 
 This plaintive note disturbed not the repose 
 Of the still evening. Right across the Lake 
 Our pinnace moves: then, coasting creek and bay, 
 Glades we behold — and into thickets peep — 
 Where couch the spotted deer ; or raised our eyes 
 To shaggy steeps on which the careless goat 
 Browsed by the side of dashing waterfalls. 
 Thus did the Bark, meandering with the shore, 
 
478 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Pursue her voyage, till a natural pier 
 
 Of jutting- rock invited us to land. 
 
 — Alert to follow as the Pastor led, 
 
 We clomb a green hill's side ; and as we clomb, 
 
 The Valley, opening out her bosom, gave 
 
 Fair prospect, intercepted less and less, 
 
 Of the flat meadows and indented coast 
 
 Of the smooth lake — in compass seen : — far off. 
 
 And yet conspicuous, stood the old Church-tower, 
 
 In majesty presiding over fields 
 
 And habitations, seemingly preserved 
 
 From the intrusion of a restless world 
 
 By rocks impassable and mountains huge. 
 
 Soft heath this elevated spot supplied. 
 
 And choice of moss-clad stones, whereon we couched 
 
 Or sate reclined — admiring quietly 
 
 The general aspect of the scene ; but each 
 
 Not seldom over-anxious to make known 
 
 His own discoveries ; or to favourite points 
 
 Directing notice, merely from a wish 
 
 To impart a joy, imperfect while unshared. 
 
 That rapturous moment ne'er shall I forget 
 
 When these particular interests were effaced 
 
 From every mind ! — Already had the sun. 
 
 Sinking witli less than ordinary state. 
 
 Attained his western bound ; but rays of light — 
 
 Now suddenly divergmg from the orb 
 
 Retired behind the mountain tops or veiled 
 
 By the dense air — shot upwards to the crown 
 
 Of the blue firmament — aloft — and wide: 
 
 And multitudes of little floating clouds. 
 
 Ere we, who saw, of change were conscious, pierced 
 
 Through their ethereal texture, had become 
 
 Vivid as fire — clouds separately poised, 
 
 Innumerable multitude of Forms 
 
 Scattered through half the circle of the sky ; 
 
 And giving back, and shedding each on each, 
 
 With prodigal communion, the bright hues 
 
 Which from the unapparent Fount of glory 
 
 They had imbibed, and ceased not to receive. 
 
 That which the heavens displayed, the liquid deep 
 
 Repeated ; but with unity sublime ! 
 
 While from the grassy mountain's open side 
 We gazed, in silence hushed, with eyes intent 
 On the refulgent spectacle — difl'used 
 Through earth, sky, water, and all visible space. 
 The Priest in holy transport thus exclaimed — 
 
 " Eternal Spirit ! universal God ! 
 
 Power inaccessible to human thought. 
 
 Save by degrees and steps which Thou hast deigned 
 
 To furnish ; for this effluence of Thyself, 
 
 To the infirmity of mortal sense 
 
 Vouchsafed ; this local transitory type 
 
 Of thy paternal splendours, and the pomp 
 
 Of those who fill thy courts in highest heaven. 
 
 The radiant Cherubim ; — accept the thanks 
 
 Which we, thy humble Creatures, here convened, 
 
 Presume to offer ; we, who from the breast 
 
 Of the frail earth, permitted to behold 
 
 The faint reflections only of thy face, 
 
 Are yet exalted, and in soul adore ! 
 
 Such as they are who in thy presence stand 
 
 Unsullied, incorruptible, and drink 
 
 Imperisliable majesty streamed forth 
 
 From thy empyreal Throne, the elect of Earth 
 
 Shall be — divested at the appointed hour 
 
 Of all dishonour — cleansed from mortal stain. 
 
 — Accomplish, then, their number ; and conclude 
 Time's weary course ! Or if, by thy decree, 
 The consummation that will come by stealth 
 
 Be yet far distant, let thy Word prevail. 
 Oh ! let thy Word prevail, to take away 
 The sting of human nature. Spread the Law, 
 As it is written in thy holy Book, 
 Throughout all lands : let every nation hear 
 The high behest, and every heart obey ; 
 Both for the love of purity, and hope 
 Which it affords, to such as do thy will 
 And persevere in good, that they shall rise. 
 To have a nearer view of Thee, in heaven. 
 
 — Father of Good ! this prayer in bounty grant, 
 In mercy grant it to thy wretched Sons. 
 Then, nor till then, shall persecution cease. 
 And cruel Wars expire. The way is marked. 
 The guide appointed, and the ransom paid. 
 Alas! the Nations, who of yore received 
 These tidings, and in Christian Temples meet 
 The sacred truth to acknowledge, linger still ; 
 Preferring bonds and darkness to a state 
 
 Of holy freedom, by redeeming love 
 Proflfered to all, while yet on earth detained. 
 
 " So fare the many ; and the thoughtful few, ' 
 
 Who in the anguish of their souls bewail 
 
 This dire perverseness, cannot choose but ask, 
 
 Shall it endure] — Shall enmity and strife, 
 
 Falsehood and guile, be left to sow their seed; 
 
 And the kind never perish 1 Is the hope 
 
 Fallacious, or shall righteousness obtain 
 
 A peaceable dominion, wide as earth. 
 
 And ne'er to fail] Shall that blest day arrive 
 
 When they, whose choice or lot it is to dwell 
 
 In crowded cities, without fear shall live 
 
 Studious of mutual benefit; and he, 
 
 Whom morning wakes, among sweet dews and flowers 
 
 Of every clime, to till the lonely field. 
 
 Be happy in himself! — The law of faith 
 
 Working through love, such conquest shall it gain, 
 
 Such triumph over sin and guilt achieve 1 
 
 Almighty Lord, thy further grace impart! 
 
 And with that help the wonder shall be seen 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 479 
 
 Fulfilled, the hope accomplished ; and thy praise 
 j Be sung with transport and unceasing joy. 
 
 " Once," and with mild demeanour, as he spake, 
 { On us the Venerable Pastor turned 
 ' His beaming eye that had been raised to Heaven, 
 
 " Once, while the Name, Jehovah, was a sound 
 I Within the circuit of this sea-girt isle 
 I Unheard, the savage nations bowed the head 
 To Gods delighting in remorseless deeds ; 
 Gods which themselves had fashioned, to promote 
 111 purposes, and flatter foul desires. 
 Then, in the bosom of yon mountain cove, 
 To those inventions of corrupted Man 
 Mysterious rites were solemnized ; and there, 
 Amid impending rocks and gloomy woods. 
 Of those terrific Idols, some received 
 Such dismal service, that the loudest voice 
 Of the swoln cataracts (which now are heard 
 Soft murmuring) was too weak to overcome, 
 Though aided by wild winds, the groans and shrieks 
 Of human Victims, offered up to appease 
 Or to propitiate. And, if living eyes 
 Had visionary faculties to see 
 The thing that hath been as the thing that is, 
 Aghast we might behold this crystal Mere 
 Bedimmed with smoke, in wreaths voluminous. 
 Flung from the body of devouring fires. 
 To Taranis erected on the heights 
 By priestly hands, for sacrifice performed 
 Exultingly, in view of open day 
 And full assemblage of a barbarous Host ; 
 Or to Andates, Female Power ! who gave 
 (For so they fancied) glorious Victory. 
 
 — A few rude Monuments of mountain-stone 
 Survive; all else is swept away. — How bright 
 
 The appearances of things ! From such, how changed 
 The existing worship; and with those compared, 
 The Worshippers how innocent and blest ! 
 So wide the diflierence, a willing mind, 
 At this affecting hour, might almost think 
 That Paradise, the lost abode of man, 
 Was raised again : and to a happy Few, 
 In its original beauty, here restored. 
 
 — Whence but from Thee, the true and only God, 
 And from the faith derived through Him who bled 
 Upon the Cross, this marvellous advance 
 
 Of good from evil ; as if one extreme 
 Were left — the other gained — O Ye, who come 
 To kneel devoutly in yon reverend Pile, 
 Called to such office by the peaceful sound 
 Of Sabbath bells ; and Ye, who sleep in earth. 
 All cares forgotten, round its hallowed walls ! 
 For You, in presence of this little Band 
 Gathered together on the green hill-side, 
 Your Pastor is emboldened to prefer 
 Vocal thanksgivings to the Eternal King ; 
 
 Whose love, whose counsel, whose commands have 
 
 made 
 Your very poorest rich in peace of thought 
 And in good works ; and Him, who is endowed 
 With scantiest knowledge. Master of all truth 
 Which the salvation of his soul requires. 
 Conscious of that abundant favour showered 
 On you, the Children of my humble care. 
 And this dear Land, our Country, while on Earth 
 We sojourn, have I lifted up my soul, 
 Joy giving voice to fervent gratitude. 
 These barren rocks, your stern inheritance ; 
 These fertile fields, that recompense your pains; 
 The shadowy vale, the sunny mountain-top; 
 Woods waving in the wind their lofty heads. 
 Or hushed ; the roaring waters, and the still ; 
 They see the offering of my lifted hands — 
 They hear my lips present their sacrifice — 
 They know if I be silent, morn or even: 
 For, though in whispers speaking, the full heart 
 Will find a vent ; and Thought is praise to Him, 
 Audible praise, to Thee, Omniscient Mind, 
 From Whom all gifts descend, all blessings flow !" 
 
 This Vesper service closed, without delay, 
 
 From that exalted station to the plain 
 
 Descending, we pursued our homeward course. 
 
 In mute composure, o'er the shadowy lake, 
 
 Beneath a faded sky. No trace remained 
 
 Of those celestial splendours ; gray the vault, 
 
 Pure, cloudless ether ; and the Star of Eve 
 
 Was wanting ; — but inferior Lights appeared 
 
 Faintly, too faint almost for sight ; and some 
 
 Above the darkened hills stood boldly forth 
 
 In twinkling lustre, ere the Boat attained 
 
 Her mooring-place ; — where, to the sheltering tree 
 
 Our youthful Voyagers bound fast her prow. 
 
 With prompt yet careful hands. This done, we paced 
 
 The dewy fields ; but ere the Vicar's door 
 
 Was reached, the Solitary checked his steps ; 
 
 Then, intermingling thanks, on each bestowed 
 
 A farewell salutation, — and, the like 
 
 Receiving, took the slender path that leads 
 
 To the one Cottage in the lonely dell ; 
 
 But turned not without welcome promise given. 
 
 That he would share the pleasures and pursuits 
 
 Of yet another summer's day, consumed 
 
 In wandering with us through the Valleys fair. 
 
 And o'er the Mountain-wastes. " Another sun," 
 
 Said he, " shall shine upon us, ere we part, — 
 
 Another sun, and peradventure more ; 
 
 If time, with free consent, is yours to give, — 
 
 And season favours." 
 
 To enfeebled Power, 
 From this communion with uninjured Minds, 
 What renovation had been brought ; and what 
 Degree of healing to a wounded spirit. 
 
480 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Dejected, and habitually disposed 
 To seek, in degradation of the Kind, 
 Excuse and solace for her own defects ; 
 How far those erring notions were reformed ; 
 And whether aught, of tendency as good 
 
 And pure, from further intercourse ensued ; 
 
 This — (if delightful hopes, as heretofore. 
 Inspire the serious song, and gentle Hearts 
 Cherish, and lofty Minds approve the past) 
 My future Labours may not leave untold. 
 
 END OF THE EXCURSION. 
 
 NOTES 
 
 THE EXCURSION, 
 
 Note 1, p. 398. 
 
 " much did he see of Men." 
 
 At the risk of giving a shock to the prejudices of 
 artificial society, I have ever been ready to pay horn- i 
 age to the Aristocracy of Nature ; under a conviction 
 that vigorous human-heartedness is the constituent 
 principle of true taste. It may still, however, be sat- 
 isfactory to have prose-testimony how far a Character, 
 employed for purposes of imagination, is founded upon 
 general fact. I, therefore, subjoin an extract from an 
 author who had opportunities of being well acquainted 
 with a class of men, from whom my own personal 
 knowledge emboldened me to draw this Portrait. 
 
 " We learn from Ctesar and other Roman Writers, 
 that the travelling merchants who frequented Gaul and 
 other barbarous countries, either newly conquered by 
 the Roman arms, or bordering on the Roman conquests, 
 were ever the first to make the inhabitants of those 
 countries familiarly acquainted with the Roman modes 
 of life, and to inspire them wilh an inclination to fol- 
 low the Roman fashions, and to enjoy Roman conve- 
 niences. In North America, travelling merchants from 
 the Settlements have done and continue to do much 
 more towards civilizing the Indian natives, than all 
 the Missionaries, Papist or Protestant, who have ever 
 been sent among them. 
 
 It is farther to be observed, for the credit of this most 
 useful class of men, that they commonly contribute, by 
 their personal manners, no less than by the sale of 
 their wares, to the refinement of the people among 
 whom they travel. Their dealings form them to great 
 quickness of wit and acuteness of judgment. Having 
 constant occasion to recommend themselves and their 
 goods, they acquire habits of the most obliging atten- 
 tion, and the most insinuating address. As in their 
 peregrinations they have opportunity of contemplating 
 the manners of various Men and various Cities, they 
 become eminently skilled in the knowledge of the 
 world. As they loander, each alone, through thinly- 
 
 inhabited districts, they form habits of reflection, and 
 of sublime contemplation. With all these qualifica^ 
 tions, no wonder, that they should often be, in remote 
 parts of the country, the best mirrors of fashion, and 
 censors of manners; and should contribute much to 
 polish the roughness, and soften the rusticity of our 
 peasantry. It is not more than twenty or thirty years, 
 since a young man going from any part of Scotland to 
 England, of purpose to carry the pack, was considered 
 as going to lead the life, and acquire the Fortune, of 
 a Gentleman. When, after twenty years' absence, in 
 that honourable line of employment, he returned with 
 his acquisitions to his native country, he was regarded 
 as a Gentleman to all intents and purposes." 
 
 Heron's Journey in Scotlaiid, Vol. i. p. 89. 
 
 Note 2, p. 414. 
 " Lost in unsearchable Eternity .'" 
 
 Since this paragraph was composed, I have read 
 with so' much pleasure, in Burnet's Theory of the 
 Earth, a passage expressing correspondent sentiments, 
 excited by objects of a similar nature, that I cannot 
 forbear to transcribe it. 
 
 " Siquod vero Natura nobis dedit spectaculum, in 
 h&c tellure, vere gratum, et philosopho dignum, id sa- 
 mel mihi contigisse arbitror ; cum ex cclsissim& rupe 
 specukbundus ad oram maris Mediterranei, hinc fequor 
 cseruleum, illinc tractus Alpinos prospexi ; nihil quidem 
 magis dispar aut dissimile, nee in suo genere, magia 
 egregium et singulare. Hoc theatrum ego facile priB- 
 tulerim Rnmanis cunctis, Grsecisve; atque id quod 
 natura hie spcctandum exhibet, seenicis ludis omnibus 
 aut amphitheatri certaminibus. Nihil hie elegans aut 
 venustum, sed ingens et magnificum, et quod placet 
 magnitudinesuftetquftdam specie immensitatis. Hinc 
 intuebar maris fequabilem superficiem, usque et usque 
 diffusam, quantum maximiim oculorum acies fern 
 potuit; illinc disruptissimam terrse faciem, et vastas 
 moles varie elevatas aut epressas, erectas, propendentes, 
 
 > 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 481 
 
 reclinatas, coacervatas, omni situ insequali et turbido. 
 Placuit, ex h^c parte, Naturae unitas et simplicitas, et 
 inexhausta qiiiEdam planities ; ex altera, multiformis 
 confusio magnorum corporum, et insane rerum strages : 
 
 I quas ciim intaebar, non urbis alicujus aut oppidi, sed con- 
 ftacti mundi rudera, ante oculos habere mihi visus sum. 
 
 I "In singulis fere montibus erat aliquid insolens et 
 mirabile, sed prae caeteris mihi placebat ilia, qu4 sede- 
 bam, rupes; erat maxima et altissima, et qu^ terram 
 respiciebat, molliori ascensu altitudinem suam dissimu- 
 labat : qua vero mare, horrendum praeceps, et quasi ad 
 perpendiculum facta, instar parietis. Praeterea facies 
 ilia marina adeo erat laevis ac uniformis (quod in rupi- 
 bus aliquando observare licet) ac si scissa fuisset a 
 Bummo ad imum, in illo piano; vel terrte motu aliquo, 
 aut fulmine, divulsa. 
 
 "Ima pars- rupis erat cava, recessusque habuit, et 
 
 i saxeos specus, euntes in vacuum montem ; sive naturd 
 pridem factos, sive exesos mari, et undarum crebris 
 ictibus: In hos enirn cum impetu ruebant et fragore, 
 sestuantis maris fluctus ; quos iterum spumantes reddi- 
 dit antrum, et quasi ab imo ventre evomuit. 
 
 "Dextrum latus mentis erat prseruptum, aspero saxo 
 et nuda caute; sinistrum non adeo neglexerat Natura, 
 arboribus ulpote ornatum: et prope pedem mentis rivus 
 limpidcB aquEe prorupit; qui cum vicinam vallem irri- 
 gaverat, lento motu serpens, et per varies maeandros, 
 quasi ad prolrahendam vitam, in magno mari absorptus 
 subito periit. Denique in summo vertice premontorii, 
 commode eminebat saxum, cui insidebam contempla- 
 bundus. Vale augusta sedes, Rege digna: Augusta 
 rupes, semper mihi memoranda 1" P. 89. Telluris 
 Theoria sacra, &c. Editio secunda. 
 
 Note 3, p. 420. 
 
 " Wliate'er Abstraction furnished for my needs 
 Or purposes ;" 
 
 [" It seems a paradox only to the unthinking, and it 
 is a fact that none, but the unread in history, will deny, 
 that in periods of popular tumult and innovation the 
 more abstract a notion is, the more readily has it been 
 found to combine, the closer has appeared its affinity, 
 with the feelings of a people and with all their imme- 
 diate impulses to action. At the commencement of 
 the French Revolution, in the remotest villages every 
 tongue was employed in echoing and enforcing the 
 almost geometrical abstractions of the pliysiocratic 
 politicians and economists. The public roads were 
 crowded with armed enthusiasts disputing on the in- 
 alienable sovereignty of the people, the imprescripti- 
 ble laws of the pure reason, and the universal consti- 
 tution, which, as rising out of the nature and rights 
 of man as man, all nations alike were under the obli- 
 gation of adopting." 
 
 "It is with nations as with individuals. In tranquil 
 moods and peaceable times we are quite practical. 
 Facts only and cool common sense are then in fashion. 
 3L 
 
 But let the winds of passion swell, and straightway 
 men begin to generalize ; to connect by remotest 
 analogies ; to express the most universal positions of 
 reason in the most glowing figures of fancy ; in short, 
 to feel particular truths and mere facts, as poor, cold, 
 narrow, and incommensurate with their feelings. 
 
 " The Apostle of the Gentiles quoted from a Greek 
 comic poet. Let it not then be condemned as unsea- 
 sonable or out of place, if I remind you that in the in- 
 tuitive knowledge of this truth, and with his wonted 
 fidelity to nature, our own great poet has placed the 
 greater number of his profoundest maxims and general 
 truths, both political and moral, net in the mouths of 
 men at ease, but of men under the influence of pas- 
 sion, when the mighty thoughts overmaster and be- 
 come the tyrants of the mind that has brought them 
 forth. In his Lear, Othello, Macbeth, Hamlet, princi- 
 ples of deepest insight and widest interest fly ofl^ like 
 sparks from the glowing iron under the loud anvil." 
 Coleridge : ' The Statesman's Manual, a Lay 
 Sermon.' H. R.] 
 
 Note 4, p. 421. 
 "Of Mississippi, or that Northern Stream." 
 
 " A man is supposed to improve by going out into 
 the World, by visiting London. Artificial man does ; 
 he extends with his sphere ; but, alas ! that sphere is 
 microscopic ; it is formed of minutiae, and he surrenders 
 his genuine vision to the artist, in order to embrace it 
 in his ken. His bodily senses grow acute, even to 
 barren and inhuman pruriency ; while his mental be- 
 come proportionally obtuse. The reverse is the Man 
 of Mind : He who is placed in the sphere of Nature 
 and of God, might be a mock at Tattersall's and 
 Brookes's, and a sneer at St. James's : he would cer- 
 tainly be swallowed alive by the first Pizarro that 
 crossed him : — But when he walks along the River 
 of Amazons ; when he rests his eye on the unrivalled 
 Andes ; when he measures the long and watered Savan- 
 nah; or contemplates, from a sudden Promontory, tlie 
 distant, vast Pacific — and feels himself a Freeman in 
 this vast Theatre, and commanding each ready pro- 
 duced fruit of this wilderness, and each progeny of 
 this stream — His exaltation is not less than Imperial. 
 He is as gentle, too, as he is great : His emotions of 
 tenderness keep pace with his elevation of sentiment; 
 for he says, ' These were made by a good Being, who, 
 unsought by me, placed me here to enjoy them.' He 
 becomes at once a Child and a King. His mind is in 
 himself; from hence he argues, and from hence he 
 acts ; and he argues unerringly, and acts magisterially : 
 His mind in himself is also in his God ; and therefore 
 he loves, and therefore he soars." — From the notes 
 upon The Hurricane, a Poem, by William Gilbert. 
 
 The Reader, I am sure, will thank me for the above 
 Quotation, which, though from a strange book, is one 
 of the finest passages of modern English prose. 
 41 
 
482 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Note 5, p. 424. 
 
 " Alas ! the endowment of immortal Power, 
 Is matched unequally with custom, time" &,c. 
 
 This subject is treated at length in the Ode entitled 
 " Intimations of Immortalitt from Recollections 
 OF Early Childhood, p. 387. 
 
 [This Note affords an appropriate place for two ex- 
 tracts from Coleridge's writings — one, a comment, 
 and the other a description of that temperament of 
 which there are manifestations throughout this ode : 
 
 "To the 'Ode on the intimations of Immortality 
 from Recollections of Early Childhood,' the Poet might 
 have prefi.xed the lines which Dante addresses to one 
 of his own Canzoni : — 
 
 'Canzon! io credo, che saranno radi 
 Che tua ragione intendan bene : 
 Tanto lor sei ialicoso ed alto !" 
 
 'O lyric song, there will be few, think I, 
 Who may tliy import understand ariglit: 
 Tliou art for llicm so arduous and so high !' 
 
 " But the ode was intended for such readers only as 
 had been accustomed to watch the flu.Y and reflux of 
 their inmost nature, to venture at times into the twi- 
 light realms of consciousness, and to feel a deep inte- 
 rest in modes of inmost being, to which they knovr 
 that the attributes of time and space are inapplicable 
 and alien, but which yet cannot be conveyed, save in 
 symbols of time and space. For such readers the 
 sense is sufficiently plain, and they will be as little 
 disposed to charge Mr. Wordsworth with believing the 
 Platonic pre-existence in the ordinary interpretation of 
 the words, as I am to believe that Plato himself ever 
 meant or taught it. 
 
 "EvSov lyT't ipapiTpa^ 
 ^ti/vfii'Ta avvirotctv £s 
 Af TO Viiv, ipfirii'iiiiV 
 ^ari^ct. ao(lt(ii b ttoX- 
 
 Ma5(JlTis (5f, Xdiipoi 
 
 riayyXwCTff/^, KdpttKi^ ciy, 
 
 'AKpavra yapuf/iti' 
 
 A(3s TTfi^S opvi^a ^ttov. Pi \ OAR : Olymp. II." 
 
 Coleridge : 'Biographia Lileraria,' Ch. xxii. 
 
 " To find no contradiction in the union of old 
 
 and new, to contemplate the Ancient of Days with 
 feelings as fresh as if they tlien ?prang fortli at his own 
 fiat, this characterizes tiie minds that feel the riddle of 
 the world, and may help to unravel it ! To carry on the 
 feelings of childhood into the powers of manhood, to 
 combine the child's sense of wonder and novelty with 
 the appearances which every day for perhaps forty 
 years had rendered familiar, 
 
 Wilh Sun and Moon and Stars throughout the year, 
 
 And Man and Woman 
 
 this is the character and privilege of genius, and one 
 of the marks which distinguish genius from talents." 
 ' The Friend; Vol. I. p. 183. H. R.] 
 
 Note 6, p. 425. 
 
 " Knowing the heart of Man is set to be," Sic. 
 
 The passage quoted from Daniel is taken from a 
 poem addressed to the Lady Margaret, Countess of 
 Cumberland, and the two last lines, printed in Italics, 
 are by him translated from Seneca. The whole Poem 
 is very beautiful. I will transcribe four stanzas from 
 it, as they contain an admirable picture of the state 
 of a wise Man's mind in a time of public commotion. 
 
 ' Nor is he moved with all the thunder-cracks 
 Of Tyrant's threats, or with the surly brow 
 Of Power, that proudly sits on other's crimes ; 
 Charged with more crying sins than those he checkB. 
 The storms of sad confusion that may grow 
 Up in the present for the coming times, 
 Appal not him; that hath no side at all, 
 But of himself, and knows the worst can fall. 
 
 Although his heart (so near allied to earth) 
 Cannot but pity the perplexed state 
 Of troublous and distressed mortality, 
 That thus make way unto the ugly Birth 
 Of their own Sorrows, and do still beget 
 Affliction upon Imbecility : 
 Yet seeing thus the course of things must run, 
 He looks thereon not strange, but as fore-done. 
 
 And whilst distraught Ambition compasses, 
 And is encompassed, while as Craft deceives. 
 And is deceived ; whilst Man doth ransack Man, 
 And buiids on blood, and rises by distress ; 
 And th' Inheritance of desolation leaves 
 To great-expecting Hopes : He looks thereon. 
 As from the shore of Peace, with imwet eye, 
 And bears no venture in Impiety. 
 
 Thus, Lady, fares that Man that hath prepared 
 A Rest for his desires ; and sees all things 
 Beneath him ; and hath learned this Book of Man, 
 Full of the notes of frailty; and compared 
 The best of Glory with her sufferings : 
 By whom, I see, you labour all you can 
 To plant your heart ! and set your thoughts as near 
 His glorious Mansion as your powers can bear. 
 
 [■* * * * * • * * 
 
 This concord. Lady, of a well-tuned mind 
 
 Hath been so set by that all-working hand 
 
 Of Heaven, that though the world hath done his worst 
 
 To put it out by discords most unkind ; 
 
 Yet doth it still in perfect union stand 
 
 With God and man ; nor ever will he forced 
 
 From that most sweet accord ; but still agree, 
 
 Equal in fortune's inequality.' . .^ | 
 
 I have added to the quotation another stanza of this 
 admirable poem ; though not in immediate connection 
 wilh the former stanzas, it may be regarded as part of 
 the satne picture. In transcribing this stanza, my 
 thoughts have turned to Wordsworth's own character 
 and career — the purity of purpose with which he de- 
 voted himself to his high calling, and the constancy 
 with which, through the evil and the good report of 
 criticism, he has adhered to it. The lines have ajeo 
 been introduced on the title-page of this edition. — H. R.] 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 491 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 ESSAY SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE* 
 
 With the young of both Sexes, Poetry is, like love, 
 a passion ; but, for much the greater part of those who 
 have been proud of its power over their minds, a neces- 
 sity soon arises of brealsing the pleasing bondage ; or it 
 relaxes of itself ; — the thoughts being occupied in do- 
 mestic cares, or the time engrossed by business. Poetry 
 then becomes only an occasional recreation ; while to 
 those whose existence passes away in a course of fash- 
 ionable pleasure, it is a species of luxurious amuse- 
 ment. — In middle and declining age, a scattered number 
 of serious persons resort to poetry, as to religion, for a 
 protection against the pressure of trivial employments, 
 and as a consolation for the afflictions of life. And, last- 
 ly, there are many, who, having been enamoured of this 
 art in their youth, have found leisure, after youth was 
 spent, to cultivate general literature ; in which poetry 
 has continued to be comprehended as a study. 
 
 Into the above Classes the Readers of poetry may 
 he divided ; Critics abound in them all ; hut from the 
 last only can opinions be collected of absolute value, 
 and worthy to be depended upon, as prophetic of the 
 destiny of a new work. The young, who in nothing 
 can escape delusion, are especially subject to it in their 
 intercourse with Poetry. The cause, not so obvious as 
 the fact is unquestionable, is the same as that from 
 which erroneous judgments in this art, in the minds 
 of men of all ages, chiefly proceed ; but upon Youth 
 it operates with peculiar force. The appropriate busi- 
 ness of poetry, (which, nevertheless, if genuine, is as 
 permanent as pure science,) her appropriate employ- 
 ment, her privilege and her duty, is to treat of things 
 not as they are, but as they appear ; not as they exist 
 in themselves, but as they seem to exist to the senses 
 and to the passions. What a world of delusion does 
 this acknowledged principle prepare for the inexpe- 
 rienced ! what temptations to go astray are here held 
 forth for them whose thoughts have been little disci- 
 plined by the understanding, and whose feelings revolt 
 from the sway of reason ! — When a juvenile Reader 
 is in the height of his rapture with some vicious pas- 
 sage, should experience throw in doubts, or common- 
 
 sense suggest suspicions, a lurking consciousness that 
 the realities of the Muse are but shows, and that her 
 liveliest excitements are raised by transient shocks of 
 conflicting feeling and successive assemblages of con- 
 tradictory thoughts — is ever at hand to justify extra- 
 vagance, and to sanction absurdity. But, it may be 
 asked, as these illusions are unavoidable, and, no doubt, 
 eminently useful to the mind as a process, what good 
 can be gained by making observations, the tendency of 
 which is to diminish the confidence of youth in its 
 feelings, and thus to abridge its innocent and even 
 profitable pleasures 1 The reproach implied in the ques- 
 tion could not be warded off, if Youth were incapable 
 of being delighted with what is truly excellent; or, if 
 these errors always terminated of themselves in due 
 season. But, with the majority, though their force be 
 abated, they continue through life. Moreover, the fire 
 of youth is too vivacious an element to be extinguished 
 or damped by a philosophical remark; and, while there 
 is no danger that what has been said will be injurious 
 or painful to the ardent and the confident, it may prove 
 beneficial to those who, being enthusiastic, are, at the 
 same time, modest and ingtr.'.ious. The intimation 
 may unite with their own misgivings to regulate their 
 sensibility, and to bring in, sooner than it would other- 
 wise have arrived, a more discreet and sound judg- 
 ment. 
 
 If it should excite wonder that men of ability, in 
 later life, whose understandings have been rendered 
 acute by practice in aftairs, should be so easily and so 
 far imposed upon when they happen to take up a new 
 work in verse, this appears to be the cause; — that, 
 having discontinued their attention to poetry, whatever 
 progress may have been made in other departments of 
 knowledge, they have not, as to this art, advanced in 
 true discernment beyond the age of youth. If, then, a 
 new poem falls in their way, whose attractions are of 
 that kind which would have enraptured them during 
 the heat of youth, the judgment not being improved to 
 a degree that they shall be disgusted, they are daz- 
 zled ; and prize and cherish the faults for having had 
 power to make the present time vanish before them, 
 and to throw the mind back, as by enchantment, into 
 
 41 * 4S5 
 
486 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 the happiest season of life. As they read, powers 
 seem to be revived, passions are regenerated, and 
 pleasures restored. The Book was probably taken up 
 after an escape from the burthen of business, and with 
 a wish to forget the world, and all its vexations and 
 anxieties. Having obtained this wish, and so much 
 more, it is natural that they should make report as they 
 have felt. 
 
 If Men of mature age, through want of practice, be 
 thus easily beguiled into admiration of absurdities, ex- 
 travagances, and misplaced ornaments, thinking it pro- 
 per that their understandings should enjoy a holiday, 
 while they are unbending their minds with verse, it 
 may be expected that such Readers will resemble their 
 former selves also in strength of prejudice, and an in- 
 aptitude to be moved by the unostentatious beauties of 
 a pure style. In the higher poetry, an enlightened 
 Critic chiefly looks for a reflection of the wisdom of 
 the heart and the grandeur of the imagination. 
 Wherever these appear, simplicity accompanies them ; 
 Magnificence herself, when legitimate, depending upon 
 a simplicity of her own, to regulate her ornaments. 
 But it is a well-known property of human nature, that 
 our estimates are ever governed by comparisons, of 
 which we are conscious with various degrees of dis- 
 tinctness. Is it not, then, inevitable (confining these 
 observations to the effects of style merely) that an eye, 
 accustomed to the glaring hues of diction by which 
 such Readers are caught and excited, will for the most 
 part be rather repelled than attracted by an original 
 Work, tlie colouring of which is disposed according to 
 a pure and refined scheme of harmony 1 It is in the 
 fine arts as in the affairs of life, no man can serve (i. e. 
 obey with zeal and fidelity) two Masters. 
 
 As Poetry is most just to its own divine origin when 
 it administers the comforts and breathes the spirit of 
 religion, they who have learned to perceive this truth, 
 and who betake themselves to reading verse for sacred 
 purposes, must be preserved from numerous illusions to 
 which the two Classes of Readers, whom we have been 
 considering, are liable. But, as the mind grows seri- 
 ous from the weight of life, the range of its passions 
 is contracted accordingly ; and its sympathies become 
 BO exclusive, that many species of high excellence 
 wholly escape, or but languidly excite, its notice. Be- 
 sides, men who read from religious or moral inclina- 
 tions, even when the subject is of that kind which 
 they approve, are beset with misconceptions and mis- 
 takes peculiar to themselves. Attaching so much im- 
 portance to the truths which interest them, they are 
 prone to over-rate the Authors by whom these truths 
 are expressed and enforced. They come prepared to 
 impart so much passion to the Poet's language, that 
 they remain unconscious how little, in fact, they re- 
 ceive from it. And, on the other hand, religious faith 
 is to him who holds it so momentous a thing, and error 
 appears to be attended with such tremendous conse- 
 
 I quences, that, if opinions touching upon religion occur 
 I which the Reader condemns, he not only cannot syna- 
 pathise with them, however animated the expression, 
 ^ but there is, for the most part, an end put to all satis- 
 faction and enjoyment. Love, if it before existed, is 
 converted into dislike; and the heart of the Reader is 
 set against the Author and his book. — To these ex- 
 cesses, tliey, who from their professions ought to be 
 the most guarded against them, are perhaps the most 
 liable ; I mean those sects whose religion, beinor from 
 the calculating understanding, is cold and formal. For 
 when Christianity, the religion of humility, is founded 
 upon the proudest faculty of our nature, what can be 
 expected but contradictions 1 Accordingly, believers 
 of this cast are at one time contemptuous; at another, 
 being troubled, as they are and must be, with inward 
 misgivings, they are jealous and suspicious; — and at 
 all seasons, they are under temptation to supply, by 
 the heat with which they defend their tenets, the ani- 
 mation which is wanting to the constitution of the re- 
 ligion itself. 
 
 Faith was given to man that his affections, detached 
 from the treasures of time, might be inclined to settle 
 upon those of eternity : — the elevation of his nature, 
 which this habit produces on earth, being to him a pre- 
 sumptive evidence of a future state of existence ; and 
 giving him a title to partake of its holiness. The re- 
 ligious man values what he sees chiefly as an " imper- 
 fect shadowing forth" of what he is incapable of see- 
 ing. The concerns of religion refer to indefinite ob- 
 jects, and are too weighty for the mind to support 
 them without relieving itself by resting a great part 
 of the burthen upon words and symbols. The com- 
 merce between Man and his Maker cannot be carried 
 on but by a process where much is represented in lit^ 
 tie, and the Infinite Being accommodates himself to a 
 finite capacity. In all this may be perceived the 
 affinity between religion and poetry ; — between reli- 
 gion — making up the deficiencies of reason by faith ; 
 and poetry — passionate for the instruction of reason; 
 between religion — whose element is infinitude, and 
 whose ultimate trust is the supreme of things, submit- 
 ting herself to circumscription, and reconciled to sub- 
 stitutions : and poetry — ethereal and transcendent, 
 yet incapable to sustain her existence without sensuous 
 incarnation. In this community of nature may be per- 
 ceived also the lurking incitements of kindred error; 
 — so that we shall find that no poetry has been more 
 subject to distortion, than that species, the argument 
 and scope of which is religious ; and no lovers of the 
 art have gone farther astray than the pious and the 
 devout. 
 
 Whither then shall we turn for that union of quali- 
 fications which must necessarily exist before the de- 
 cisions of a critic can be of absolute value 1 For a 
 mind at once poetical and philosophical ; for a critic 
 whose affections are as free and kindly as the spirit of 
 
ESSAY SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE. 
 
 487 
 
 society, and whose understanding is severe as that of 
 dispassionate government 1 Where are we to look for 
 that initiatory composure of mind which no selfishness 
 can disturb 1 For a natural sensibility that has been 
 tutored into correctness without losing any thing of 
 its quickness ; and for active faculties capable of an- 
 Bwering the demands which an Author of original 
 imagination shall make upon them, — associated with 
 a judgment that cannot be duped into admiration by 
 aught that is unworthy of it] — Among those and 
 those only, who, never having suffered their youthful 
 love of poetry to remit much of its force, have applied 
 to the consideration of the laws of this art the best 
 power of their understandings. At the same time it 
 must be observed — that, as this Class comprehends 
 the only judgments which are trust-wortliy, so does 
 it include the most erroneous and perverse. For to 
 be mis-taught is worse than to be untaught ; and no 
 perverseness equals that which is supported by system, 
 no errors are so difficult to root out as those which 
 the understanding has pledged its credit to uphold. 
 In this Class are contained Censors, who, if they be 
 pleased with what is good, are pleased with it only 
 by imperfect glimpses, and upon false principles; who, 
 should they generalise rightly to a certain point, are 
 sure to suffer for it in the end ; — who, if they stum- 
 ble upon a sound rule, are fettered by misapplying it, 
 or by straining it too far ; being incapable of perceiv- 
 ing when it ought to yield to one of higher order. 
 In it are found Critics too petulant to be passive to 
 a genuine Poet, and too feeble to grapple with him ; 
 Men, who take upon them to report of the course 
 which he holds whom they are utterly unable to 
 accompany, — confounded if he turn quick upon the 
 wing, dismayed if he soar steadily "into the region;" 
 — Men of palsied imaginations and indurated hearts; 
 in whose minds all healtiiy action is languid, — who 
 therefore feed as the many direct them, or, with the 
 many, are greedy after vicious provocatives ; — Judges, 
 whose censure is auspicious, and whose praise omi- 
 nous ! In this class meet together the two extremes 
 of best and worst. 
 
 The observations presented in the foregoing series 
 are of too ungracious a nature to have been made 
 without reluctance; and, were it only on this account, 
 1 would invite the reader to try them by the test of 
 comprehensive experience. If the number of Judges 
 who can be confidently relied upon be in reality so 
 small, it ought to follow that partial notice only, or 
 neglect, perhaps long continued, or attention wholly 
 inadequate to their merits — must have been the fate of 
 most works in the higher departments of poetry; and 
 that, on the other hand, numerous productions have 
 blazed into popularity, and have passed away, leaving 
 scarcely a trace behind them : — it will be further found, 
 that when Authors have, at length, raised themselves 
 into general admiration and maintained their ground, 
 
 errors and prejudices have prevailed concerning their 
 genius and their works, which the few who are con- 
 scious of those errors and prejudices would deplore; if 
 they were not recompensed by perceiving that there 
 are select Spirits for whom it is ordained that their 
 fame shall be in the world an existence like that of 
 Virtue, which owes its being to the struggles it makes, 
 and its vigour to the enemies whom it provokes ; — a 
 vivacious quality, ever doomed to meet with opposition, 
 and still triumphing over it; and, from the nature of 
 its dominion, incapable of being brought to the sad 
 conclusion of Alexander, when he wept that there 
 were no more worlds for him to conquer. 
 
 Let us take a hasty retrospect of the poetical litera- 
 ture of this Country for the greater part of the last 
 two Centuries, and see if the facts support these infer- 
 ences. 
 
 Who is there that can now endure to read the 
 "Creation" of Dubartas] Yet all Europe once re- 
 sounded with his praise; he was caressed by Kings; 
 and, when his Poem was translated into our language, 
 the Faery Queen faded before it. The name of Spen- 
 ser, whose genius is of a higher order than even that 
 of Ariosto, is at this day scarcely known beyond the 
 limits of the British Isles. And if the value of his 
 works is to be estimated from the attention now paid 
 to them by his Countrymen, compared with that which 
 they bestow on those of some other writers, it must be 
 pronounced small indeed. 
 
 "The laurel, meed of mighty Conquerors 
 And Poets sage" — 
 
 are his own words ; but his wisdom has, in this par- 
 ticular, been his worst enemy; while its opposite, 
 whether in the shape of folly or madness, has been 
 their best friend. But he was a great power; and 
 bears a high name : the laurel has been awarded to 
 him. 
 
 A Dramatic Author, if he write for the Stage, must 
 adapt himself to the taste of the Audience, or they 
 will not endure him ; accordingly the mighty genius 
 of Shakspeare was listened to. The people were de- 
 lighted : but I am not sufficiently versed in Stage an- 
 tiquities to determine whether they did not flock as 
 eagerly to the representation of many pieces of con- 
 temporary Authors, wholly undeserving to appear upon 
 the same boards. Had there been a formal contest for 
 superiority among dramatic Writers, that Shakspeare, 
 like his predecessors, Sophocles and Euripides, would 
 have often been subject to the mortification of seeing 
 the prize adjudged to sorry competitors, becomes too 
 probable, when we reflect that the Admirers of Settle 
 and Shadwell were, in a later age, as numerous, and 
 reckoned as respectable in point of talent, as those of 
 Dryden. At all events, that Shakspeare stooped to 
 accommodate himself to the People, is sufficiently ap- 
 parent; and one of the most striking proofs of his 
 
488 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 almost omnipotent genius, is, that he could turn to such 
 glorious purpose those materials which the prepos- 
 sessions of the age compelled him to make use of. 
 Yet even this marvellous skill appears not to have been 
 enough to prevent his rivals from having some advan- 
 tage over him in public estimation ; else how can we 
 account for passages and scenes that exist in his works, 
 unless upon a supposition that some of the grossest 
 of them, a fact which in my own mind I have no doubt 
 of, were foisted in by the Players, for the gratification 
 of the many t 
 
 But that his Works, whatever might be their reception 
 upon the stage, made little impression upon the ruling 
 Intellects of the time, may be inferred from the fact 
 that Lord Bacon, in his multifarious writings, nowhere 
 either quotes or alludes to him.* — His dramatic e.xcel- 
 lence enabled him to resume possession of the stage 
 after the Restoration ; but Dryden tells us that in his 
 time two of the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher were 
 acted for one of Shakspeare. And so faint and limited 
 was the perception of the poetic beauties of his dramas 
 in the time of Pope, that, in his Edition of the Plays, 
 with a view of rendering to the general Reader a ne- 
 cessary service, he printed between inverted commas 
 those passages which he thought most worthy of notice. 
 
 At this day, the French Critics liave abated nothing 
 of their aversion to this darling of our Nation : " the 
 English, with their Buffon de Shakspeare," is as fa- 
 miliar an expression among them as in the time of 
 Voltaire. Biron Grimm is the only French writer who 
 seems to have perceived his infinite superiority to the 
 first names of the French Theatre ; an advantage 
 which the Parisian Critic owed to his German blood 
 and German education. The most enlightened Italians, 
 though well acquainted with our language, are wholly 
 incompetent to measure the proportions of Shakspeare. 
 The Germans only, of foreign nations, are approaching 
 towards a knowledge and feeling of what he is. In 
 some respects they have acquired a superiority over 
 the fellow-countrymen of the Poet: for among us it is 
 a current, I might say, an established opinion, that 
 Shakspeare is justly praised when he is pronounced to 
 be "a wild irregular genius, in whom great faults are 
 compensated by great beauties." How long may it be 
 before this misconception passes away, and it becomes 
 universally acknowledged that the judgment of Shak- 
 speare in the selection of his materials, and in the 
 manner in which he has made them, heterogeneous as 
 they often are, constitute a unity of their own, and 
 contribute all to one great end, is not less admirable 
 
 •The learned ITakcwill (a third edition of whose book bears 
 date 1G3.5), writing to refute the error " touchin<? Nature "s per- 
 petual and universal decay," cites triumphantly the names of ' the Royal Institution. For the various merits of thoueht and 
 
 than his imagination, his invention, and his intuitive 
 knowledge of human Nature ! 
 
 There is extant a small Volume of miscellaneous 
 Poems in which Shakspeare expresses his own feelings 
 in his own Person. It is not difficult to conceive that 
 the Editor, George Steevens, should have been insensi- 
 ble to the beauties of one portion of that Volume, the 
 Sonnets ; though there is not a part of the writings of 
 this Poet where is found, in an equal compass,. a great- 
 er number of exquisite feelings felicitously e.xpressed. 
 But, from regard to the Critic's own credit, he would 
 not have ventured to talk of an act of parliament not 
 being strong enough to compel the perusal of these, or 
 any production of Shakspeare,f if he had not known 
 that the people of England were ignorant of the trea- 
 sures contained in those little pieces; and if he had 
 not, moreover, shared the too common propensity of 
 human nature to exult over a supposed fall into the 
 mire of a genius whom he had been compelled to re- 
 gard with admiration, as an inmate of the celestial re- 
 gions, — " there sitting where he durst not soar." 
 
 Nine years before the death of Shakspeare, Milton 
 was born ; and early in life he published several small 
 poems, which, though on their first appearance they 
 were praised by a few of the judicious, were afterwards 
 neglected to that degree, that Pope, in his youth, could 
 borrow from them without risk of its being known. 
 Whether these poems are at this day justly apprecia- 
 ted, I will not undertake to decide : nor would it im- 
 ply a severe reflection upon the mass of Readers to 
 suppose the contrary ; seeing that a Man of the ac- 
 knowledged genius of Voss, the German Poet, could 
 suffer their spirit to evaporate ; and could change their 
 character, as is done in the translation made by him of' 
 the most popular of those pieces. At all events, it is 
 certain that these Poems of Milton are now much read, 
 and loudly praised ; yet were they little heard of till 
 more than 1.50 years after their publication ; and of the 
 Sonnets, Dr. Johnson, as appears from Boswell's life 
 of him, was in the habit of thinking and speaking as 
 contemptuously as Steevens wrote upon those of Shak- 
 speare. 
 
 About the time when the Pindaric Odes of Cowley 
 and his imitators, and the productions of that class of 
 curious thinkers whom Dr. Johnson has strangely styled 
 Metaphysical Poets, were beginning to lose some- 
 thing of that extravagant admiration which they had 
 excited, the Paradise Lost made its appearance. " Fit 
 audience find though few," was the petition addressed 
 by the Poet to his inspiring Muse. I have said else- 
 
 t This flippant insensibility was publicly reprehended by Mr. 
 Coleridge, in a course of Lectures upon Poetry given by him at 
 
 Ariosto, Ta.s30, Bartas, and Spenser, as instances that poetic ge. 
 nius had not degener-ated; but he makes no mention of Shak- 
 speare. 
 
 language in Shakspeare "s Sonnets, see Numbers 27. 29, 30. 32, 33. 
 54. 64. 66. 68. 73. 76. 86. 91, 92, 93. 97, 98. 105. 107, 1C8, 109. 111. 
 113, 114. 110, 117. 129. and many others. 
 
ESSAY SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE. 
 
 489 
 
 where that he gained more than he asked ; this I be- 
 lieve to be true; but Dr. Johnson has fallen into a 
 gross mistake when he attempts to prove, by the sale 
 of the work, that Milton's Countrymen were "just to 
 ' it" upon its first appearance. Thirteen hundred Copies 
 were sold in two years; an uncommon example, he 
 asserts, of the prevalence of genius in opposition to so 
 much recent enmity as Milton's public conduct had 
 excited. But, be it remembered that, if Milton's po- 
 litical and religious opinions, and the manner in which 
 he announced them, had raised him many enemies, they 
 had procured him numerous friends; who, as all person- 
 al danger was passed away at the time of publication, 
 would be eager to procure the master-work of a Man 
 whom they revered, and whom they would be proud of 
 praising. The demand did not immediately increase ; 
 "for," says Dr. Johnson, "many moi-e Readers" (he 
 means Persons in the habit of reading poetry) " than 
 were supplied at first the Nation did not aflibrd." How 
 careless must a writer be who can make this assertion 
 in the face of so many existing title-pages to belie it ! 
 Turning to my own shelves, I find the folio of Cowley, 
 7th Edition, 1681. A book near it is Flatman's Poems, 
 4th Edition, 1686. Waller, 5th Edition, same date. 
 The Poems of Norris of Bemerton not long after went, 
 I believe, through nine Editions. What further de- 
 mand there might be for these works I do not know, 
 but I well remember, that 2.5 years ago, the Booksell- 
 ers' stalls in London swarmed with the folios of Cow- 
 ley. This is not mentioned in disparagement of that 
 able writer and amiable Man ; but merely to show — 
 that, if Milton's work was not more read, it was not 
 because readers did not exist at the time. The early 
 Editions of the Paradise Lost were printed in a shape 
 which allowed them to be sold at a low price, yet only 
 3000 copies of the Work were sold in 11 years; and 
 the Nation, says Dr. Johnson, had been satisfied from 
 1623 to 1644, that is 21 years, with only two Editions 
 of the Works of Shakspeare ; which probably did not 
 together make 1000 Copies ; facts adduced by the critic 
 to prove the " paucity of Readers." — There were Read- 
 ers in multitudes; but their money went for other pur- 
 poses, as their admiration was fixed elsewhere. We 
 are authorized, then, to afiirm, that the reception of the 
 Paradise Lost, and the slow progress of its fame, are 
 proofs as striking as can be desired tliat the positions 
 which I am attempting to establish are not erroneous.* 
 — How amusing to shape to one's self such a critique 
 as a Wit of Charles's days, or a Lord of the Miscella- 
 nies or trading Journalist of King William's time, 
 would have brought forth, if he had set his faculties 
 
 * Hughes is express upon this subject : in his dedication of 
 Spenser's Works to Lord Somers, he writes thus: " It was your 
 Lordship's encouraging a beautiful Edition of Paradise Lost that 
 first brought that incomparable Poem to be generally known and 
 esteemed." 
 
 3M 
 
 industriously to work upon this Poem, every where 
 impregnated with original excellence ! 
 
 So strange indeed are the obliquities of admiration, 
 that they whose opinions are much influenced by au- 
 thority will often be tempted to think that there are no 
 fixed principles! '^ human nature for this art to rest 
 upon. I have been honoured by being permitted to pe- 
 ruse in MS. a tract composed between the period of 
 the Revolution and the close of that Century. It is the 
 Work of an English Peer of high accomplishments, its 
 object to form the character and direct the studies of 
 his Son. Perhaps nowhere does a more beautiful trea- 
 tise of the kind exist. The good sense and wisdom of 
 the thoughts, the delicacy of the feelings, and the 
 charm of the style, are, throughout, equally conspicu- 
 ous. Yet the Author, selecting among the Poets of 
 his own Country those whom he deems most worthy 
 of his son's perusal, particularises only Lord Rochester, 
 Sir John Denham, and Cowley. Writing about the 
 same time, Shaftesbury, an Author at present unjustly 
 depreciated, describes the English Bluses as only yet 
 lisping in their Cradles. 
 
 The arts by which Pope, soon afterwards, contrived 
 to procure to himself a more general and a higher 
 reputation than perhaps any English Poet ever attain- 
 ed during his life-time, are known to the judicious. 
 And as well known is it to them, that the undue exer- 
 tion of these arts is the cause why Pope has for some 
 time held a rank in literature, to which, if he had not 
 been seduced by an over-love of immediate popularity, 
 and had confided more in his native genius, he never 
 could have descended. He bewitched the nation by 
 his melody, and dazzled it by his poli.'^hed style, and 
 was himself blinded by his own success. Plaving wan- 
 dered from humanity in his Eclogues with boyish inex- 
 perience, the praise, which these compositions obtain- 
 ed, tempted him into a belief that Nature was not to 
 be trusted, at least in pastoral Poetry. To prove this 
 by example, he put his friend Gay upon writing those 
 Eclogues which the Author intended to be burlesque. 
 The Instigator of the work, and his Admirers, could 
 perceive in them nothing but what was ridiculous. 
 Nevertheless, though these Poems contain some detest* 
 able passages, the eflect, as Dr. Johnson well observes, 
 " of reality and truth became conspicuous even when 
 the intention was to show them grovelling and d-egra- 
 ded." These Pastorals, ludicrous to those who prided 
 themselves upon their refinement, in spite of those dis- 
 gusting passages, "became popular, and were read with 
 delight, as just representations of rural manners and 
 occupations." 
 
 Something less than 60 years after the publication of 
 
 t This opinion seems actually to have been entertained by 
 Adam Smith, the worst critic, David Hume not excepted, that 
 Scotland, a soil to which this sort of weed seems natural, has 
 produced. 
 
490 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 the Paradise Lost appeared Thomson's Winter; which 
 was speedily followed by his other Seasons. It is a 
 work of inspiration ; much of it is written from him- 
 self, and nobly from himself. How was it received f " It 
 was no sooner read," says one of his contemporary Bio- 
 graphers, "than universally admired: those only e.';- 
 cepted who had not been used to feel, or to look for 
 any tiling in poetry, beyond a. point of satirical or epi- 
 grammatic wit, a smart antithesis richly trimmed with 
 rhyme, or the softness of an elegiac complaint. To such 
 his manly classical spirit could not readily commend 
 itself; till, after a more attentive perusal, they had got 
 the better of iheir prejudices, and either acquired or af- 
 fected a truer taste. A few others stood aloof, merely 
 because they had long before fixed the articles of their 
 poetical creed, and resigned themselves to an absolute 
 despair of ever seeing any thing new and original. 
 These were somewhat mortified to find their notions dis- 
 turbed by the appearance of a poet, who seemed to owe 
 nothing but to nature and his own genius. But, in a 
 short time, the applause became unanimous; every one 
 wondering how so many pictures, and pictures so fa- 
 miliar, should have moved them but faintly to what 
 they felt in his descriptions. His digressions, too, tiie 
 overflowings of a tender benevolent heart, charmed the 
 reader no less; leaving him in doubt, whether he 
 should more admire the Poet or love the Man." 
 
 This case appears to bear strongly against us: — 
 but we must distinguish between wonder and legiti- 
 mate admiration. The subject of the worlj is the 
 changes produced in the appearances of nature by the 
 revolution of the year: and, by undertaking to write 
 in verse, Thomson pledged himself to treat his sub- 
 ject as became a Poet. Now it is remarkable that, ex- 
 cepting the nocturnal Reverie of Lady Winchelsea, 
 and a passage or two in the Windsor Forest of Pope, 
 the Poetry of the period intervening between the pub- 
 lication of the Paradise Lost and the Seasons does not 
 contain a single new image of external nature ; and 
 scarcely presents a familiar one from which it can be 
 inferred that the eye of the Poet had been steadily fixed 
 upon his object, much less that his feelings had urged 
 him to work upon it in the spirit of genuine imagination. 
 To what a low state knowledge of the most obvious 
 and important phenomena had sunk, is evident from 
 the style in v/hich Dryden has executed a description 
 of Night in one of his Tragedies, and Pope his trans- 
 lation of the celebrated moonlight scene in the Iliad. 
 A blind man, in the habit of attending accurately to 
 descriptions casually dropped from the lips of those 
 around him, might easily depict these appearances with 
 more truth. Dryden's lines are vague, bombastic, and 
 senseless*; those of Pope, though he had Homer to 
 
 * CoRTEZ alone in a night-gown. 
 All things are hushed as Nature's self lay dead: 
 The mountains seem to nod their drowsy head: 
 
 guide him, are throughout false and contradictory. The 
 verses of Dryden, once highly celebrated, are forgotten ; 
 those of Pope still retain their hold upon public esti- 
 mation, — nay, there is not a passage of descriptive 
 poetry, which at this day finds so many and such 
 ardent admirers. Strange to think of an Enthusiast, 
 as rnay have been the case with thousands, reciting 
 those verses under the cope of a moonlight sky, with- 
 out having his raptures in the least disturbed by a sus- 
 picion of their absurdity ! — If these two distinguished 
 Writers could habitually think that the visible universe 
 was of so little consequence to a Poet, that it was 
 scarcely necessary for him to cast his eyes upon it, we 
 may be assured that those passages of the elder Poets 
 which faithfully and poetically describe the phenomena 
 of nature, were not at that time holden in much esti- 
 mation, and that there was little accurate attention 
 paid to these appearances. 
 
 Wonder is the natural product of Ignorance ; and 
 as the soil was in such good condition at the time 
 of the publication of the Seasons, the crop was doubt- 
 less abundant. Neither individuals nor nations become 
 corrupt all at once, nor are they enlightened in a mo- 
 ment. Thomson was an inspired Poet, but he could 
 not work miracles; in cases where the art of seeing 
 had in some degree been learned, the teacher would 
 further the proficiency of his pupils, but he could do 
 little more, though so far does vanity assist men in acts 
 of self-deception, that many would often fancy they 
 recognized a likeness when they knew nothing of the 
 original. Having shown that much of what his Bio- 
 grapher deemed genuine admiration must in fact have 
 been blind wonderment, — how is the rest to be account- 
 ed for? — Thomson was fortunate in the very title of 
 his Poem, which seemed to bring it home to the pre- 
 pared sympathies of every one ; in the next place, not- 
 withstanding his high powers, he writes a vicious style ; 
 and his false ornaments are exactly of that kind which 
 would be most likely to strike the undiscerning. He 
 likewise abounds with sentimental common-places, 
 that, from the manner in which they were brought for- 
 ward, bore an imposing air of novelty. In any well- 
 used copy of the Seasons, the Book generally opens of 
 itself with the rhapsody on love, or with one of the 
 stories (perhaps Damon and Musidora) ; these also are 
 prominent in our Collections of Extracts; and are the 
 parts of his Work, which, after all, were probably 
 most efficient in first recommending the author to 
 general notice. Pope, repaying praises which he had 
 received, and wishing to extol him to the highest, only 
 styles him "an elegant and philosophical Poet;" nor 
 are we able to collect any unquestionable proofs that 
 the true characteristics of Thomson's genius as an 
 
 Ttie little Birds in dreams ihcir songs repeat. 
 And sleeping Flowers beneath the ]>{iglit-dew sweat: 
 Even Lust and Envy sleep ; yet Love denies 
 Rest to my sold, and slumber to my eyes. 
 
 Drvden's Indian Emperor 
 
ESSAY SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE. 
 
 491 
 
 imaginative Poet* were perceived, till the elder War- 
 ton, almost 40 years after the publication of the Sea- 
 sons, pointed them out by a note in his Essay on the 
 Life and Writings of Pope. In the Castle of Indolence 
 (of which Gray speaks so coldly) these characteristics 
 were almost as conspicuously displayed, and in verse 
 more harmonious, and diction more pare. Yet that 
 fine Poem was neglected on its appearance, and is at 
 this day the delight only of a Few ! 
 
 When Thomson died, Collins breathed forth his re- 
 grets in an Elegiac Poem, in which he pronounces a 
 poetical curse upon him who should regard with insen- 
 sibility the place where the Poet's remains were de- 
 posited. The Poems of the mourner himself have now 
 passed through innumerable Editions, and are univer- 
 sally known ; but if, when Collins died, the same kind 
 of imprecation had been pronounced by a surviving 
 admirer, small is the number whom it would not have 
 comprehended. The notice which his poems attained 
 during his life-time was so small, and of course the 
 sale so insignificant, that not long before his death he 
 deemed it right to repay to the Bookseller the sum 
 which he had advanced for them, and threw the Edition 
 into the fire . 
 
 Next in importance to the Seasons of Thomson, 
 though at considerable distance from that work in order 
 of time, come the Reliques of Ancient English Poetry ; 
 collected, new-modelled, and in many instances (if such 
 a contradiction in terms may be used) composed by the 
 Editor, Dr. Percy. This work did not steal silently 
 into the world, as is evident from the number of legen- 
 dary tales, which appeared not long after its publica- 
 tion; and which were modelled, as the Authors persua- 
 ded themselves, after the Old Ballad. The Compila- 
 tion was however ill suited to the then e.xisting taste 
 of City society; and Dr. Johnson, 'mid the little senate 
 to which he gave laws, was not sparing in his exertions 
 to make it an object of contempt. The Critic triumph- 
 ed, the legendary imitators were deservedly disregard- 
 ed, and, as undeservedly, their ill-imitated models sank, 
 in this Country, into temporary neglect ; while Burger, 
 and other able writers of Germany, were translating, 
 or imitating these Reliques, and composing, with the 
 aid of inspiration thence derived, Poems which are the 
 delight of the German nation. Dr. Percy was so 
 abashed by the ridicule flung upon his labours from the 
 ignorance and insensibility of the Persons with whom 
 he lived, that, though while he was writing under a 
 mask he had not wanted resolution to follow his genius 
 into the regions of true simplicity and genuine pathos 
 (as is evinced by the exquisite ballad of Sir Cauline 
 
 * Since these observations upon Thomson were written, I 
 have perused the 2d Edition of his Seasons, and find that even 
 that does not contain the most striking passages which AVarton 
 points out for admiration ; these, with other improvemenis, 
 throughout the whole work, must have been added at a later 
 period. 
 
 and by many other pieces), yet when he appeared in 
 his own person and character as a poetical writer, he 
 adopted, as in the tale of The Hermit of Warkworth, 
 a diction scarcely in anyone of its features distinguish- 
 able from the vague, the glossy, and unfeeling language 
 of his day. I mention this remarkable factf with re- 
 gret, esteeming the genius of Dr. Percy in this kind 
 of writing superior to that of any other man by whom 
 in modern times it has been cultivated. That even 
 Burger (to whom Klopstock gave, in my hearing, a 
 commendation which he denied to Goethe and Schiller, 
 pronouncing him to be a genuine Poet, and one of (he 
 few among the Germans whose works would last,) had 
 not the fine sensibility of Percy, might be shown from 
 many passages, in which he has deserted his original 
 only to go astray. For example. 
 
 Now daye was gone, and night was come, 
 And all were fast asleepe, 
 All save the Lady Emehne, 
 Who sate in her bowre to weepe: 
 
 And soone she heard her true-love's voice 
 Low whispering at the walle. 
 Awake, awake, my dear Ladye, 
 'T is I thy true-love call. 
 
 Which is thus tricked out and dilated : 
 
 Als nun die Nacht Gebirg' und Thai 
 
 Vermummt in Rabenschatten, 
 
 Und Hochburgs Lampen uber-all 
 
 Schon ausgeflimmert hatlen, 
 
 Und alles tief entschlafen war; 
 
 Doch nur das Fraulein immerdar, 
 
 Voll Fieberangst, noch wachte, 
 
 L^nd seinen Ritter dachte : 
 
 Da horch ! Ein sussenLiebeston 
 
 Kam leis' empor geflogen. 
 
 *' Ho, Trudchen, ho ! Da bin ich schon ! 
 
 Frisch auf ! Dich angezogen !" 
 
 But from humble ballads we must ascend to heroics. 
 
 All hail, Macpherson ! hail to thee. Sire of Ossian ! 
 The Phantom was begotten by the snug embrace of 
 an impudent Highlander upon a cloud of tradition — it 
 travelled southward, where it was greeted with accla- 
 mation, and the thin Consistence took its course through 
 Europe, upon the breath of popular applause. The 
 Editor of the " Reliques" had indirectly preferred a 
 claim to the praise of invention, by not concealing that 
 his supplementary labours were considerable ! how 
 selfish his conduct, contrasted with that of the disinter- 
 ested Gael, who, like Lear, gives his kingdom away, 
 and is content to become a pensioner upon his own 
 
 t Shenstone, in his Schoolmistress, gives a still more remarka- 
 ble instance of this timidity. On its first appearance, (See D'lsra- 
 eli's 2d Series of the Curiosities of Literature) the Poem was 
 accompanied with an absurd prose commentary, showing, as in- 
 deed some incongruous expressions in the text imply, that the 
 whole was intended for burlesque. In subsequent editions, the 
 commentary was dropped, and the People have since continued 
 to rc-id in seriousness, doing for the Author what he had not 
 courage openly to venture upon for himself. 
 
 L. 
 
492 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 issue for a beg'garly pittance ! — Open this far-famed 
 Book! — I have done so at random, and the beginning 
 of the " Epic Poem Temora," in 8 Books, presents 
 itself. " The blue waves of Ullin roll in light. The 
 green hills are covered with day. Trees shake their 
 dusky heads in the breeze. Gray torrents pour their 
 noisy streams. Two green hills with aged oaks sur- 
 round a narrow plain. The blue course of a stream is 
 there. On its banks stood Cairbar of Atha. His spear 
 supports the king; the red eyes of his fear are sad. 
 Cormac rises on his soul with all his ghastly wound.s." 
 Precious memorandums from the pocket-book of the 
 blind Ossian ! 
 
 If it be unbecoming, as I acknowledge that for the 
 most part it is, to speak disrespectfully of Works that 
 have enjoyed for a length of time a widely-spread repu- 
 tation, without at the same time producing irrefraga- 
 ble proofs of their unworthiness, let me be forgiven 
 upon this occasion. — Having had the good fortune to 
 be born and reared in a mountainous Country, from my 
 very childhood I have felt the falsehood that pervades 
 the volumes imposed upon the World under the name 
 of Ossian. From what I saw with my own eyes, I 
 knew that the imagery was spurious. In nature every 
 thing is distinct, yet nothing defined into absolute in- 
 dependent singleness. In Macpherson's work it is ex- 
 actly the reverse ; every thing (that is not stolen) is in 
 this manner defined, insulated, dislocated, deadened, — 
 yet nothing distinct. It will always be so when words 
 are substituted for things. To say that the characters 
 never could exist, that the manners are impossible, and 
 that a dream has more substance than the whole state 
 of society, as there depicted, is doing nothing more 
 than pronouncing a censure which Macpherson defied ; 
 when, with the steeps of Morven before his eyes, he 
 could talk so familiarly of his car-borne heroes; — of 
 Jlorven, which, if one may judge from its appearance 
 at the distance of a few miles, contains scarcely an 
 acre of ground sufficiently accommodating for a sledge 
 to be trailed along its surface. — Mr. Malcolm Laing 
 has ably shown that the diction of this pretended trans- 
 lation is a motley assemblage from all quarters ; but he 
 is so fond of making out parallel passages as to call 
 poor Macpherson to account for his very " ands" and 
 his "ftii/s.'" and he has weakened his argument by 
 conducting it as if he thought that every striking re- 
 semblance was a conscious plagiarism. It is enough 
 that the coincidences are too remarkable for its being 
 probable or possible that they could arise in different 
 minds without communication between them. Now as 
 the Translators of the Bible, Shakspeare, Milton, and 
 Pope, could not be indebted to Macpherson, it follows 
 that he must have owed his fine feathers to them ; un- 
 less we are prepared gravely to assert, with Madame 
 de Stael, th;it many of the characteristic beauties of 
 our most celebrated English Poets are derived from the 
 ancient Fingallian ; in which case the modern transla- 
 
 tor would have been but giving back to Ossian his own. 
 — It is consistent that Lucien Buonapaite, who would 
 censure Milton fur having surrounded Satan in the in- 
 fernal regions with courtly and regal splendour, should 
 pronounce the modern Ossian to be the glory of Scot- 
 land ; — a Country that has produced a Dunbar, a Bu- 
 chanan, a Thomson, and a Burns! These opinions 
 are of ill omen for the Epic ambition of him who has 
 given them to the world. 
 
 Yet, much as these pretended treasures of antiquity 
 have been admired, they have been wholly uninfluential 
 upon the literature of the country. No succeeding 
 Writer appears to have caught from them a ray of in- 
 spiration ; no Author, in the least distinguished, has 
 ventured formally to imitate them — except the Boy, 
 Chatterton, on their first appearance. He had perceiv- 
 ed, from the successful trials which he himself had 
 made in literary forgery, how (ew critics were able to 
 distinguish between a real ancient medal and a coun- 
 terfeit of modern manufacture ; and he set him.self to 
 the work of filling a Magazine with Saxnn poems, — 
 counterparts of those of Ossian, as like his as one of 
 his misty stars is to another. This incapability to amal- 
 gamate with the literature of the Island, is, in my es- 
 timation, a decisive proof that the book is essentially 
 unnatural; nor should I require any other to demon- 
 strate it to be a forgery, audacious as worthless. — Con- 
 trast, in this respect, the effect of Macpherson's publi- 
 cation with the Reliques of Percy, so unassuming, so 
 modest in their pretensions ! — I have already stated 
 how much Germany is indebted to this latter work; 
 and for our own Country, its Poetry has been abso- 
 lutely redeemed by it. I do not think that there is an 
 able Writer in verse of the present day who would not 
 be proud to acknowledge his obligations to the Reliques; 
 I know that is so with my friends ; and, for myself, I 
 am happy in this occasion to make a public avowal of 
 my own. 
 
 Dr. Johnson, more fortunate in his contempt of the 
 labours of Macpherson than those of his modest friend, 
 was solicited not long after to furnish Prefaces bio- 
 graphical and critical for the works of some of the most 
 eminent English Poets. The Booksellers took upon 
 themselves to make the collection ; they referred proba- 
 bly to the most popular miscellanies, and unquestion- 
 ably, to their Books of accounts; and decided upon the 
 claim of Authors to be admitted into a body of the most 
 Eminent, from the familiarity of their names with the 
 readers of that day, and by the profits, which, from the 
 sale of his works, each had brought and was bringing 
 to the Trade. The Editor was allowed a limited ex- 
 ercise of discretion, and the Authors whom he recom- 
 mended are scarcely to be mentioned without a smile. 
 We open the volume of Prefatory Lives, and to our 
 astonishment the_^rs( name we find is that of Cowley ! 
 — What is become of the Morning-star of English Po- 
 etry ! Where is the bright Elizabethan Constellation? 
 
ESSAY SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE. 
 
 493 
 
 Or, if Names be more acceptable than images, where 
 is the ever-to-be-honoured Chaucer "! where is Spenser ! 
 where Si()ney ■! and, lastly, where he, whose rights as 
 a Poet, contradistinguished from those which he is uni- 
 versally allowed to possess as a Dramatist, we have 
 vindicated,— where Shakspeare t — These, and a multi- 
 tude of others not unworthy to be placed near them, 
 their contemporaries and successors, we have not. But 
 in their stead, we have (could better be expected when 
 precedence was to be settled by an abstract of reputa- 
 tion at any given period made, as in this case before 
 us?) Roscommon, and Stepney, and Phillips, and 
 Walsh, and Smith, and Duke, and King, and Spratt — 
 Halifax, Granville, Sheffield, Congreve, Broome, and 
 other reputed Magnates : Writers in metre utterly 
 worthless and useless, except for occasions like the 
 present, when their productions are referred to as evi- 
 dence what a small quantity of brain is necessary to 
 procure a considerable stock of admiration, provided 
 the aspirant will accommodate himself to the likings 
 and fashions of his day. 
 
 As I do not mean to bring down this retrospect to oiir 
 own times, it may with propriety be closed at the era 
 of this distinguished event. From the literature of 
 other ages and countries, proofs equally cogent might 
 have been adduced, that the opinions announced in the 
 former part of this Essay are founded upon truth. It 
 was not an agreeable office, nor a prudent undertaking, 
 to declare them ; but their importance seemed to ren- 
 der it a duty. It may still be asked, where lies the 
 particular relation of what has been said to these Vol- 
 umes 1 — The question will be easily answered by the 
 discerning Reader who is old enough to remember the 
 taste that prevailed when some of these Poems were 
 first published, 17 years ago ; who has also observed to 
 what degree the Poetry of this Island has since that 
 period been coloured by them ; and who is further 
 aware of the unremitting hostility with which, upon 
 some principle or other, they have each and all been 
 opposed. A sketch of my own notion of^the constitu- 
 tion of Fame has been given; and, as far as concerns 
 myself, I have cause to be satisfied. The love, the ad- 
 miration, the indifference, the slight, the aversion, and 
 even the contempt, with which these Poems have been 
 received, knowing, as I do, the source within my own 
 mind, from which they have proceeded, and the labour 
 and pains, which, when labour and pains appeared 
 needful, have been bestowed upon them, must all, if I 
 think consistently, be received as pledges and tokens, 
 bearing the same general impression, though widely 
 different in value ; — they are all proofs that for the pre- 
 sent time I have not laboured in vain; and afford assu- 
 rances, more or less authentic, that the products of my 
 industry will endure. 
 
 If there be one conclusion more forcibly pressed up- 
 on us than another by the review which has been given 
 of the fortunes and fate of Poetical Works, it is this, — 
 
 that every Author, as far as he is great and at the same 
 time original, has had the task of creating the taste 
 by which he is to be enjoyed: so has it been, so will it 
 continue to be. This remark was long since made to 
 me by the philosophical Friend for the separation of 
 whose Poems from my own I have previously express- 
 ed my regret. The predecessors of an original Genius 
 of a high order will have smoothed the way for all that 
 he has in common with them ; — and much he will have 
 in common ; but, for what is peculiarly his own, he 
 will be called upon to clear and often to shape his own 
 road : — he will be in the condition of Hannibal among 
 the Alps. 
 
 And where lies the real difficulty of creating that 
 taste by which a truly original Poet is to be relished 1 
 Is it in breaking the bonds of custom, in overcoming 
 the prejudices of false refinement, and displacing the 
 aversions of inexperience 3 Or, if he labour for an 
 object which here and elsewhere I have proposed to 
 myself, does it consist in divesting the Reader of the 
 pride that induces him to dwell upon those points where- 
 in Men differ from each other, to the exclusion of those 
 in which all Men are alike, or the same ; and in 
 making him ashamed of the vanity that renders him in- 
 sensible of the appropriate excellence which civil ar- 
 rangements, less unjust than might appear, and Nature 
 illimitable in her bounty, have conferred on Men who 
 stand below him in the scale of society 1 Finally, does 
 it lie in establishing that dominion over the spirits of 
 Readers by which they are to be humbled and human- 
 ised, in order that they may be purified and exalted 1 
 
 If these ends are to be attained by the mere com- 
 munication of knowledge, it does not lie here. — Taste, 
 I would remind the Reader, like Imagination, is a 
 word which has been forced to extend its services far 
 beyond the point to which philosophy would have con- 
 fined them. It is a metaphor, taken from a passive 
 sense of the human body, and transferred to things 
 which are in their essence not passive, — to intel- 
 lectual acts and operations. The word. Imagination, 
 has been overstrained, from impulses honourable to 
 mankind, to meet the demands of the faculty which is 
 perhaps the noblest of our nature. In the instance of 
 Taste, the process has been reversed ; and from the 
 prevalence of dispositions at once injurious and discre- 
 ditable, — being no other than that selfishness which 
 is the child of apathy, — which, as Nations decline in 
 productive and creative power, makes them value 
 themselves upon a presumed refinement of judging. 
 Poverty of language is the primary cause of the use 
 which we make of the word, Imagination ; but the 
 word. Taste, has been stretched to the sense which it 
 bears in modern Europe by habits of self-conceit, in- 
 ducing that inversion in the order of things whereby a 
 passive faculty is made paramount among the faculties 
 conversant with the fine arts. Proportion and con- 
 gruity, the requisite knowledge being supposed, are 
 42 
 
494 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Bubjects upon which taste may be trusted ; it is compe- 
 tent to this office; — for in its intercourse with these 
 the mind is passive, and is affected painfully or 
 pleasurably as by an instinct. But the profound and 
 the exquisite in feeling-, the lofty and universal in 
 thought and imagination ; or, in ordinary language, the 
 pathetic and the sublime; — are neither of them, ac- 
 curately speaking, objects of a faculty which could 
 ever without a sinking in the spirit of Nations have 
 been designated by the metaphor — Taste. And why? 
 Because without the e.xertion of a co-operating power 
 in the mind of the Reader, there can be no adequate 
 sympathy with either of these emotions: without this 
 au.xiliary impulse, elevated or profound passion cannot 
 e.xist. 
 
 Passion, it must be observed, is derived from a word 
 which signifies suffering ; but the connection which 
 suffering has with effort, with e.xertion, and aclion, is 
 immediate and inseparable. How strikingly is this 
 property of human nature exhibited by the fact, that, 
 in popular language, to be in a passion, is to be angry ! 
 — But, 
 
 " Anger in hasty words or blows 
 Itself discharges od its foes." 
 
 To be moved, then, by a passion, is to be e.xcited, often 
 to e.xternal, and always to internal, effort ; whether for 
 the continuance and strengthening of the passion, or 
 for its suppression, accordingly as the course which it 
 takes may be painful or pleasurable. If the latter, the 
 soul must contribute to its support, or it never becomes 
 vivid, — and soon languishes, and dies. And this 
 brings us to the point. If every great Poet with whose 
 writings men are familiar, in the highest exercise of 
 his genius, before he can be thoroughly enjoyed, has 
 to call forth and to communicate power, this service, in 
 a still greater degree, falls upon an original Writer, at 
 his first appearance in the world. — Of genius the 
 only proof is, the act of doing well what is worthy to 
 be done, and what was never done before : Of genius, 
 in the fine arts, the only infallible sign is the widening 
 the spheres of human sensibility, for the delight, 
 honour, and benefit of human nature. Genius is the 
 introduction of a new element into the intellectual 
 universe: or, if that be not allowed, it is the applica- 
 tion of powers to objects on which they had not before 
 been exercised, or the employment of them in such a 
 manner as to produce effects hitherto unknown. What 
 is all this but an advance, or a conquest, made by the 
 soul of the Poet 1 Is it to be supposed that the Reader 
 can make progress of this kind, like an Indian Prince 
 or General — stretched on his Palanquin, and borne by 
 his Slaves ? No, he is invigorated and inspirited by 
 his Leader, in order that he may exert himself; for he 
 cannot proceed in quiescence, he cannot be carried 
 like a dead weight. Therefore to create taste is to 
 
 As the pathetic participates of an animal sensation, 
 it might seem — that, if the springs of this emotion 
 were genuine, all men, possessed of competent know- 
 ledge of the facts and circumstances, would be instan- 
 taneously affected. And, doubtless, in the works of 
 every true Poet will be found passages of that species 
 of excellence, which is proved by effects immediate 
 and universal. But there are emotions of the pathetic 
 that are simple and direct, and others — that are com- 
 plex and revolutionary; some — to which the heart 
 yields with gentleness, others— against which it strug- 
 gles with pride : these varieties are infinite as the com- 
 binations of circumstance and the constitutions of 
 character. Remember, also, that the medium through 
 which, in poetry, the heart is to be affected — is lan- 
 guage; a thing subject to endless fluctuations and ar- 
 bitrary associations. The genius of the Poet melts 
 these down for his purpose ; but they retain their shape 
 and quality to him who is not capable of exerting, 
 within his own mind, a corresponding energy. There 
 is also a meditative, as well as a human, pathos ; an 
 enthusiastic, as well as an ordinary, sorrow; a sadness 
 that has its seat in the depths of reason, to which the 
 mind cannot sink gently of itself — but to which it 
 must descend by treading the steps of thought. And 
 for the sublime, — if we consider what are the cares 
 that occupy the passing day, and how remote is the 
 practice and the course of life from the sources of sub- 
 limity, in the soul of Man, can it be wondered that 
 there is little existing preparation for a Poet charged 
 with a new mission to extend its kingdom, and to aug- 
 ment and spread its enjoyments'! 
 
 Away, then, with the senseless iteration of the word, 
 popular, applied to new works in Poetry, as if there 
 were no test of excellence in this first of the fine arts 
 but that all Men should run after its productions, as if 
 urged by an appetite, or constrained by a spell I — The 
 qualities of writing best fitted for eager reception are 
 either such as startle the world into attention by their 
 audacity and extravagance; or they are chiefly of a 
 superficial kind, lying upon the surfaces of manners; 
 or arising out of a selection and arrangement of inci- 
 dents, by which the mind is kept upon the stretch of 
 curiosity, and the fancy amused without the trouble 
 of thought. But in every thing which is to send the 
 soul into herself, to be admonished of her weakness, or 
 to be made conscious of her power; — wherever life 
 and nature are described as operated upon by the crea- 
 tive or abstracting virtue of the imagination; wherever 
 the instinctive wisdom of antiquity and her heroic pas- 
 sions uniting, in the heart of the Poet, with the medi- 
 tative wisdom of later ages, have produced that accord 
 of sublimated humanity, which is at once a history of 
 the remote past and a prophetic annunciation of the 
 
 call forth and bestow power, of which knowledge ia remotest future, there, the Poet must reconcile himself 
 the effect; and i/jere lies the true difficulty. I for a season to few and scattered hearers. — Grand 
 
ESSAY SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE. 
 
 495 
 
 thoughts (and Shakspeare must often have sighed over 
 this truth), as they are most naturally and most fitly 
 conceived in solitude, so can they not be brought forth 
 in the midst of plaudits, without some violation of 
 their sanctity. Go to a silent exhibition of the pro- 
 ductions of the Sister Art, and be convinced that the 
 qualities which dazzle at first sight, and kindle the 
 admiration of the multitude, are essentially diflferent 
 from those by which permanent influence is secured. 
 Let us not shrink from following up these principles as 
 far as they will carry us, and conclude with observing 
 — that there never has been a period, and perhaps 
 never will be, in which vicious poetry, of some kind 
 or other, has not excited more zealous admiration, and 
 been far more generally read, than good ; but this ad- 
 vantage attends the good, that the individual, as well 
 as the species, survives from age to age; whereas, of 
 the depraved, though the species be immortal, the in- 
 dividual quickly perishes; the object of present ad- 
 miration vanishes, being supplanted by some other as 
 easily produced ; which, though no better, brings with 
 it at least the irritation of novelty, — with adaptation, 
 more or less skilful, to the changing humours of the 
 majority of those who are most at leisure to regard 
 poetical works when they first solicit their attention. 
 
 Is it the result of the whole, that, in the opinion of 
 the Writer, the judgment of the People is not to be 
 respected] The thought is most injurious; and, could 
 the charge be brought against him, he would repel it 
 with indignation. The People have already been jus- 
 tified, and their eulogium pronounced by implication, 
 when it was said, above — that, of good Poetry, the 
 individual, as well as the species, survives. And how 
 does it survive but through the Peopled what pre- 
 serves it but their intellect and their wisdom? 
 
 " Past and future, are the wings 
 
 On whose support, harmoniously conjoined, 
 
 Moves the great Spirit of human knowledge " 
 
 MS. 
 
 The voice that issues from this Spirit, is that Vox 
 Populi which the Deity inspires. Foolish must he be 
 who can mistake for this a local acclamation, or a 
 transitory outcry — transitory though it be for years, 
 local though from a Nation. Still more lamentable is 
 his error who can believe that there is any thing of 
 divine infallibility in the clamour of that small though 
 loud portion of the community, ever governed by fac- 
 titious influence, which, under the name of the Pub- 
 lic, passes itself, upon the unthinking, for the People. 
 Towards the Public, the Writer hopes that he feels as 
 much deference as it is entitled to : but to the People, 
 philosopliically characterised, and to the embodied 
 spirit of their knowledge, so far as it exists and moves, 
 at the present, faithfully supported by its two wings, 
 the past and the future, his devout respect, his 
 reverence, is due. He ofifers it willingly and readily ; 
 and, this done, takes leave of his Readers, by assuring 
 them — that, if he were not persuaded that the Con- 
 tents of this Volume, and the Work to which they 
 are subsidiary, evinced something of the "Vision and 
 the Faculty divine ;" and that, both in words and 
 things, they will operate in their degree, to extend 
 the domain of sensibility for the delight, the honour, 
 and the benefit of human nature, notwithstanding the 
 many happy hours which he has employed in their 
 composition, and the manifold comforts and enjoyments 
 they have procured to him, he would not, if a wish 
 could do it, save them from immediate destruction ; — 
 from becoming at this moment to the world, as a thing 
 that had never been. 
 
APPENDIX II. 
 
 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 PREFIXED TO THE SECOND EDITION OF SEVERAL OF THE FOREGOING POEMS, PUBLISHED, 
 WITH AN ADDITIONAL VOLUME, UNDER THE TITLE OF "LYRICAL BALLADS,"* AND NOTE 
 ON POETIC DICTION. 
 
 A PORTION of these Poems has already been sub- 
 mitted to general perusal. It was published, as an ex- 
 periment, which, I hoped, might be of some use to 
 ascertain, how far, by fitting to metrical arrangement 
 a selection of the real language of men in a state of 
 vivid sensation, that sort of pleasure and that quantity 
 of pleasure may be imparted, which a Poet may ra- 
 tionally endeavour to impart.f 
 
 * See Preface, page ix. 
 
 ■f [The occasion of the " Lyrical Ballads" is thus narrated by 
 Coleridge : — 
 
 •' During the first year that Mr. Wordsworth and I were neigh- 
 bours, our ronvei-sations turned frequenlly on the two cardinal 
 poiniB of poetry, tlie power of exciting the sympathy of the 
 reader l>y a faiiliful adherence to the truth of nature, and the 
 power of giving the interesl of novelty, by the modifying co- 
 lours of imagination. The sudden charm, which accidents of 
 li'>lit and shade, which moonlight or sun-set diffused over a 
 known and familiar landscape, appeared to represent the prac- 
 ticabdily of combining both. These are the poetry of nature. 
 The thought suggested itself (to which of us I do not recollect,) 
 that a series of poems might be composed of two sorts. In the 
 one, the incidents and agents were to be, in part at least, super- 
 natural ; and the excellence aimed at, was to consist in the in- 
 teresting of the affections by Ihedramatic truth of such emotions, 
 as would naturally accompany such situations, supposing them 
 real. And real in thin sense they have been to every human 
 being who. from whatever source of delusion, has at any time 
 believed himself under supernatural agency. For the second 
 cliiss, subjects were to be chosen from ordinary life ; the char- 
 acters and incidents were to be such as will be Ibund in every 
 village and its vicinity, where there is a meditative and feeling 
 mind to seek after them, or to notice them, when they present 
 themselves. 
 
 " In this idea originated the plan of the ' Lyrical Ballads ;' 
 in which it was agreed that my endeavours should be directed 
 to persons and characters supernatural, or at least romantic ; yet 
 so as to transfer from our inward nature a human inlcrest, ;md 
 a semblance of truth suflicient to procure for these -liadows of 
 imagination that willing suspension of disbelief for tiie moment, 
 which constitutes poetic faith. Mr. Wordsworth, on the other 
 hand, was to propose to himself, as his object, to give the charm 
 of novelty to things of every day, and to excite a feeling analo- 
 gous to the supernatural, by awakening the mind's attention 
 
 I had formed no very inaccurate estimate of the pro- 
 bable effect of those Poems : I flattered myself that they 
 who should be pleased with them would read them 
 with more than common pleasure: and, on the other 
 hand, I was well aware, that by those who should dis- 
 like them, they would he read with more than com- 
 mon dislike. The result has differed from my expect- 
 ation in this only, that I have pleased a greater num- 
 ber than I ventured to hope I should please. 
 
 ******** 
 
 Several of my Friends are an.xious for the success 
 of these Poems, from a belief, that, if the views with 
 which they were composed were indeed realised, a 
 class of Poetry would be produced, well adapted to 
 interest mankind permanently, and not unimportant in 
 the multiplicity, and in the quality of its moral rela- 
 tions: and on this account they have advised me to 
 prefix a systematic defence of the theory upon which 
 the poems were written. But I was unwilling to un- 
 dertake the task, because I knew that on this occa.sion 
 the Reader would look coldly upon my arguments, 
 since I might be suspected of having been principally 
 influenced by the selfish and foolish hope of reasoning 
 hiin into an approbation of these particular Poems: 
 and I was still more unwilling to undertake the task, 
 because, adequately to display my opinions, and fully 
 to enforce my arguments, would require a space wholly 
 disproportionate to the nature of a preface. For to 
 treat the subject with the clearness and coherence of 
 which I believe it susceptible, it would be necessary 
 
 from the lethargy of custom, and directing it to the loveliness 
 and the wonders of the world before us; an inexhaustible trea- 
 sure, but for which, in consequence of the film of familiarity 
 and selfish solicitude, we have eyes, yet see not, ears that hear 
 not, and hearts that neither feel nor understand." 
 
 ' Biographia LitcTUna' : — Ch. xiv. 
 In several Chapters of the same work, the subject of these 
 "Observations, &c.," forming Appendix 11. of this Edition, is 
 fully discussed. H. R.] 
 
OBSERVATIONS, &c. 
 
 497 
 
 to g-ive a full account of the present state of the public 
 taste in this country, and to determine how far this 
 taste is healthy or depraved ; which, again, could not 
 be determined, without pointing out, in what manner 
 language and the human mind act and re-act on each 
 other, and without retracing the revolutions, not of 
 literature alone, but likewise of society itself. I have 
 therefore altogether declined to enter regularly upon 
 this defence ; yet I am sensible, that there would be 
 some impropriety in abruptly obtruding upon the Pub- 
 lic, without a few words of introduction. Poems so 
 materially different from those upon which general 
 approbation is at present bestowed. 
 
 It is supposed, that by the act of writing in verse an 
 Author makes a formal engagement that he will gra- 
 tify certain known habits of association ; that he not 
 only thus apprises the Reader that certain classes of 
 ideas and expressions will be found in his book, but 
 that others will be carefully excluded. This exponent 
 or symbol held forth by metrical language must in dif- 
 ferent eras of literature have excited very different 
 expectations: for example, in the age of Catullus, 
 Terence, and Lucretius, and that of Statins or Clau- 
 dian ; and in our own country, in the age of Shak- 
 speare and Beaumont and Fletcher, and that of Donne 
 and Cowley, or Dryden, or Pope. I will not take upon 
 me to determine the exact import of the promise 
 which by the act of writing in verse an Author, in the 
 present day, makes to his reader : but I am certain it 
 will appear to many persons that I have not fulfilled 
 the terms of an engagement thus voluntarily con- 
 tracted. They who have been accustomed to the 
 gaudiness and inane phraseology of many modern 
 writers, if they persist in reading this book to its con- 
 clusion, will, no doubt, frequently have to struggle 
 with feelings of strangeness and awkwardness: they 
 will look round for poetry, and will be induced to en- 
 quire by what species of courtesy these attempts can 
 be permitted to assume that title. I hope therefore 
 the reader will not censure me, if I attempt to state 
 what I have proposed to myself to perform ; and also, 
 (as far as the limits of a preface will permit) to explain 
 some of the chief reasons which have determined me 
 in the choice of my purpose : that at least he may be 
 spared any unpleasant feeling of disappointment, and 
 that I myself may be protected from the most dis- 
 I honourable accusation which can be brought against an 
 Author, namely, that of an indolence which prevents 
 him from endeavouring to ascertain what is his duty, 
 or, when his duty is ascertained, prevents him from 
 performing it. 
 
 The principal object, then, which I proposed to my- 
 self in these Poems was to choose incidents and situa- 
 tions from common life, and to relate or describe them, 
 throughout, as far as was possible in a selection of 
 lano-uage really used by men, and, at the same time, 
 to throw over them a certain colouring of imagination, 
 3N 
 
 whereby ordinary things should be presented to the 
 mind in an unusual way ; and, further, and above all, 
 to make these incidents and situations interesting by 
 tracing in them, truly, though not ostentatiously, the 
 primary laws of our nature : chiefly, as far as regards 
 the manner in which we associate ideas in a state of 
 excitement. Humble and rustic life was generally 
 chosen, because, in that condition, the essential passions 
 of the heart find a better soil in which they can attain 
 their maturity, are less under restraint, and speak a 
 plainer and more emphatic language : because in that 
 condition of life our elementary feelings co-exist in a 
 state of greater simplicity, and, consequently, may be 
 more accurately contemplated, and more forcibly com- 
 municated; because the manners of rural life germi- 
 nate from those elementary feelings; and, from the 
 necessary character of rural occupations, are more 
 easily comprehended, and are more durable; and, last- 
 ly, because in that condition the passions of men are 
 incorporated with the beautiful and permanent forms 
 of nature. The language, too, of these men is adopted 
 (purified indeed from what appear to be its real defects, 
 from all lasting and rational causes of dislike or dis- 
 gust) because such men hourly communicate with the 
 best objects from which the best part of language is 
 originally derived ; and because, from their rank in 
 society and the sameness and narrow circle of their 
 intercourse, being less under the influence of social 
 vanity, they convey their feelings and notions in sim- 
 ple and unelaborated expressions. Accordingly, such a 
 language, arising out of repeated experience and regu- 
 lar feelings, is a more permanent, and a far more phi- 
 losophical language, than that which is frequently 
 substituted for it by Poets, who think that they are 
 conferring honour upon themselves and their art, in 
 proportion as they separate themselves from the sym- 
 pathies of men, and indulge in arbitrary and capricious 
 habits of expression, in order to furnish food for fickle 
 tastes, and fickle appetites of their own creation.* 
 
 I cannot, however, be insensible of the present out- 
 cry against the triviality and meanness, both of thought 
 and language, which some of my contemporaries have 
 occasionally introduced into their metrical compositions ; 
 and I acknowledge that this defect, where it exists, is 
 more dishonourable to the Writer's own character than 
 false refinement or arbitrary innovation, though I should 
 contend, at the same time, that it is far less pernicious 
 in the sum of its consequences. From such verses the 
 Poems in this collection will be found distinguished at 
 least by one mark of diflference, that each has a worthy 
 purpose. Not that I mean to say, I always began to 
 write with a distinct purpose formally conceived ; but 
 my habits of meditation have so formed my feelings, 
 
 * It is worth while here to observe, that the affecting parts of 
 Chaucer are almost always expressed in language pure and uni- 
 veisally intelligible even to this day. 
 42* 
 
493 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 as that my descriptions of such ohjects as strongly ex- 
 cite those feelings, will be found to carry along with 
 them a purpose. If in this opinion I am mistaken, I 
 can have little right to the name of a Poet. For all 
 good poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful 
 feelings: and though this be true, Poems to which any 
 value can be attached were never produced on any va- 
 riety of subjects but by a man who, being possessed 
 of more tlian usual organic sensibility, had also thought 
 long and deeply. For our continued influxes of feeling 
 are modified and directed by our thoughts, which are 
 indeed the representatives of all our past feelings; and, 
 as by contemplating the relation of these general re- 
 presentatives to each other, we discover what is really 
 important to men, so, by the repetition and continuance 
 of this act, our feelings will be connected with impor- 
 tant subjects, till at length, if we be originally pos- 
 sessed of much sensibility, such habits of mind will be 
 produced, that, by obeying blindly and mechanically 
 the impulses of those habits, we shall describe objects, 
 and utter sentiments, of such a nature, and in such 
 connection with each other, that the understanding of 
 the being to whom we address ourselves, if he be in a 
 healthful state of association, must necessarily be in 
 some degree enlightened, and his afliections ameliorated. 
 I have said that each of these poems has a purpose. 
 I have also informed my Reader what this purpose 
 will be found principally to be : namely, to illustrate 
 the manner in which our feelings and ideas are asso- 
 ciated in a state of excitement. But, speaking in lan- 
 guage somewhat more appropriate, it is to follow the 
 fluxes and refluxes of the mind when agitated by the 
 great and simple aifections of our nature. This object 
 I have endeavoured in these short essays to attain by 
 various means; by tracing the maternal passion through 
 many of its more subtile windings, as in the poems of 
 the Idiot Boy and the Mad INIother ; by accompany- 
 ing the last struggles of a human being at the ap- 
 proach of death, cleaving in solitude to life and society, 
 as in the Poem of the Forsaken Indian ; by showing, 
 as in the Stanzas entitled We are Seven, the per- 
 plexity and obscurity which in childhood attend our 
 notion of death, or rather our utter inability to admit 
 that notion ; or by displaying the strength of fraternal, 
 or, to speak more philosophical!}', of moral attachment 
 when early associated with the great and beautiful ob- 
 jects of nature, as in The Brothers; or, as in the 
 Incident of Simon Lee, by placing my Reader in the 
 way of receiving from ordinary moral sensations 
 another and more salutary impression than we are ac- 
 customed to receive from them. It has also been part 
 of my general purpose to attempt to sketch cliaracters 
 under the influence of less impassioned feelings, as in 
 the Two April Mornings, The Fountai.m, The Old 
 Man travelling. The Two Thieves, &c., characters 
 of which the elements are simple, belonging rather to 
 nature than to manners, such as e.xist now, and will pre- 
 
 bably always exist, and which from their constitution 
 may be distinctly and profitably contemplated. I will not 
 abuse the indulgence of my Reader by dwelling longer 
 upon this subject; but it is proper that I should mention 
 one other circumstance which distinguishes these 
 Poems from the popular Poetry of the day ; it is this, 
 that the feeling therein developed gives importance to 
 the action and situation, and not the action and situa- 
 tion to the feeling. My meaning will be rendered 
 perfectly intelligible by referring my Reader to the 
 Poems entitled Poor Susan and the Childless Fa- 
 ther, particularly to the last Stanza of the latter 
 Poem. 
 
 I will not suffer a sense of false modesty to prevent 
 me from asserting, that I point my Reader's attention 
 to this mark of distinction, far less for the sake of 
 these particular Poems than from the general import- 
 ance of the subject. The subject is indeed important! 
 For the human mind is capable of being excited with- 
 out the application of gross and violent stimulants; 
 and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty 
 and dignity who does not know this, and who does not 
 further know, that one being is elevated above another, 
 in proportion as he possesses this capability. It has 
 therefore appeared to me, that to endeavour to produce 
 or enlarge this capability is one of the best services in 
 which, at any period, a Writer can be engaged; but 
 this service, excellent at all times, is especially so at 
 the present day. For a multitude of causes, unknown 
 to former times, are now acting with a combined force 
 to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and un- 
 fitting it for all voluntary exertion, to reduce it to a 
 state of almost savage torpor. The most efl'ective of 
 these causes are the great national events which are 
 daily taking place, and the increasing accumulation of 
 men in cities, where the uniformity of their occupa- 
 tions produces a craving for extraordinary incident, 
 which the rapid communication of intelligence hourly 
 gratifies. To this tendency of life and manners the 
 literature and theatrical e.xhibitions of the country have 
 conformed themselves. The invaluable works of our 
 elder writers, I had almost said the works of Shak- 
 speare and Milton, are driven into neglect by frantic 
 novels, sickly and stupid German Tragedies, and delu- 
 ges of idle and extravagant stories in verse. — Wlien I 
 think upon this degrading thirst after outrageous stim- 
 ulation, I am almost ashamed to have spoken of the 
 feeble efibrt with which I have endeavoured to coun- 
 teract it ; and, reflecting upon the magnitude of the 
 general evil, I should be oppressed with no dishonour- 
 able melancholy, had I not a deep impression of certain 
 inherent and indestructible qualities of the human 
 mind, and likewise of certain powers in the great and 
 permanent objects that act upon it, which are equally 
 inherent and indestructible ; and did I not further add 
 to this impression a belief, that the time is approaching 
 when the evil will be systematically opposed, by men 
 
 
OBSERVATIONS, &c. 
 
 499 
 
 of o-reater powers, and with far more distinguished 
 success. 
 
 Having dwelt thus long on the subjects and aim of 
 these Poems, I shall request the Reader's permission 
 to apprise him of a few circumstances relating to their 
 style, in order, among other reasons, that I may not be 
 censured for not having performed what I never at- 
 tempted. The Reader will find that personifications 
 of abstract ideas rarely occur in these volumes; and, I 
 hope, are utterly rejected, as an ordinary device to ele- 
 vate the style, and to raise it above prose. I have pro- 
 posed to myself to imitate, and, as far as is possible, to 
 adopt the very language of men ; and assuredly such 
 personifications do not malte any natural or regular 
 part of that language. They are, indeed, a figure of 
 speech occasionally prompted by passion, and I have 
 made use of them as such ; but I have endeavoured 
 utterly to reject them as a mechanical device of style, 
 or as a family language which Writers in metre seem 
 to lay claim to by prescription. I have wished to keep 
 my Reader in the company of flesh and blood, persua- 
 ded that by doing so 1 shall interest him. I am, how- 
 ever, well aware that others who pursue a different 
 track may interest him likewise; I do not interfere 
 with their claim, I only wish to prefer a claim of my 
 own. There will also be found in this collection little 
 of what is usually called poetic diction ; I have taken 
 as much pains to avoid it as others ordinarily take to 
 produce it; this I have done for the reason already 
 alleged, to bring my language near to the language 
 of men, and further, because the pleasure which I 
 have proposed to myself to impart, is of a kind very 
 different from that which is supposed by many persons 
 to be the proper object of poetry. I do not know how, 
 without being culpably particular, I can give my Read- 
 er a more exact notion of the style in which I wished 
 these poems to be written, than by informing him that 
 I have at all times endeavoured to look steadily at my 
 subject, consequently, I hope that there is in these 
 Poems little falsehood of description, and that my ideas 
 are expressed in language fitted to their respective im- 
 portance. Something I must have gained by this prac- 
 tice, as it is friendly to one property of all good poetry, 
 namely, good sense : but it has necessarily cut me off 
 from a large portion of phrases and figures of speech 
 which from father to son have long been regarded as 
 the common inheritance of Poets. I have also thought 
 it expedient to restrict myself still further, having ab- 
 stained from the use of many expressions, in themselves 
 proper and beautiful, but which have been foolishly re- 
 peated by bad Poets, till such feelings of disgust are 
 connected with them as it is scarcely possible by any 
 art of association to overpower. 
 
 If in a poem there should be found a series of lines, 
 or even a single line, in which the language, though 
 naturally arranged, and according to the strict laws of 
 metre, does not differ from that of prose, there is a nu- 
 
 merous class of critics, who, when they stumble upon 
 these prosaisms, as they call them, imagine that they 
 have made a notable discovery, and exult over the Poet 
 as over a man ignorant of his own profession. Now 
 these men would establish a canon of criticism which 
 the Reader will conclude he must utterly reject, if he 
 wishes to be pleased with these Poems. And it 
 would be a most easy task to prove to him, that not 
 only the language of a large portion of every good 
 poem, even of the most elevated character, must ne- 
 cessarily, except with reference to the metre, in no re- 
 spect difl'er from that of good prose, but likewise that 
 some of the most interesting parts of the best poems 
 will be found to be strictly the language of prose, when 
 prose is well written. The truth of this assertion might 
 be demonstrated by innumerable passages from almost 
 all the poetical writings, even of Milton himself 1 
 have not space for much quotation ; but, to illustrate 
 the subject in a general manner, I will here adduce a 
 short composition of Gray, who was at the head of 
 those who, by their reasonings, have attempted to widen 
 the space of separation betwixt Prose and Metrical 
 composition, and was more than any other man curi- 
 ously elaborate in the structure of his own poetic dic- 
 tion. 
 
 " In vain to me the smiling mornings shine. 
 And reddening Phcebus lifts his golden fire : 
 The birds in vain their amorous descant join, 
 Or cheerful fields resume their green attire. 
 These ears, alas ! for other notes repine ; 
 A different object do these eyes require ; 
 My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine ; 
 And in my breast the imperfect joys expire ; 
 Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer, 
 And new-born pleasure brings to happier men ; 
 The fields to all their wonted tribute bear ; 
 To warm their litrte loves the birds complain. 
 J fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear. 
 And weep the more because I weep in vain." 
 
 It will easily be perceived, that the only part of this 
 Sonnet which is of any value is the lines printed in 
 Italics ; it is equally obvious, that, except in the rhyme, 
 and in the use of the single word "fruitless" for fruit- 
 lessly, which is so far a defect, the language of these 
 lines does in no respect differ from that of prose. 
 
 By the foregoing quotation I have shown that the 
 language of Prose may yet be well adapted to Poetry ; 
 and I have previously asserted, that a large portion of 
 the language of every good poem can in no respect dif- 
 fer from that of good Prose. I will go further. I do 
 not doubt that it may be safely affirmed, that there 
 neither is, nor can be, any essential difference between 
 the language of prose and metrical composition. We 
 are fond of tracing the resemblance between Poetry 
 and Painting, and, accordingly, we call them Sisters: 
 but where shall wo find bonds of connection sufficiently 
 strict to typify the affinity betwixt metrical and prose 
 composition ] They both speak by and to the same 
 
500 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 organs; the bodies in which both of them are clothed 
 may be said to be of the same substance, their affections 
 are kindred, and ahnost identical, not necessarily dif- 
 fering even in degree; Poetry* sheds no tears " such 
 as Angels weep," but natural and human tears; she 
 can boast of no celestial Ichor that distinguishes her 
 vital juices from those of prose; the same human blood 
 circulates through the veins of them botli. 
 
 If it be affirmed that rhyme and metrical arrange- 
 ment of themselves constitute a distinction which over- 
 turns what I have been saying on the strict affinity of 
 metrical language with that of prose, and paves the 
 way for other artificial distinctions which the mind vol- 
 untarily admits, I answer that the language of such Po- 
 etry as I am recommending is, as far as is possible, a 
 selection of the language really spoken by men ; that 
 this selection, wherever it is made with true taste and 
 feeling, will of itself form a distinction far greater than 
 would at first be imagined, and will entirely separate 
 tlie composition from the vulgarity and meanness of 
 ordinary life; and, if metre he superadded thereto, I 
 believe that a dissimilitude will he produced altogether 
 sufficient for the gratification of a rational mind. What 
 other distinction would we havel Whence is it to 
 cornel And where is it to exist? Not, surely, where 
 the Poet speaks through the mouths of his characters: 
 it cannot be necessary here, either for elevation of 
 style, or any of its supposed ornaments : for, if the Po- 
 et's subject be judiciously chosen, it will naturally, and 
 upon fit occasion, lead him to passions the language of 
 which, if selected truly and judiciously, must necessa- 
 rily be dignified and variegated, and alive with meta- 
 phors and figures. I forbear to speak of an incongrui- 
 ty which would shock the intelligent Reader, should 
 the Poet interweave any foreign splendour of his own 
 with that which the passion naturally suggests : it is 
 sufficient to say that such addition is unnecessary. 
 And, surely, it is more probable that those passages, 
 which with propriety abound with metaphors and fig- 
 ures, will have their due effect, if, upon other occa- 
 sions where the passions are of a milder character, the 
 style also be subdued and temperate. 
 
 But, as the pleasure which I hope to give by the 
 Poems I now present to the Reader must depend en- 
 tirely on just notions upon this subject, and, as it is in 
 itself of the highest importance to our taste and moral 
 feelings, I cannot content myself with these detached 
 remarks. And if, in what I am about to say, it shall 
 
 ' I here use the word " Poetry" (though against my own judg- 
 ment) as opposed to the word Prose, and synonymous with metri- 
 cal composition. But much confusion h-is been introduced into 
 criticism by this contradistinction of Poetry and I'rose. instead 
 of tlie more pliilosopliical one of Poetry and Matter of Fact, or 
 Science. The only strict antithesis to Prose is Metre ; nor is 
 this, in truth, a strict antithesis; because hues and passages of 
 metre so naturally occur in writing prose, that it would be scarce- 
 ly possible to avoid them, even were it desirable. 
 
 appear to some that my labour is unnecessary, and that 
 I am like a man fighting a battle without enemies, I 
 would remind such persons, that, whatever may be the 
 language outwardly holden by men, a practical faith in 
 the opinions which I am wishing to establish is almost 
 unknown. If my conclusions are admitted, and carried 
 as far as they must be carried if admitted at all, our 
 judgments concerning the works of the greatest Poets 
 both ancient and modern will be far different from 
 what they are at present, both when we praise, and 
 when we censure; and our moral feelings influencing 
 and influenced by these judgments will, I believe, be 
 corrected and purified. 
 
 Taking up the subject, then, upon general grounds, 
 I ask, what is meant by the word Poet? What is a 
 Poell To whom does he address hirn.self? And what 
 language is to be expected from him? He is a man 
 speaking to men : a man, it is true, endued with more 
 lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and tenilerne.-^s, 
 who has a greater knowledge of human nature, and a 
 more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to be com- 
 mon among mankind; a man pleased with his own 
 passions and volitions, and who rejoices more tlian other 
 men in the spirit of life that is in him; delightin? to 
 contemplate similar volitions and passions as manifested 
 in the goings-on of the Universe, and habitually im- 
 pelled to create them where he does not find them. 
 To these qualities he has added a disposition to be af- 
 fected more than other men by absent things as if Ihey 
 were present; an ability of conjuring up in himself 
 passions, which are indeed far from being the same as 
 those produced by real events, yet (especially in those 
 parts of the general sympathy which are pleasing and 
 delightful) do more nearly resemble the passions pro- 
 duced by real events, than any thing which, from the 
 motions of their own mind merely, other men are ac- 
 customed to feel in themselves; whence, and from 
 practice, he has acquired a greater readiness and pow- 
 er in expressing what he thinks and feels, and espe- 
 cially those thoughts and feelings which, by his own 
 choice, or from the structure of his own mind, arise in 
 him without immediate external excitement. 
 
 But whatever portion of this faculty we may suppose 
 even the greatest Poet to possess, there cannot be a 
 doubt but that the language which it will suggest to 
 him, must, in liveliness and truth, fall far short of that 
 which is uttered by men in real life, under the actual 
 pressure of those passions, certain shadows of which 
 the Poet thus produces, or feels to be produced, in 
 himself. 
 
 However exalted a notion we would wish to clierish 
 of the character of a Poet, it is obvious, that while 
 he describes and imitates passions, his situation is alto- 
 gether slavish and mechanical, compared with tlie 
 freedom and power of real and substantial action and 
 suffering. So that it will be the wish of the Poet to 
 bring his feelings near to those of the persons whose 
 
OBSERVATIONS, &c. 
 
 501 
 
 feelings he describes, nay, for short spaces of time, 
 perhaps, to let himself slip into an entire delusion, and 
 even confound and identify his own feelings with 
 theirs ; modifying only the language which is thus 
 suggested to him by a consideration that he describes 
 for a particular purpose, that of giving pleasure. Here, 
 then, he will apply the principle on which I have so 
 much insisted, namely, that of selection : on this he 
 will depend for removing what would otherwise be 
 painful or disgusting in the passion ; ho will feel that 
 there is no necessity to trick out or to elevate nature : 
 and, the more industriously he applies this principle, 
 the deeper will be his faith that no words, which his 
 fancy or imagination can suggest, will be to be com- 
 pared with those which are the emanations of reality 
 and truth. 
 
 But it may be said by those who do not object to the 
 general spirit of these remarks, that, as it is impossible 
 for the Poet to produce upon all occasions language as 
 exquisitely fitted for the passion as that which the 
 real passion itself suggests, it is proper that he should 
 consider himself as in the situation of a translator, 
 who deems himself justified when he substitutes ex- 
 cellencies of another kind for those which are unat- 
 tainable by him.; and endeavours occasionally to sur- 
 pass his original, in order to make some amends for 
 the general inferiority to which he feels that he must 
 submit. But this would be to encourage idleness and 
 unmanly despair. Further, it is the language of men 
 who speak of what they do not understand ; who talk 
 of Poetry as of a matter of amusement and idle plea- 
 sure; who will converse with us as gravely about a 
 taste for Poetry, as they express it, as if it were a 
 thing as indifferent as a taste for Rope-dancing, or 
 Frontiniac or Sherry. Aristotle, I have been told, hath 
 said, that Poetry is the most philosophic of all writing: 
 it is so: its object is truth, not individual and local, but 
 general, and operative ; not standing upon external 
 testimony, but carried alive into the heart by passion ; 
 truth which is its own testimony, which gives strength 
 and divinity to the tribunal to which it appeals, and 
 receives them from the same tribunal. Poetry is the 
 image of man and nature. The obstacles which stand 
 in the way of the fidelity of the Biographer and His- 
 torian, and of their consequent utility, are incalculably 
 greater than those which are to be encountered by the 
 Poet who has an adequate notion of the dignity of his 
 art. The Poet writes under one restriction only, 
 namely, that of the necessity of giving immediate 
 pleasure to a human Being possessed of that informa- 
 tion which may be expected from him, not as a lawyer, 
 a physician, a mariner, an astronomer, or a natural 
 philosopher, but as a Man. Except this one restriction, 
 there is no object standing between the Poet and the 
 image of things; between this, and the Biographer 
 and Historian, there are a thousand. 
 
 Nor let this necessity of producing immediate plea- 
 
 sure be considered as a degradation of the Poet's art. 
 It is far otherwise. It is an acknowledgment of the 
 beauty of the universe, an acknowledgment the more 
 sincere, because it is not formal, but indirect; it is a 
 task light and easy to him who looks at the world in 
 the spirit of love : further, it is a homage paid to the 
 native and naked dignity of man, to the grand ele- 
 mentary principle of pleasure, by which he knows, and 
 feels, and lives, and moves. We have no sympathy 
 but what is propagated by pleasure : I would not be 
 misunderstood ; but wherever we sympathise with 
 pain, it will be found that the sympathy is produced 
 and carried on by subtle combinations with pleasure. 
 We have no knowledge, that is, no general principles 
 drawn from the contemplation of particular facts, but 
 what has been built up by pleasure, and exists in us 
 by pleasure alone. The Man of Science, the Chemist 
 and Mathematician, whatever difficulties and disgusts 
 they may have had to struggle with, know and feel 
 this. However painful may be the objects with which 
 the Anatomist's knowledge is connected, he feels that 
 his knowledge is pleasure ; and where he has no plea- 
 sure he has no knowledge. What then does the 
 Poet"! He considers man and the objects that sur- 
 round him as acting and re-acting upon each other, so 
 as to produce an infinite complexity of pain and plea- 
 sure ; he considers man in his own nature and in his 
 ordinary life as contemplating this with a certain quan- 
 tity of immediate knowledge, with certain convictions, 
 intuitions, and deductions, which by habit become of 
 the nature of intuitions ; he considers him as looking 
 upon this complex scene of ideas and sensations, and 
 finding every where objects that immediately excite in 
 hirn sympathies which, from the necessities of his na- 
 ture, are accompanied by an overbalance of enjoyment. 
 To this knowledge which all men carry about with 
 them, and to these sympathies in which, without any 
 other discipline than that of our daily life, we are fit- 
 ted to take delight, the Poet principally directs his at- 
 tention. He considers man and nature as essentially 
 adapted to each other, and the mind of man as naturally 
 the mirror of the fairest and most interesting qualities 
 of nature. And thus the Poet, prompted by this feel- 
 ing of pleasure, which accompanies him through the 
 whole course of iiis studies, converses with general 
 nature with affections akin to those, which, through 
 labour and length of time, the Man of Science has 
 raised up in himself, by conversing with those particu- 
 lar parts of nature which are the objects of his studies. 
 The knowledge both of the Poet and the Man of Sci- 
 ence is pleasure ; but the knowledge of the one cleaves 
 to us as a necessary part of our existence, our natural 
 and unalienable inheritance ; the other is a personal 
 and individual acquisition, slow to come to us, and by 
 no habitual and direct sympathy connecting us with 
 our fellow-beings. The Man of Science seeks truth 
 as a remote and unknown benefactor ; he cherishes and 
 
502 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 loves it in his solitude : the Poet, singing a song in 
 which all human beings join with him, rejoices in the 
 presence of truth as our visible friend and hourly com- 
 panion. Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all 
 knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is 
 in the countenance of all Science.* Emphatically may 
 it be said of the Poet, as Shakspeare hath said of man, 
 " that he looks before and after." He is the rock of 
 defence of human nature ; an upholder and preserver, 
 carrying every where with him relationship and love. 
 In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language 
 and manners, of laws and customs, in spite of things 
 silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroy- 
 ed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge 
 the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over 
 the whole earth, and over all time. The objects of the 
 Poet's thoughts are every where ; though the eyes and 
 senses of man are, it is true, his favourite guides, yet 
 he will follow wheresoever he can find an atmosphere 
 of sensation in which to move his wings. Poetry is the 
 first and last of all knowledge — it is as immortal as 
 the heart of man. If the labours of Men of Science 
 should ever create any material revolution, direct or 
 indirect, in our condition, and in the impressions which 
 we habitually receive, the Poet will sleep then no more 
 than at present, but he will be ready to follow tlie steps 
 of the Man of Science, not only in those general indi- 
 rect effects, but he will be at his side, carrying sensa- 
 tion into the midst of the objects of the Science itself 
 The remotest discoveries of the Chemist, the Botanist, 
 or Mineralogist, will be as proper objects of the Poet's 
 art as any upon which it can be employed, if the time 
 should ever come when these things shall be familiar 
 to us, and the relations under which they are contem- 
 plated by the followers of these respective sciences 
 shall be manifestly and palpably material to us as en- 
 joying and suffering beings. If the time should ever 
 come when what is now called Science, thus familiar- 
 ised to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form 
 of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit 
 to aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being 
 thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the 
 household of man. — It is not, then, to be supposed that 
 any one, who holds that sublime notion of Poetry which 
 I have attempted to convey, will break in upon the 
 sanctity and truth of his pictures by transitory and 
 accidental ornaments, and endeavour to e.vcite admi- 
 ration of himself by arts, the necessity of which must 
 manifestly depend upon the assumed meanness of his 
 subject. 
 
 What I have thus far said applies to Poetry in gene- 
 ral ; but especially to those parts of composition where 
 
 * [" No man was ever yet a great Poet, without being at the 
 same lime a profound Philosopher. For Poetry is the blossom 
 and the fragrance of all human knowledge, human thoughts, 
 human passions, emotions, language." 
 
 CoLERiixjE: ' Biographia Lileraria^ : Ch. xv. IL R] 
 
 the Poet speaks through the mouths of his characters ; 
 and upon this point it appears to have such weight, 
 that I will conclude, there are few persons of good 
 sense, who would not allow that the dramatic parts of 
 composition are defective, in proportion as they de- 
 viate from the real language of nature, and are 
 coloured by a diction of the Poet's own, either pecu- 
 liar to him as an individual Poet or belonging simply 
 to Poets in general, to a body of men who, from the 
 circumstance of their compositions being in metre, it 
 is expected will employ a particular language. 
 
 It is not, then, in the dramatic parts of cotnposition 
 that we look for this distinction of language ; but still 
 it may be proper and necessary where the Poet speaks 
 to us in his own person and character. To this I an- 
 swer by referring my Reader to the description which 
 I have before given of a Poet. Among the qualities 
 which I have enumerated as principally conducing to 
 form a Poet, is implied nothing differing in kind from 
 other men, but only in degree. The sum of what I 
 have there said is, that the Poet is chiefly distinguished 
 from other men by a greater promptness to think and 
 feel without immediate external excitement, and a 
 greater power in expressing such thoughts and feel- 
 ings as are produced in him in that manner. But 
 these passions and thoughts and feelings are the gene- 
 ral passions and thoughts and feelings of men. And 
 with what are they connected'! Undoubtedly with 
 our moral sentiments and animal sensations, and with 
 the causes which excite these ; with the operations of 
 the elements, and the appearances of the visible uni- 
 verse ; with storm and sunshine, with the revolutions 
 of the seasons, with cold and heat, with loss of friends 
 and kindred, with injuries and resentments, gratitude 
 and hope, with fear and sorrow. These, and the like, 
 are the sensations and objects which the Poet describes, 
 as they are the sensations of other men, and the objects 
 which interest them. The Poet thinks and feels in 
 the spirit of the passions of men. How, then, can his 
 language differ in any material degree from that of all 
 other men who feel vividly and see clearly ? It might 
 be proved that it is impossible. But supposing that 
 this were not the case, the Poet might then be allow- 
 ed to use a peculiar language when expressing his 
 feelings for his own gratification, or that of men like 
 himself. But Poets do not write for Poets alone, but 
 for men. Unless therefore we are advocates for that 
 admiration which depends upon ignorance, and that 
 pleasure which arises from hearing what we do not 
 understand, the Poet must descend from this -supposed 
 height, and, in order to excite rational sympathy, he 
 must express himself as other men express themselves: 
 To this it may be added, that while he is only select- 
 ing from the real language of men, or, which amounts 
 to the same thing, composing accurately in the spirit 
 of such selection, he is treading upon safe ground, and 
 we know what we are to expect from him. Our feel- 
 
OBSERVATIONS, &c. 
 
 503 
 
 ings are the same with respect to metre ; for, as it may 
 be proper to remind the Reader, the distinction of metre 
 is regular and uniform, and not, lilje that which is pro- 
 duced by what is usually called poetic diction,* arbitra- 
 ry, and subject to infinite caprices upon which no cal- 
 culation whatever can be made. In the one case, the 
 Reader is utterly at the mercy of the Poet respecting 
 what imagery or diction he may choose to connect 
 with the passion ; whereas, in the other, the metre 
 obeys certain laws, to which the Poet and Reader both 
 willingly submit because they are certain, and because 
 no interference is made by them with the passion but 
 such as the concurring testimony of ages has shown 
 to heighten and improve the pleasure which co-exists 
 with it. 
 
 It will now be proper to answer an obvious question, 
 namely. Why, professing these opinions, have I written 
 in verse'! To this, in addition to such answer as is 
 included in what I have already said, I reply, in the 
 first place. Because, however I may have restricted 
 myself, there is still left open to me what confessedly 
 constitutes the most valuable object of all writing, 
 whether in prose or verse, the great and universal 
 passions of men, the most general and interesting of 
 their occupations, and the entire world of nature, 
 from which I am at liberty to supply myself with 
 endless combinations of forms and imagery. Now, sup- 
 posing for a moment that whatever is interesting in 
 these objects may be as vividly described in prose, why 
 am I to be condemned, if to such description I have 
 endeavoured to superadd the charm which, by the con- 
 sent of all nations, is acknowledged to exist in metri- 
 cal language l To this, by such as are unconvinced 
 by what I have already said, it may be answered that 
 a very small part of the pleasure given by Poetry de- 
 pends upon the metre, and that it is injudicious to write 
 in metre, unless it be accompanied with the other arti- 
 ficial distinctions of style with which metre is usually 
 accompanied, and that, by such deviation, more will be 
 lost from the shock which will thereby be given to the 
 Reader's associations than will be counterbalanced by 
 any pleasure which he can derive from the general 
 power of numbers. In answer to those who still con- 
 tend for the necessity of accompanying metre with cer- 
 tain appropriate colours of style in order to the accom- 
 plishment of its appropriate end, and who also, in my 
 opinion, greatly under-rate the power of metre in itself, 
 it might, perhaps, as far as relates to these Poems, 
 have been almost sufficient to observe, that poems are 
 extant, written upon more humble subjects, and in a 
 more naked and simple style than I have aimed at, 
 which poems have continued to give pleasure from 
 generation to generation. Now, if nakedness and sim- 
 plicity be a defect, the fact here mentioned affords a 
 strong presumption that poems somewhat less naked 
 
 * See Note p. 506. 
 
 and simple are capable of affording pleasure at the 
 present day ; and, what I wished chiefly to attempt, at 
 present, was to justify myself for having written under 
 the impression of this belief 
 
 But I might point out various causes why, when the 
 style is manly, and the subject of some importance, 
 words metrically arranged will long continue to impart 
 such a pleasure to mankind, as he who is sensible of 
 the extent of that pleasure will be desirous to impart. 
 The end of Poetry is to produce excitement in co-ex- 
 istence with an overbalance of pleasure. Now, by the 
 supposition, excitement is an unusual and irregular 
 state of the mind ; ideas and feelings do not, in that 
 state, succeed each other in accustomed order. But, 
 if the words by which this excitement is produced are 
 in themselves powerful, or the images and feelings 
 have an undue proportion of pain connected with them, 
 there is some danger that the excitement may be car- 
 ried beyond its proper bounds. Now the co-presence 
 of something regular, something to which the mind 
 has been accustomed in various moods and in a less 
 excited state, cannot but have great efficacy in temper- 
 ing and restraining the passion by an intertexture of 
 ordinary feeling, and of feeling not strictly and neces- 
 sarily connected with the passion. This is unquestion- 
 ably true, and hence, though the opinion will at first 
 appear paradoxical, from the tendency of metre to di- 
 vest language, in a certain degree, of its reality, and 
 thus to throw a sort of half-consciousness of unsubstan- 
 tial existence over the whole composition, there can 
 be little doubt but that more pathetic situations and 
 sentiments, that is, those which have a greater propor- 
 tion of pain connected with them, may be endured in 
 metrical composition, especially in rhyme, than in 
 prose. The metre of the old ballads is very artless ; 
 yet they contain many passages which would illustrate 
 this opinion, and, I hope, if tha following Poems be at- 
 tentively perused, similar instances will be found in 
 them. This opinion may be further illustrated by ap- 
 pealing to the Reader's own experience of the reluc- 
 tance with which he comes to the re-perusal of the dis- 
 tressful parts of Clarissa Harlowe, or the Gamester ; 
 while Shakspeare's writings, in the most pathetic 
 scenes, never act upon us, as pathetic, beyond the 
 bounds of pleasure — an effect which, in a much greater 
 degree than might at first be imagined, is to be ascri- 
 bed to small, but continual and regular impulses of 
 pleasurable surprise from the metrical arrangement. — 
 On the other hand, (what it must be allowed will much 
 more frequently happen,) if the Poet's words should 
 be incommensurate with the passion, and inadequate to 
 raise the Reader to a height of desirable excitement, 
 then, (unless the Poet's choice of his metre has been 
 grossly injudicious,) in the feelings of pleasure which 
 the Reader has been accustomed to connect with me- 
 tre in general, and in the feeling, whether cheerful or 
 melancholy, which he has been accustomed to connect 
 
504 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 with that particular movement of metre, there will be 
 found something; which will greatly contribute to im- 
 part passion to the words, and to effect the complex 
 end which the Poet proposes to himself. 
 
 If I had undertaken a systematic defence of the 
 theory upon which these poems are written, it would 
 have been my duty to develope the various causes up- 
 on which the pleasure received from metrical language 
 depends. Among the chief of these causes is to be 
 reckoned a principle which must be well known to 
 those who have made any of the Arts the object of accu- 
 rate reflection ; I mean the pleasure which the mind 
 derives from the perception of similitude in dissimili- 
 tude. This principle is the great spring of the activity 
 of our minds, and their chief feeder. From this princi- 
 ple the direction of the sexual appetite, and all the pas- 
 sions connected with it, take their origin: it is the life 
 of our ordinary conversation ; and upon the accuracy 
 with which similitude in dissimilitude, and dissimilitude 
 in similitude are perceived, depend our taste and 
 our moral feelings. It would not have been a useless 
 employment to have applied this principle to the con- 
 sideration of metre, and to have shown that metre is 
 hence enabled to afl^ord much pleasure, and to have 
 pointed out in what manner that pleasure is produced. 
 But my limits will not permit me to enter upon this 
 subject, and I must content myself with a general 
 summary. 
 
 I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow 
 of powerful feelings : it takes its origin from emotion 
 recollected in tranquillity : the emotion is contemplated 
 till, by a species of re-action, the tranquillity gradually 
 di.>appears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was 
 before the subject of contemplation, is gradually pro- 
 duced, and does itself actually exist in the mind. In 
 this mood successful composition generally begins, and 
 in a mood similar to this it is carried on ; but the emo- 
 tion, of whatever kind, and in whatever degree, from 
 various causes, is qualified by various pleasures, so that 
 in describing any passions whatsoever, which are vol- 
 untarily described, the mind will, upon the whole, be 
 in a state of enjoyment. Now, if Nature be thus cau- 
 tious in preserving in a state of enjoyment a being thus 
 employed, the Poet ought to profit by the lesson thus 
 held forth to him, and ought especially to take care, 
 that, whatever passions he communicates to his Read- 
 er, those passions, if his Reader's mind be sound and 
 vigorous, sliould always be accompanied with an over- 
 balance of pleasure. Now the music of harmonious 
 metrical language, the sense of difficulty overcome, 
 and the blind association of pleasure which has been 
 previously received from works of rhyme or metre of 
 the same or similar construction, an indistinct percep- 
 tion perpetually renewed of language closely resem- 
 bling that of real life, and yet, in the circumstance of 
 metre, differing from it so widely — all these impercept- 
 ibly make up a complex feeling of delight, which is 
 
 of the most important use in tempering the painful 
 feeling which will always be found intermingled with 
 powerful descriptions of the deeper passions. This 
 effect is always produced in pathetic and impassioned 
 poetry; while, in lighter compositions, the ease and 
 gracefulness with which the Poet manages his num- 
 bers are themselves confessedly a principal source of 
 the gratification of the Reader. I might, perhaps, in- 
 clude all which it is necessary to say upon this subject, 
 by affirming, what few persons will deny, that, of two 
 descriptions, either of passions, manners, or characters, 
 each of them equally well executed, the one in prose 
 and the other in verse, the verse will be read a hundred 
 times where the prose is read once. We see that Pope, 
 by the power of verse alone, has contrived to render 
 the plainest common sense interesting, and even fre- 
 quently to invest it with the appearance of passion. In 
 consequence of these convictions I related in metre 
 the Tale of Goody Blake and Harry Gill, which is 
 one of the rudest of this collection. I wished to draw 
 attention to the truth, that the power of the human 
 imagination is sufficient to produce such changes even 
 in our physical nature as might almost appear miracu- 
 lous. The truth is an important one ; the fact (for it 
 is a/flfO is a valuable illustration of it; and I have 
 the satisfaction of knowing that it has been communi- 
 cated to many hundreds of people who would never 
 have heard of it, had it not been narrated as a Ballad, 
 and in a more impressive metre than is usual in Ballads. 
 Having thus explained a few of the reasons why I 
 have written in verse, and why I have chosen subjects 
 from common life, and endeavoured to bring my lan- 
 guage near to the real language of men, if I have been 
 too minute in pleading my own cause, I have at the 
 same time been treating a subject of general interest ; 
 and it is for this reason that I request the Reader's per- 
 mission to add a few words with reference solely to 
 these particular poems, and to some defects which will 
 probably be found in them. I am sensible that my as- 
 sociations must have sometimes been particular instead 
 of general, and that, consequently, giving to things a 
 false importance, sometimes from diseased impulses, I 
 may have written upon unworthy subjects; but I am 
 less apprehensive on this account, than that my language 
 may frequently have suffered from those arbitrary con- 
 nections of feelings and ideas with particular words 
 and phrases, from which no man can altogether protect 
 himself. Hence I have no doubt, that, in some instan- 
 ces, feelings, even of the ludicrous, may be given to 
 my Readers by expressions whicli appeared to me ten- 
 der and pathetic. Such faulty expressions, were I con- 
 vinced they were faulty at present, and that they must 
 necessarily continue to be so, I would willingly take 
 all reasonable pains to correct. But it is dangerous to 
 make these alterations on the simple authority of a few 
 individuals, or even of certain classes of men ; for where 
 the understanding of an Author is not convinced, or his 
 
OBSERVATIONS, &o. 
 
 505 
 
 feelings altered, this cannot be done without great in- 
 jury to himself: for his own feelings are liis stay and 
 support; and, if he sets them aside in one instance, he 
 may be induced to repeat this act till his mind lose 
 all confidence in itself, and become utterly debilitated. 
 To this it may be added, that the Reader ought never 
 to forget that he is himself exposed to the same errors 
 as the Poet, and, perhaps, in a much greater degree : 
 for there can be no presumption in saying, that it is not 
 probable he will be so well acquainted with the various 
 stages of meaning through which words have passed, 
 or with the fickleness or stability of the relations of 
 .particular ideas to each other; and, above all, since he 
 is so much less interested in the subject, he may decide 
 lightly and carelessly. 
 
 Long as I have detained my Reader, I hope he will 
 permit me to caution him against a mode of false criti- 
 cism which has been applied to Poetry, in which the 
 language closely resembles that of life and nature. 
 Such verses have been triumphed over in parodies, of 
 which Dr. Johnson's stanza is a fair specimen : — 
 
 " I put my hat upon my head 
 And walked into the Strand, 
 And there I met another man 
 Whose hat was in his hand." 
 
 Immediately under these lines I will place one of 
 the most justly-admired stanzas of the " Babes in the 
 Wood." 
 
 " These pretty Babes with hand in hand 
 Went wandering up and down ; 
 But never more they saw the Man 
 Approaching from the Town." 
 
 In both these stanzas the words, and the order of the 
 words, in no respect differ from the most unimpassion- 
 ed conversation. There are words in both, for example, 
 " the Strand," and " the Town," connected with none 
 but the most familiar ideas ; yet the one stanza we 
 admit as admirable, and the other as a fair example of 
 the superlatively contemptible. Whence arises this 
 difference 3 Not from the metre, not from the language, 
 not from the order of the words ; but the matter ex- 
 pressed in Dr. Johnson's stanza is contemptible. The 
 proper method of treating trivial and simple verses, to 
 which Dr. Johnson's stanza would be a fair parallelism, 
 is not to say. This is a bad kind of poetry, or, This is 
 not poetry ; but, This wants sense ;' it is neither inter- 
 esting in itself, nor can lead to any thing interesting; 
 the images neither originate in that sane state of feel- 
 ing which arises out of thought, nor can excite thought 
 or feeling in the Reader. This is the only sensible 
 manner of dealing with such verses. Why trouble 
 yourself about the species till you have previously de- 
 cided upon the genus f Why take pains to prove that 
 an ape is not a Newton, when it is self-evident that he 
 is not a man 1 
 
 I have one request to make of my reader, which is, 
 30 
 
 that in judging these Poems he would decide by his 
 own feelings genuinely, and not by reflection upon what 
 will probably be the judgment of others. How common 
 is it to hear a person say, " I myself do not object to 
 this style of composition, or this or that expression, but, 
 to such and such classes of people, it will appear mean 
 or ludicrous !" This mode of criticism, so destructive 
 of all sound unadulterated judgment, is almost univer- 
 sal : I have therefore to request, that the Reader would 
 abide, independently, by his own feelings, and that, if 
 he finds himself affected, he would not suffer such con- 
 jectures to interfere with his pleasure. 
 
 If an Author, by any single composition, has impress- 
 ed us with respect for his talents, it is useful to consider 
 this as affording a presumption, that on other occasions 
 where we have been displeased, he, nevertheless, may 
 not have written ill or absurdly; and, further, to give 
 him so much credit for this one composition as may in- 
 duce us to review what has displeased us, with more 
 care than we should otherwise have bestowed upon it. 
 This is not only an act of justice, but, in our decisions 
 upon poetry especially, may conduce, in a high degree, 
 to the improvement of our own taste : for an accurate 
 taste in poetry, and in all the other arts, as Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds has observed, is an acquired talent, which 
 can only be produced by thought and a long-continued 
 intercourse with the best models of composition. This 
 is mentioned, not with so ridiculous a purpose as to 
 prevent the most inexperienced Reader from judging 
 for himself, (I have already said that I wish him to 
 judge for himself;) but merely to temper the rashness 
 of decision, and to suggest, that, if Poetry be a subject 
 on which much time has not been bestowed, the judg- 
 ment may be erroneous; and that, in many cases, it 
 necessarily will be so. 
 
 I know that nothing would have so effectually con- 
 tributed to further the end which I have in view, as to 
 have shown of what kind the pleasure is, and how that 
 pleasure is produced, which is confessedly produced by 
 metrical composition essentially different from that 
 which I have here endeavoured to recommend : for the 
 Reader will say that he has been pleased by such com- 
 position ; and what can I do more for him] The power 
 of any art is limited ; and he will suspect, that if I 
 propose to furnish him with new friends, it is only upon 
 condition of his abandoning his old friends. Besides, 
 as I have said, the Reader is himself conscious of the 
 pleasure which he has received from such composition, 
 composition to which he has peculiarly attached the 
 endearing name of Poetry ; and all men feel an habit- 
 ual gratitude, and something of an honourable bigotry 
 for the objects which have long continued to please 
 them : we not only wish to be pleased, but to be pleased 
 in that particular way in which we have been ac- 
 customed to be pleased. There is a host of arguments 
 in these feelings; and I should be the less able to com- 
 bat them successfully, as I am willing to allow, that, 
 43 
 
506 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 in order entirely to enjoy tlie Poetry whicli I am re- 
 commending, it would be necessary to give up much of 
 what is ordinarily enjoyed. But, would my limits 
 have permitted me to point out how this pleasure is 
 produced, I might have removed many obstacles, and 
 assisted my Reader in perceiving that the powers of 
 language are not so limited as he may suppose; and 
 that it is possible for poetry to give other enjoyments, 
 of a purer, more lasting, and more exquisite nature. 
 This part of my subject I have not altogether neglect- 
 ed ; but it has been less my present aim to prove, that 
 the interest excited by some other kinds of poetry is 
 less vivid, and less worthy of the nobler powers of the 
 mind, than to offer reasons for presuming, that, if the 
 object which I have proposed to myself were adequate- 
 ly attained, a species of poetry would be produced, 
 which is genuine poetry; in its nature well adapted 
 to interest mankind permanently, and likewise impor- 
 tant in the multiplicity and quality of its moral rela- 
 tions. 
 
 From what has been said, and from a perusal of the 
 Poems, the Reader will be able clearly to perceive the 
 object which I have proposed to myself: he will deter- 
 mine how far I have attained this object; and, what is 
 a much more important question, whether it be worth 
 attaining: and upon the decision of these two questions 
 will rest my claim to the approbation of the Public. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 See page 503, — " by what is usually called Poetic Diction.' 
 
 As, perhaps, I have no right to expect from a Reader 
 of an Introduction to a volume of Poems that attentive 
 perusal without which it is impossible, imperfectly as 
 I have been compelled to express my meaning, that 
 what is contained therein should, throughout, be fully 
 understood, I am the more anxious to give an e,\act 
 notion of the sense in which I use the phrase poetic 
 diction ; and for this purpose I will here add a few 
 words concerning the origin of tlie phraseology which 
 
 I have condemned under that name. The earliest 
 
 poets of all nations generally wrote from passion exci- 
 ted by real events ; they wrote naturally, and as men : 
 feeling powerfully as they did, their language was da- 
 ring, and figurative. In succeeding times. Poets, and 
 Men ambitious of the fame of Poets, perceiving the 
 influence of such language, and desirous of producing 
 the same effect without having the same animating 
 passion, set themselves to a mechanical adoption of 
 these figures of speech, and made use of them, some- 
 times with propriety, but much more frequently applied 
 them to feelings and ideas with which they had no 
 natural connection whatsoever. A language was thus 
 insensibly produced, differing materially from the real 
 
 language -of men in any situation. The Reader or 
 Hearer of this distorted language found himself in a 
 perturbed and unusual state of mind ; when affected 
 by the genuine language of passion, he had been in a 
 perturbed and unusual state of mind also: in both cases 
 he was willing that his common judgment and under- 
 standing should be laid asleep, and he had no instinct- 
 ive and infallible perception of the true, to make him 
 reject the false ; the one served as a passport for the 
 other. The agitation and confusion of mind were in 
 both cases deliglitful, and no wonder if he confounded 
 the one with the other, and believed them both to be 
 produced by, the same, or similar causes. Besides, the 
 Poet spake to him in the character of a man to be look- 
 ed up to, a man of genius and authority. Thus, and 
 from a variety of other causes, this distorted language 
 was received with admiration ; and Poets, it is probable, 
 who had before contented themselves for the most part 
 with misapplying only expressions which at first had 
 been dictated by real passion, carried the abuse still 
 further, and introduced phrases composed apparently 
 in the spirit of the original figurative language of 
 passion, yet altogether of their own invention, and 
 distinguished by various degrees of wanton deviation 
 from good sense and nature. 
 
 It is indeed true, that the language of the earliest 
 Poets was felt to differ materially from ordinary lan- 
 guage, because it was the language of extraordinary 
 occasions ; but it was really spoken by men, language 
 which the Poet himself had uttered when he had been 
 affected by the events which he described, or which 
 he had heard uttered by those around him. To this 
 language it is probable that metre of some sort or 
 other was early superadded. This separated the genu- 
 ine language of Poetry still further from common life, 
 so that whoever read or heard the poems of these 
 earliest Poets felt himself moved in a way in which 
 he had not been accustomed to be moved in real life, 
 and by causes manifestly different from those which 
 acted upon him in real life. This was the great tempt- 
 ation to all the corruptions which have followed: under 
 the protection of this feeling succeeding Poets con- 
 structed a phraseology which had one thing, it is true, 
 in common with the genuine language of poetry, 
 namely, that it was not heard in ordinary conversation ; 
 that it was unusual. But the first Poets, as I have said, 
 spake a language which, though unusual, was still the 
 language of men. This circumstance, however, was 
 disregarded by their successors; they found that they 
 could please by easier means: they became proud of a 
 language which they themselves had invented, and 
 which was uttered only by themselves; and, with the 
 spirit of a fraternity, they arrogated it to themselves 
 as their own. In process of time metro became a 
 symbol of promise of this unusual language, and who- 
 ever took upon him to write in metre, according as he 
 possessed more or less of true poetic genius, introduced 
 
OBSERVATIONS, &c. 
 
 507 
 
 less or more of this adulterated phraseology into his 
 compositions, and the true and the false became so in- 
 separably interwoven that the taste of men was gradu- 
 ally perverted ; and this language was received as a 
 natural language : and at length, by the influence of 
 books upon men, did to a certain degree really become 
 so. Abuses of this kind were imported from one na- 
 tion to another, and with the progress of refinement 
 this diction became daily more and more corrupt, 
 thrusting out of sight the plain humanities of nature 
 by a motley masquerade of tricks, quaintnesses, hiero- 
 glyphics, and enigmas. 
 
 It would be highly interesting to point out the causes 
 of the pleasure given by this extravagant and absurd 
 language ; but this is not the place ; it depends upon a 
 great variety of causes, but upon none, perhaps, more 
 than its influence in impressing a notion of the peculi- 
 arity and exaltation of the Poet's character, and in flat- 
 tering the Reader's self-love by bringing him nearer to 
 a sympathy with that character; an efl^ect which is 
 accomplished by unsettling ordinary habits of thinking, 
 and thus assisting the Reader to approach to that per- 
 turbed and dizzy state of mind in which if he does not 
 find himself, he imagines that he is balked of a peculiar 
 enjoyment which poetry can and ought to bestow. 
 
 The sonnet which I have quoted from Gray, in the 
 Preface, except the lines printed in Italics, consists of 
 little else but this diction, though not of the worst kind ; 
 and indeed, if I may be permitted to say so, it is far 
 too common in the best writers both ancient and mod- 
 ern. Perhaps I can in no way, by positive example, 
 more easily give my Reader a notion of what I mean 
 by the phrase poetic diction than by referring him to a 
 comparison between the metrical paraphrase which we 
 have of passages in the Old and New Testament, and 
 those passages as they exist in our common Translation. 
 See Pope's " Messiah" throughout ; Prior's " Did sweet- 
 er sounds adorn my flowing tongue,"&c. &c. " Though 
 I speak with the tongues of men and of angels,"&c. &c. 
 See 1st Corinthians, chapter xiiith. By way of imme- 
 diate example, take the following of Dr. Johnson: — 
 "Turn on the prudent Ant thy heedless eyes, 
 Observe her labours, Sluggard, and be wise ; 
 No stem command, no monitory voice, 
 Prescribes her duties, or directs her choice ; 
 Yet, timely provident, she hastes away 
 To snatch the blessings of a plenteous day ; 
 When fruitful Summer loads the teeming plain. 
 She crops the harvest and she stores the grain. 
 How long shall sloth usurp thy useless hours, 
 Unnerve thy vigour, and enchain thy powers ? 
 While artful shades thy downy couch enclose. 
 And soft solicitation courts repose, 
 Amidst the drowsy charms of dull delight. 
 Year chases year with unremitted flight, 
 Till Want now following, fraudulent and slow, 
 Shall spring to seize thee, like an ambushed foe." 
 
 From this hubbub of words pass to the original. 
 'Go to the Ant, thou Sluggard, consider her ways. 
 
 and be wise : which having no guide, overseer, or ru- 
 ler, provideth her meat in thy summer, and gathereth 
 her food in the harvest. How long wilt thou sleep, O 
 Sluggard 1 when wilt thou arise out of the sleep? Yet 
 a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the 
 hands to sleep. So shall thy poverty come as one 
 that travelleth, and thy want as an armed man." Pro- 
 verbs, chap. vi. 
 
 One more quotation, and I have done. It is from 
 Cowper's Verses supposed to be written by Alexander 
 Selkirk : — 
 
 " Religion \ what treasure untold 
 Resides in that heavenly word ! 
 More precious than silver and gold. 
 Or all that this earth can afibrd. 
 But the sound of the church-going bell 
 These valleys and rocks never heard. 
 Ne'er sighed at the sound of a knell. 
 Or smiled when a sabbath appeared. 
 
 Ye winds, that have made me your sport. 
 
 Convey to this desolate shore 
 
 Some cordial endearing report 
 
 Of a land I must visit no more. 
 
 My Friends, do they now and then send 
 
 A wish or a thought after me ? 
 
 O tell me I yet have a friend, 
 
 Though a friend I am never to see." 
 
 I have quoted this passage as an instance of three 
 different styles of composition. The first four lines are 
 poorly expressed ; some Critics would call the language 
 prosaic ; the fact is, it would be bad prose, so bad that_ 
 it is scarcely worse in metre. The epitliet " church- 
 going" applied to a bell, and that by so chaste a writer 
 as Cowper, is an instanc-e of the strange abuses which 
 Poets have introduced into their language, till they and 
 their Readers take them as matters of course, if they 
 do not single them out expressly as objects of admira- 
 tion. The two lines " Ne'er sighed at the sound," &c. 
 are, in my opinion, an instance of the language of pas- 
 sion wrested from its proper use, and, from the mere 
 circumstance of the composition being in metre, ap- 
 plied upon an occasion that does not justify such violent 
 expressions ; and I should condemn the passage, though 
 perhaps few Readers will agree with me, as vicious 
 poetic diction. The last stanza is throughout admira- 
 bly expressed : it would be equally good whether in 
 prose or verse, except that the reader has an exquisite 
 pleasure in seeing such natural language so naturally 
 connected with metre. The beauty of this stanza 
 tempts me to conclude with a principle which ought 
 never to be lost sight of, — namely, that in works of 
 imagination and sentiment, in proportion as ideas and 
 feelings are valuable, whether the composition be in 
 prose or in verse, they require and exact one and the 
 same language. Metre is but adventitious to compo- 
 sition, and the phraseology for which that passport is 
 necessary, even where it is graceful at all, will be little 
 valued by the judicious. 
 
APPENDIX III. 
 
 MEMOIR OF THE REV. ROBERT WALKER* 
 
 In the year 1709, Robert Walker was born at Under- 
 Crajr, in Seathwaite ; he was the youngest of twelve 
 children. His eldest brother, who inherited the small 
 family estate, died at Under-Crag, aged ninety-four, 
 being twenty-four years older than the subject of this 
 Memoir, who was born of the same mother. Robert 
 was a sickly infant; and, through his boyhood and youth 
 continuing to be of delicate frame and tender health, 
 it was deemed best, according to the country phrase, to 
 breed him a scholar; for it was not likely that he 
 wonld be able to earn a livelihood by bodily labour. At 
 that period kw of these Dales were furnished with 
 schoolhouses; the children being taught to read and 
 write in the chapel ; and in the same consecrated 
 building, where he officiated for so many years both as 
 preacher and schoolmaster, he himself received the 
 rudiments of his education. In his youth he became 
 schoolmaster at Lowes-water; not being called upon, 
 probably, in that situation, to teach more than reading, 
 writing, and arithmetic. But, by the assistance of a 
 " Gentleman" in the neighbourhood, he acquired, at 
 leisure hours, a knowledge of the classics, and became 
 qualified for taking holy orders. Upon his ordination, 
 he had the offer of two curacies; the one, Torver, in 
 the vale of Coniston, — the other, Seathwaite, in his na- 
 tive vale. The value of each was the same, viz. five 
 pounds per annum ; but the cure of Seathwaite having 
 a cottage attached to it as he wished to marry, he chose 
 it in preference. The young person on whom his affec- 
 tions were fi.xed, though in the condition of a domestic 
 servant, had given promise, by her serious and modest 
 deportment, and by her virtuous dispositions, that she 
 was worthy to become the helpmate of a man entering 
 upon a plan of life such as he had marked out for him- 
 self By her frugality she had stored up a small sum 
 of money, with which they began housekeeping. In 
 1735 or 1736, he entered upon his curacy; snd nine- 
 teen years afterwards, his situation is thus described, in 
 some letters to be found in the Annual Register for 
 1760, from which the following is extracted : — 
 
 To Mr. 
 
 Conistnn, July 26, 1754. 
 "Sir, 
 
 " I was the other day upon a party of pleasure, about 
 five or six miles from this place, where I met with a 
 very striking object, and of a nature not very common. 
 Going into a clergyman's house (of whom I had fre- 
 quently heard) I found him sitting at the head of a 
 long square table, such as is commonly used in this 
 country by the lower class of people, dressed in a 
 coarse blue frock, trimmed with black horn buttons; a 
 checked shirt, a leathern strap about his neck for a 
 stock, a coarse apron, and a pair of great wooden-soled 
 shoes, plated with iron to preserve them, (what we call 
 clogs in these parts,) with a child upon his knee, eating 
 his breakfast: his wife, and the remainder of his chil- 
 dren, were some of them employed in waiting upon 
 each other, the rest in teazing and spinning wool, at 
 which trade he is a great proficient; and moreover, 
 when it is made ready for sale, will lay it, by sixteen 
 or thirty-two pounds weight, upon his back, and on foot, 
 seven or eight miles will carry it to the market, even 
 in the depth of winter. I was not much surprised at 
 all this, as you may possibly be, having heard a great 
 deal of it related before. But I must confess myself 
 astonished with the alacrity and the good-humour that 
 appeared both in the clergyman and his wife, and 
 more so, at the sense and ingenuity of the clergyman 
 himself" * * 
 
 Then follows a letter from another person, dated 
 175.5, from which an extract shall be given. 
 
 "By his frugality and good management, he keeps 
 the wolf from the door, as we say ; and if he advances 
 a little in the world, it is owing more to his own care, 
 than to any thing else he has to rely upon. I don't find 
 his inclination is running after further preferment. He 
 is settled among the people, that are happy among them- 
 selves; and lives in the greatest unanimity and friend- 
 ship with them; and, I believe, the minister and peo- 
 ple are exceedingly satisfied with each other; and in- 
 deed how should they be dissatisfied, when they have 
 a person of so much worth and probity for their pastor ! 
 
MEMOIR OF THE REV. ROBERT WALKER. 
 
 509 
 
 A man, who, for his candour and meekness, his sober, 
 chaste, and virtuous conversation, his soundness in prin- 
 ciple and practice, is an ornament to his profession, and 
 an honour to the country he is in ; and bear with me if I 
 say, the plainness of his dress, the sanctity of his man- 
 ners, the simplicity of his doctrine, and the vehemence 
 of his expression, have a sort of resemblance to the 
 pure practice of primitive Christianity." 
 
 We will now give his own account of himself, to be 
 found in the same place. 
 
 From the Rev. Robert Walker. 
 " Sir, 
 
 "Yours of the 26th instant was communicated to me 
 by Mr. C , and I should have returned an imme- 
 diate answer, but the hand of Providence then lying 
 heavy upon an amiable pledge of conjugal endearment, 
 hath since taken from me a promising girl, which the 
 disconsolate mother too pensively laments the loss of; 
 though we have yet eight living, all healthful, hopeful 
 children, whoso names and ages are as follows : — Zac- 
 cheus, aged almost eighteen years ; Elizabeth, sixteen 
 years and ten months; Mary, fifteen; Moses, thirteen 
 years and three months; Sarah, ten years and three 
 months ; Mabel, eight years and three months ; William 
 Tyson, three years and eight months ; and Anne Esther, 
 one year and three months : besides Anne, who died 
 two years and six months ago, and was then aged 
 between nine and ten ; and Eleanor, who died the 23d 
 inst., January, aged six years and ten months. Zac- 
 cheus, the eldest child, is now learning the trade of 
 tanrs,er, and has two years and a half of his apprentice- 
 ship to serve. The annual income of my chapel at 
 present, as near as I can compute it, may amount to 
 about ni. 10s., of which is paid in cash viz. 51. from 
 the bounty of Queen Anne, and 51. from W. P. Esq. 
 
 of P , out of the annual rents, he being lord of the 
 
 manor, and 31. from the several inhabitants of L , 
 
 settled upon the tenements as a rent-charge ; the house 
 and gardens lvalue at il. yearly, and not worth more ; 
 and I believe the surplice fees and voluntary contribu- 
 tions, one year with another, may be worth 31. ; but, as 
 the inhabitants are few in number, and the fees very 
 low, this last-mentioned sum consists merely in free- 
 will offerings. 
 
 " I am situated greatly to my satisfaction with regard 
 to the conduct and behaviour of my auditory, who not 
 only live in the happy ignorance of the follies and vices 
 of the age, but in mutual peace and good-will with one 
 another, and are seemingly (I hope really too) sincere 
 Christians, and sound members of the established 
 church, not one dissenter of any denomination being 
 amongst them all. I got to the value of 40Z. for my 
 wife's fortune, but had no real estate of my own, being 
 the youngest son of twelve children, born of obscure 
 parents; and, though my income has been but small, 
 and my family large, yet by a providential blessing upon 
 
 my own diligent endeavours, the kindness of friends, 
 and a cheap country to live in, we have always had 
 the necessaries of life. By what I have written (which 
 is a true and exact account, to the best of my know- 
 ledge) I hope you will not think your favour to me, out 
 of the late worthy Dr. Stratford's effects, quite misbe- 
 stowed, for which I must ever gratefully own myself, 
 
 "'sir, 
 " Your much obliged and most obedient humble Servant, 
 
 "R.W., Curate of S . 
 
 " To Mr. C, of Lancaster." 
 
 About the time when this letter was written, the 
 Bishop of Chester recommended the scheme of joining 
 the curacy of Ulpha to the contiguous one of Seathwaite, 
 and the nomination was offered to Mr. Walker; but 
 an unexpected difficulty arising, Mr. W., in a letter to 
 the Bishop, (a copy of which, in his own beautiful 
 handwriting, now lies before me,) thus expresses him- 
 self: " If he," meaning the person in whom the difficulty 
 originated, " had suggested any such objection before, 
 1 should utterly have declined any attempt to the cu- 
 racy of Ulpha : indeed, I was always apprehensive it 
 might be disagreeable to my auditory at Seathwaite, as 
 they have been always accustomed to double duty, and 
 the inhabitants of Ulpha despair of being able to sup- 
 port a schoolmaster who is not curate there also ; which 
 suppressed all thoughts in me of serving them both." 
 And in a second letter to the Bishop he writes : — 
 
 " My Lord, 
 " I have the favour of yours of the 1st instant, and 
 am exceedingly obliged on account of the Ulpha affair : 
 if that curacy should lapse into your Lordship's hands, 
 I would beg leave rather to decline than embrace 
 it; for the chapels of Seathwaite and Ulpha, annexed 
 together, would be apt to cause a general discontent 
 among the inhabitants of both places ; by either think- 
 ing themselves slighted, being only served alternately, 
 or neglected in the duty, or attributing it to covetous- 
 ness in me ; all which occasions of murmuring I would 
 willingly avoid." And, in concluding his former let- 
 ter, he expresses a similar sentiment upon the same 
 occasion, " desiring, if it be possible, however, as much 
 as in me lieth, to live peaceably with all men." 
 
 The year following, the curacy of Seathwaite was 
 again augmented ; and, to effect this augmentation, 
 fifty pounds had been advanced by himself; and, in 
 1760, lands were purchased with eight hundred pounds. 
 Scanty as was his income, the frequent offer of much 
 better benefices could not tempt Mr. W. to quit a situ- 
 ation where he had been so long happy, with a con- 
 sciousness of being useful. Among his papers I find 
 the following copy of a letter, dated 1775, twenty 
 years after his refusal of the curacy of Ulpha, which 
 will show what exertions had been made for one of 
 his sons. 
 
 43* 
 
510 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 " Mav it please your Grace, | 
 
 " Our remote situation here makes it difficult to get 
 the necessary information for transacting business 
 regularly ; such is the reason of ray giving your Grace 
 the present trouble. 
 
 " The bearer (my son) is desirous of offering himself 
 candidate for deacon's orders at your Grace's ensuing 
 ordination ; the first, on the 2-5th instant, so that his 
 papers could not be transmitted in due time. As he is 
 now fully at age, and I have afforded him education to 
 the utmost of my ability, it would give me great satis- 
 faction (if your Grace would take him, and find him 
 qualified) to have him ordained. His constitution has 
 been tender for some years ; he entered the college of 
 Dublin, but his health would not permit him to con- 
 tinue there, or I would have supported him much lon- 
 ger. He has been with me at home above a year, in 
 which time he has gained great strength of body, suffi- 
 cient, I hope, to enable him for performing the function. 
 Divine Providence, assisted by liberal benefactors, has 
 blest my endeavours, from a small income, to rear a 
 numerous family; and as my time of life renders me 
 now unfit for much future expectancy from this world, 
 I should be glad to see my son settled in a promising 
 way to acquire an honest livelihood for himself. His 
 behaviour, so far in life, has been irreproachable ; and 
 I hope he will not degenerate, in principles or practice, 
 from the precepts and pattern of an indulgent parent. 
 Your Grace's favourable reception of this, from a dis- 
 tant corner of the diocese, and an obscure hand, will 
 e.xcite filial gratitude, and a due use shall be made of 
 the obligation vouchsafed thereby to 
 
 " Your Grace's very dutiful and most obedient 
 " Son and Servant, 
 
 " Robert Walker." 
 
 The same man, who was thus liberal in the education 
 of his numerous family, was even munificent in hospi- 
 tality as a parish priest. Every Sunday, were served, 
 upon the long table, at which he has been described 
 sitting with a child upon his knee, messes of broth, for 
 the refreshment of those of his congregation who came 
 from a distance, and usually took their seats as parts of 
 his own household. It seems scarcely possible that this 
 custom could have commenced before the augmenta- 
 tion of his cure ; and what would to many have been 
 a high price of self-denial, was paid, by the pastor and 
 his family, for this gratification ; as the treat could only 
 be provided by dressing at one time the whole, perhaps, 
 of their weekly allowance of fresh animal food ; con- 
 sequently, for a succession of days, the table was cover- 
 ed with cold victuals only. His generosity in old age 
 may be still further illustrated by a little circumstance 
 relating to an orphan grandson, then ten years of age, 
 which I find in a copy of a letter to one of his sons; 
 he requests that half-a-guinea may be left for " little 
 Robert's pocket-money," who was then at school ; in- 
 
 trusting it to the care of a lady, who, as he says, " may 
 sometimes frustrate his squandering it away foolishly," 
 and promising to send him an equal allowance annually 
 for the same purpose. The conclusion of the same let- 
 ter is so characteristic, that I cannot forbear to trans- 
 cribe it. " We," meaning his wife and himself, " are 
 in our wonted state of health, allowing for the hasty 
 strides of old age knocking daily at our door, and 
 threateningly telling us, we are not only mortal, but 
 must expect ere long to take our leave of our ancient 
 cottage, and lie down in our last dormitory. Pray par- 
 don my neglect to answer yours: let us hear sooner 
 from you, to augment the mirth of the Christmas holi- 
 days. Wishing you all the pleasures of the approach- 
 ing season, I am, dear Son, with lasting sincerity, 
 yours affectionately. 
 
 " Robert Walker." 
 
 He loved old customs and usages, and in some in- 
 stances stuck to them to his own loss; for, having had 
 a sum of money lodged in the hands of a neighbouring 
 tradesman, when long course of time had raised the 
 rate of interest, and more was offered, he refused to 
 accept it ; an act not difficult to one, who, while he 
 was drawing seventeen pounds a year from his curacy, 
 declined, as we have seen, to add the profits of another 
 small benefice to his own, lest he should be suspected of 
 cupidity. — From this vice he was utterly free ; he made 
 no charge for teaching school; such as could afford to 
 pay, gave him what they pleased. When very young, 
 having kept a diary of his expenses, however trifling, the 
 large amount, at the end of the year, surprised him ; 
 and from that time the rule of his life was to be eco- 
 nomical, not avaricious. At his decease he left behind 
 him no less a sum than 2000Z. ; and such a sense of 
 his various excellencies was prevalent in the country, 
 that the epithet of wonderful is to this day attached 
 to his name. 
 
 There is in the above sketch something so extraordi- 
 nary as to require further explanatory details. — And to 
 begin with his industry ; eight hours in each day, during 
 five days in the week, and half of Saturday, except 
 when the labours of husbandry were urgent, he was 
 occupied in teaching. His seat was within the rails 
 of the altar; the communion-table was his desk; and, 
 like Shenstone's schoolmistress, the master employed 
 himself at the spinnmg-wheel, while the children were 
 repeating their lessons by his side. Every evening, 
 after school hours, if not more profitably engaged, he 
 continued the same kind of labour, exchanging, for the 
 benefit of exercise, the small wheel, at which he had 
 sate, for the large one on which wool is spun, the spin- 
 ner stepping to and fro. Thus, was the wheel con- 
 stantly in readiness to prevent the waste of a moment's 
 time. Nor was his industry with the pen, when occa- 
 sion called for it, less eager. Intrusted with extensive 
 management of public and private affairs, he acted, ia 
 
MEMOIR OF THE REV. ROBERT WALKER. 
 
 511 
 
 his rustic neighbourhood, as scrivener, writing out pe- 
 titions, deeds of conveyance, wills, covenants, &c. 
 with pecuniary gain to himself, and to the great benefit 
 of his employers. These labours (at all times consider- 
 able) at one period of the year, viz. between Christmas 
 and Candlemas, when money transactions are settled 
 in this country, were often so intense, that he passed 
 great part of the night, and sometimes whole nights, 
 at his desk. His garden also was tilled by his own 
 hand ; he had a right of pasturage upon the mountains 
 for a few sheep and a couple of cows, which required 
 his attendance ; with this pastoral occupation, he joined 
 the labours of husbandry upon a small scale, renting 
 two or three acres in addition to his own less than 
 one acre of glebe ; and the humblest drudgery which 
 the cultivation of these fields required was performed 
 by himself. 
 
 He also assisted his neighbours in haymaking and 
 shearing their flocks, and in the performance of this 
 latter service he was eminently dexterous. They, in 
 their turn, complimented him with the present of a 
 haycock, or a fleece ; less as a recompense for this 
 particular service than as a general acknowledgment. 
 The Sabbath was in a strict sense kept holy ; the 
 Sunday evenings being devoted to reading the Scrip- 
 ture and family prayer. The principal festivals ap- 
 pointed by the Church were also duly observed ; but 
 through every other day in the week, through every 
 week in the year, he was incessantly occupied in 
 work of hand or mind ; not allowing a moment for re- 
 creation, except upon a Saturday aflernoon, when he 
 indulged himself with a Newspaper, or sometimes with 
 a Magazine. The frugality and temperance established 
 in his house, were as admirable as the industry. No- 
 thiug to which the name of luxury could be given was 
 there known ; in the latter part of his life, indeed, 
 when tea had been brought into almost general use, 
 it was provided for visiters, and for such of his own 
 family as returned occasionally to his roof and had 
 been accustomed to this refreshment elsewhere; but 
 neither he nor his wife ever partook of it. The rai- 
 ment worn by his family was comely and decent, but 
 as simple as their diet ; the home-spun materials were 
 made up into apparel by their own hands. At the time 
 of the decease of this thrifty pair, their cottage con- 
 tained a large store of webs of woollen and linen cloth, 
 woven from thread of their own spinning. And it is re- 
 markable that the pew in the chapel in which the family 
 used to sit, remained a few years ago neatly lined with 
 woollen cloth spun by the pastor's own hands. It is the 
 only pew in the chapel so distinguished ; and I know of 
 no other instance of his conformity to the delicate accom- 
 modations of modern times. The fuel of the house, 
 like that of their neighbours, consisted of peat, pro- 
 cured from the mosses by their own labour. The lights 
 by which, in the winter evenings, their work was per- 
 formed, wei'e of their own manufacture, such as still 
 
 continue to be used in these cottages; they are made 
 of the pith of rushes dipped in any unctuous substance 
 that the house affords. White candles, as tallow can- 
 dles are here called, were reserved to honour the 
 Christmas festivals, and were perhaps produced upon no 
 other occasions. Once a month, during the proper sea- 
 son, a sheep was drawn from their small mountain flock, 
 and killed for the use of the family; and a cow, towards 
 the close of the year, was salted and dried, for win- 
 ter provision : the hide was tanned to furnish them with 
 shoes. — By these various resources, this venerable 
 clergyman reared a numerous family, not only pre- 
 serving them, as he affectingly says, " from wanting 
 the necessaries of life;" but afforded them an un- 
 stinted education, and the means of raising themselves 
 in society. 
 
 It might have been concluded that no one could thus, 
 as it were, have converted his body into a machine of 
 industry for the humblest uses, and kept his thoughts 
 so frequently bent upon secular concerns, without griev- 
 ous injury to the more precious parts of his nature. 
 How could the powers of intellect thrive, or its graces 
 be displayed, in the midst of circumstances apparently 
 so unfavourable, and where to the direct cultivation of 
 the mind, so small a portion of time was allotted ) But, 
 in this extraordinary man, things in their nature ad- 
 verse were reconciled ; his conversation was remarka- 
 ble, not only for being chaste and pure, but for the de- 
 gree in which it was fervent and eloquent ; his written 
 style was correct, simple, and animated. Nor did his 
 affections suffer more than his intellect ; he was ten- 
 derly alive to all the duties of his pastoral office : the 
 poor and needy "he never sent empty away," — the 
 stranger was fed and refreshed in passing that unfre- 
 quented vale — ^the sick were visited; and the feelings 
 of humanity found further exercise among the distress- 
 es and embarrassments in the worldly estate of his 
 neighbours, with which his talents for business made 
 him acquainted ; and the disinterestedness, impartiality, 
 and uprightness which he maintained in the manage- 
 ment of all affairs confided to him, were virtues seldom 
 separated in his own conscience from religious obliga- 
 tions. Nor could such conduct fail to remind those 
 who witnessed it of a spirit nobler than law or custom: 
 they felt convictions which, but for such intercourse, 
 could not have been afforded, that, as in the practice of 
 their pastor, there was no guile, so in his faith there 
 was nothing hollow ; and we are warranted in believing, 
 that upon these occasions, selfishness, obstinacy, and 
 discord would often give way before the breathings of 
 his good-will and saintly integrity. It may be presu- 
 med also, while his humble congregation were listen- 
 ing to the moral precepts which he delivered from the 
 pulpit, and to the Christian exhortations that they 
 should love their neighbour as themselves, and do as 
 they would be done unto, that peculiar efficacy was 
 given to the preacher's labours by recollections in the 
 
512 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 minds of his congregation, that they were called upon 
 to do no more than his own actions were daily setting 
 before their eyes. 
 
 The afternoon service in the chapel was less numer- 
 ously attended than that of the morning, but by a more 
 serious auditory ; the lesson from the New Testament, 
 on those occasions, was accompanied by Birkett's Com- 
 mentaries. These lessons he read with impassioned 
 emphasis, frequently drawing tears from his hearers, 
 and leaving a lasting impression upon their minds. His 
 devotional feelings and the powers of his own mind 
 were further exercised, along with those of his family, 
 in perusing the Scriptures; not only on the Sunday 
 evenings, but on every other evening, while the rest 
 of the household were at work, some one of the chil- 
 dren, and in her turn the servant, for the sake of practice 
 in reading, or for instruction, read the Bible aloud ; and 
 in this manner the wliole was repeatedly gone through. 
 That no common importance was attached to the ob- 
 servance of religious ordinances by his family, appears 
 from the following memorandum by one of his descend- 
 ants, which I am tempted to insert at length, as it is 
 characteristic, and somewhat curious. " There is a 
 small chapel in the county palatine of Lancaster, where 
 a certain clergyman has regularly officiated above sixty 
 years, and a few months ago administered the sacra- 
 ment of the Lord's Supper in the same, to a decent 
 number of devout communicants. After the clergyman 
 had received himself, the first company out of the 
 assembly who approached the altar, and kneeled down 
 to be partakers of the sacred elements, consisted of the 
 parson's wife, to whom he had been married upwards 
 of sixty years: one son and his wife; four daughters, 
 each with her husband ; whose ages, all added together, 
 amount to above 714 years. The several and respec- 
 tive distances from the place of each of their abodes to 
 the chapel where they all communicated, will measure 
 more than 1000 English miles. Though the narration 
 will appear surprising, it is without doubt a fact that 
 the same persons, exactly four years before, met at the 
 same place, and all joined in performance of the same 
 venerable duty." 
 
 He was indeed most zealously attached to the doc- 
 trine and frame of the Established Church. We have 
 seen him congratulating himself that he had no dis- 
 senters in his cure of any denomination. Some allow- 
 ance must be made for the state of opinion when liis 
 first religious impressions were received, before the 
 reader will acquit him of bigotry, when I mention, that 
 at the time of the augmentation of the cure, he refused 
 to invest part of the money in the purchase of an estate 
 otTered to him upon advantageous terms, because the 
 proprietor was a Quaker ; — whether from scrupulous 
 apprehension that a blessing would not attend a contract 
 framed for the benefit of the Church between persons 
 not in religious sympathy with each other; or, as a 
 seeker of peace, he was afraid of the uncomplying dis- 
 
 position which at one time was too frequently conspicu- 
 ous in that sect. Of this an instance had fallen under 
 his own notice ; for, while he taught scliool at Lowes- 
 water, certain persons of that denomination had re- 
 fused to pay annual interest due under the title of 
 Church-stock*; a great hardship upon the incumbent, 
 for the curacy of Loweswater was then scarcely less 
 poor than that of Seathwaite. To what degree this 
 prejudice of his was blameable need not be determined ; 
 — certain it is, that he was not only desirous, as he 
 himself says, to live in peace, but in love, with all men. 
 He was placable, and charitable in his judgments ; and, 
 however correct in conduct and rigorous to himself, he 
 was ever ready to forgive the trespasses of others, and 
 to soften the censure that was cast upon their frailties. 
 — It would be unpardonable to omit that, in the main- 
 tenance of his virtues, he received due support from 
 the Partner of his long life. She was equally strict in 
 attending to her share of their joint cares, nor less dili- 
 gent in her appropriate occupations. A person who 
 had been some time their servant in the latter part of 
 their lives, concluded the panegyric of her mistress by 
 saying to me, " she was no less excellent than her hus- 
 band ; she was good to the poor, she was good to every 
 thing!" He survived for a short time this virtuous 
 companion. When she died, he ordered that her body 
 should be borne to the grave by three of her daugh- 
 ters and one grand-daughter ; and, when the corpse 
 was lifted from the threshold, he insisted upon lending 
 his aid, and feeling about, for he was then almost blind, 
 took hold of a napkin fixed to the coffin ; and, as a 
 bearer of the body, entered the Chapel, a few steps 
 from the lowly parsonage. 
 
 What a contrast does the life of this obscurely-seat- 
 ed, and, in point of worldly wealth, poorly-repaid 
 Churchman, present to that of a Cardinal Wolsey ! 
 
 " O 't is a burthen, Cromwell, 't is a burthen 
 Too heavy for a man who hopes for heaven !" 
 
 We have been dwelling upon images of peace in 
 the moral world, that have brought us again to the 
 quiet enclosure of consecrated ground, in which this 
 venerable pair lie interred. The sounding brook, that 
 rolls close by the church-yard without disturbing feeling 
 or meditation, is now unfortunately laid bare; but not 
 long ago it participated, with the chapel, the shade of 
 some stately ash-trees, which will not spring again. 
 While the spectator from this spot is looking round 
 upon the girdle of stony mountains that encompasses 
 the vale, — masses of rock, out of which monuments 
 for all men that ever existed miglit have been hewn, it 
 would surprise him to be told, as witlj truth he might 
 
 *Mr. Walker's charity being of that kind which " seeketh not 
 her own," he would rather forego his rights than distrain for 
 dues which the parties liable refused to pay as a point of con- 
 science. 
 
MEMOIR OF THE REV. ROBERT WALKER. 
 
 513 
 
 be, that the plain blue slab dedicated to the memory 
 of this aged pair, is the production of a quarry in 
 North Wales. It was sent as a mark of respect by 
 one of their descendants from the vale of Festiniog, 
 a region almost as beautiful as that in which it now 
 lies! 
 
 Upon the Seathwaite Brook, at a small distance from 
 the Parsonage, has been erected a mill for spinning 
 yarn ; it is a mean and disagreeable object, though 
 not unimportant to the spectator, as calling to mind the 
 momentous changes wrought by such inventions in the 
 frame of society — changes which have proved especial- 
 ly unfavourable to these mour-tain solitudes. So much 
 had been effected by those new powers, before the sub- 
 ject of the preceding biographical sketch closed his 
 life, that their operation could not escape his notice, 
 and doubtless excited touching reflections upon the 
 comparatively insignificant results of his own manual 
 industry. But Robert Walker was not a man of times 
 and circumstances : had he lived at a later period, the 
 principle of duty would have produced application as 
 unremitting; the same energy of character would have 
 been displayed, though in many instances with widely- 
 different effects. 
 
 Having mentioned in this narrative the vale of 
 Loweswater as a place where Mr. Walker taught 
 school, I will add a few memoranda from its parish 
 register, respecting a person apparently of desires as 
 moderate, with whom he must have been intimate du- 
 ring his residence there. 
 
 " Let him that would, ascend the tottering seat 
 Of courtly grandeur, and become as great 
 As are his mounting wishes ; but for me. 
 Let sweet repose and rest my portion be. 
 
 Henry Fouest, Curate. 
 
 Honour, the idol which the most adore. 
 Receives no homage from my knee ; 
 Content in privacy I value more 
 Than all uneasy dignity. 
 
 Henry Forest came to Loweswater, 1708, being 25 
 
 years of age." 
 
 "This Curacy was twice augmented by Queen 
 Anne's bounty. The first payment, with great diffi- 
 culty, was paid to Mr. John Curwen of London, on the 
 9th of May, 1724, deposited by me, Henry Forest, Cu- 
 rate of Loweswater. Y° said 9th of May, y° said Mr. 
 Curwen went to the office, and saw my name register- 
 ed there, &c. This, by the Providence of God, came 
 by lot to this poor place. 
 
 Haec tester H. Forest." 
 
 In another place he records, that the sycamore- trees 
 were planted in the church-yard in 1710. 
 
 He died in 1741, having been curate thirty-four 
 years. It is not improbable that H. Forest was the 
 gentleman who assisted Robert Walker in his classical 
 studies at Loweswater. 
 
 3? 
 
 To this parish register is prefi.\ed a motto, of which 
 the following verses are a part : 
 
 "Invigilate viri, tacito nam tempora gressu 
 DifFugiunt, nuUoque sono convertitur annus ; 
 Utendum est aetata, cito pede prEeterit ajtas." 
 
 With pleasure I annex, as illustrative and confirma- 
 tory of the above account, Extracts from a Paper in 
 the Christian Remembrancer, Vol. I. October, 1819 : it 
 bears an assumed signature, but is known to be the 
 work of the Rev. Robert Bamford, vicar of Bishopton, 
 in the county of Durham; a great-grandson of Mr. 
 Walker, whose worth it commemorates, by a record 
 not the less valuable for being written in very early 
 youth. 
 
 " His house was a nursery of virtue. All the inmates 
 were industrious, and cleanly, and happy. Sobriety, 
 neatness, quietness, characterised the whole family. 
 No railings, no idleness, no indulgence of passion, 
 were permitted. Every child, however young, had its 
 appointed engagements ; every hand was busy. Knit- 
 ting, spinning, reading, writing, mending clothes, ma- 
 king shoes, were by the different children constantly 
 performing. The father himself sitting amongst them, 
 and guiding their thoughts, was engaged in the same 
 
 occupations. 
 
 ******** 
 
 " He sate up late, and rose early ; when the family 
 
 were at rest, he retired to a little room which he had 
 
 built on the roof of his house. He had slated it, and 
 
 fitted it up with shelves for his books, his stock of cloth, 
 
 wearing apparel, and his utensils. There many a cold 
 
 winter's night, without fire, while the roof was glazed 
 
 with ice, did he remain reading or writing, till the day 
 
 dawned. He taught the children in the chapel, for 
 
 there was no school-house. Yet in that cold, damp 
 
 place he never had a fire. He used to send the children 
 
 in parties either to his own fire at home, or make them 
 
 run up the mountain's side. 
 
 ******** 
 
 " It may be further mentioned, that he was a pas- 
 sionate admirer of nature; she was his mother, and he 
 was a dutiful child. While engaged on the mountains, 
 it was his greatest pleasure to view the rising sun ; and 
 in tranquil evenings, as it slided behind the hills, he 
 blessed its departure. He was skilled in fossils and 
 plants; a constant observer of the stars and winds: the 
 atmosphere was his delight. He made many experi- 
 ments on its nature and properties. In summer he used 
 to gather a multitude of flies and insects, and, by his 
 entertaining description, amuse and instruct his chil- 
 dren. They shared all his daily employments, and de- 
 rived many sentiments of love and benevolence from 
 his observations on the works and productions of nature. 
 Whether they were following him in the field, or sur- 
 rounding him in school, he took every opportunity of 
 storing their minds with useful information. — Nor was 
 the circle of his influence confined to Seathwaite. 
 
514 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Many a distant mother has told her child of Mr. Walk- 
 er, and begged him to be as good a man, 
 
 :lt :tc :i. * * 
 
 " Once, when I was very young, I had the pleasure 
 of seeing and hearing that venerable old man in his 
 90th year, and even then, the calmness, the force, the 
 perspicuity of his sermon, sanctified and adorned by 
 the wisdom of grey hairs, and the authority of virtue, 
 had such an effect upon my mind, that I never see a 
 hoary-headed clergyman, without thinking of Mr. 
 Walker * * * *. He allowed no dissenter or methodist 
 to interfere in the instruction of the souls committed 
 to his cure: and so successful were his exertions, that 
 he had not one dissenter of any denomination whatever 
 in the whole parish. — Though he avoided all religious 
 controversies, yet when age had silvered his head, and 
 virtuous piety had secured to his appearance reverence 
 and silent honour, no one, however determined in his 
 hatred of apostolic descent, could have listened to his 
 discourse on ecclesiastical history, and ancient times, 
 without thinking, that one of the beloved apostles had 
 returned to mortality, and in that vale of peace had 
 
 come to exemplify the beauty of holiness in the life 
 and character of Mr. Walker. 
 
 ***** 
 "Until the sickness of his wife, a few months pre- 
 vious to her death, his health and spirits and faculties 
 were unimpaired. But this misfortune gave him such 
 a shock, that his constitution gradually decayed. His 
 senses, except sight, still preserved their powers. He 
 never preached with steadiness after his wife's death. 
 His voice faltered : he always looked at the seat she 
 had used. He could not pass her tomb without tears. 
 He became, when alone, sad and melancholy, though 
 still among his friends kind and good-humoured. He 
 went to bed about 12 o'clock the night before his death. 
 As his custom was, he went, tottering and leaning 
 upon his daughter's arm, to examine the heavens, and 
 meditate a few moments in the open air. ' How clear 
 the moon shines to-night!' He said those words, 
 sighed, and laid down. At six next morning he v/aa 
 found a corpse. Many a tear, and many a heavy 
 heart, and many a grateful blessing followed him to 
 the grave." 
 
 '■n 
 
 V:' 
 
 
APPENDIX IV. 
 
 TOPOGRAPHICAL DESCRIPTION 
 
 OP 
 
 THE COUNTRY OF THE LAKES 
 
 IN THE NORTH OF ENGLAND.* 
 
 At Lucerne in Switzerland, there existed, some years 
 ago, a model of the Alpine country which encompasses 
 the Lake of the four Cantons. The spectator ascended 
 a little platform, and saw mountains, lakes, glaciers, 
 rivers, woods, waterfalls, and valleys with their cottages 
 and every other object contained in them, lying at his 
 feet ; all things being represented in their appropriate 
 colours. It may be easily conceived that this exhibition 
 afforded an exquisite delight to the imagination, which 
 was thus tempted to wander at will from valley to valley, 
 from mountain to mountain, through the deepest re- 
 cesses of the Alps. But it supplied also a more sub- 
 stantial pleasure ; for the sublime and beautiful region, 
 with all its hidden treasures, and their bearings and re- 
 lations to each other, was thereby comprehended and 
 understood at once. 
 
 Something of this kind (as far as it can be performed 
 bywords, which must needs be inadequately) will here 
 be attempted in respect to the Lakes in the north of 
 England, and the vales and mountains enclosing and 
 surrounding them. The delineation if tolerably exe- 
 cuted will in some instances communicate to the trav- 
 eller, who has already seen the objects, new informa- 
 J tjon ; and will assist in giving to his recollections a 
 
 * This Essay, which was published several years ago as an 
 Introduction to some Views of the Lakes, by the Rev. Joseph 
 
 ; Wilkinson, (an expensive work, and necessarily of limited cir- 
 oiiiatioR.) is now, with emendations and additions, attached to 
 tjiis volume ; from a consciousness of its having been written in 
 tlie same spirit wiiich dictated several of the poems, and from a 
 belief that it will tend materially to illustrate tliem. 
 ■ [The republication, here mentioned, was made in tlie Volume 
 
 -.containing '* Sonnets to the River Duddon and other Poems pub- 
 lished iii 1820." No other reason than that stated by the Author 
 himself need be given for introducing into the present Edition 
 
 ' this Essay descriptive of the Scenery of the Lakes, and thus re- 
 storing its appropriate connection with the Poems. H. R.] 
 
 more orderly arrangement than his own opportunities 
 of observing may have permitted him to make ; while 
 it will be still more useful to the future traveller, by 
 directing his attention at once to distinctions in things 
 which, without such previous aid, a length of time only 
 could enable him to discover. It is hoped, also, that 
 this Essay may become generally serviceable by lead- 
 ing to habits of more exact and considerate observation 
 than, as far as the writer knows, have hitherto been 
 applied to local scenery. 
 
 To begin, then, with the main outlines of the coun- 
 try. I know not how to give the reader a distinct 
 image of these more readily, than by requesting him 
 to place himself with me, in imagination, upon some 
 given point; let it be the top of either of the moun- 
 tains, Great Gavel, or Scawfell ; or, rather, let us sup- 
 pose our station to be a cloud hanging midway between 
 these two mountains, at not more than half a mile's 
 distance from the summit of each, and not many yards 
 above their highest elevation ; we shall then see stretch- 
 ed at our feet a number of valleys, not fewer than nine, 
 diverging from the point, on which we are supposed to 
 stand, like spokes from the nave of awheel. First, we 
 note, lying to the south-east, the vale of I^angdale, 
 which will conduct the eye to the long Lake of Winan- 
 dermere, stretched nearly to the sea ; or rather to the 
 sands of the vast bay of Morcamb, serving here for the 
 rim of this imaginary wheel ; — let us trace it in a di- 
 rection from the south-east towards the south, and we 
 shall next fix our eyes upon the vale of Coniston, run- 
 ning up likewise from the sea, but not (as all the other 
 valleys do) to the nave of the wheel, and tlierefore it 
 may not be inaptly represented as a broken spoke 
 sticking in the rim. Looking forth again, with an in- 
 clination towards the west, immediately at our feet 
 lies the vale of Duddon, in which is no lake, but a co- 
 
516 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 pious stream winding among fields, rocks, and moun- 
 tains, and terminating its course in the sands of Dud- 
 don. The fourth valley next to be observed, viz. that 
 of Eskdale, is of the same general character as the last, 
 yet beautifully discriminated from it by peculiar fea- 
 tures. Next, almost due west, look down upon, and 
 into, the deep valley of Wastdale, with its little chapel 
 and half a dozen neat scattered dwellings, a plain of 
 meadow and corn-ground intersected with stone walls 
 apparently innumerable, like a large piece of lawless 
 patch-work, or an array of mathematical figures, such 
 as in the ancient schools of geometry might have been 
 sportively and fantastically traced out upon sand. Be- 
 yond this little fertile plain lies, within its bed of steep 
 mountains, the long, narrow, stern, and desolate Lake 
 of Wastdale ; and beyond this a dusky tract of level 
 ground conducts the eye to the Irish Sea. The seve- 
 ral vales of Ennerdale and Buttermere, with their lakes, 
 ne.xt present themselves; and lastly, the vale of Bor- 
 lowdale, of which that of Keswick is only a continua- 
 tion, stretching due north, brings us to a point nearly 
 opposite to the vale of Winandermere with which we 
 began. From this it will appear, that the image of a 
 wheel thus far exact, is little more than one half com- 
 plete ; but the deficiency on the eastern side may be 
 supplied by the vales of Wytheburn, Ulswater, Haws- 
 water, and the vale of Grasmere and Rydal ; none of 
 these, however, run up to the central point between 
 Great Gavel and Scawfell. From this, hitherto our 
 central point, take a flight of not more than three or 
 four miles eastward to the ridge of Helvellyn, and you 
 will look down upon Wytheburn and St. John's Vale, 
 which are a branch of the vale of Keswick; upon Uls- 
 water, stretching due east, and not far beyond to the 
 south-east, (though from this point not visible,) lie the 
 vale and lake of Ilawswater; and lastly, the vale of 
 Grasmere, Rydal, and Ambleside, brings you back to 
 Winandermere, thus completing, though on the eastern 
 side in a somewhat irregular manner, the representa- 
 tive figure of the wheel. 
 
 Such, concisely given, is the general topographical 
 view of the country of the Lakes in the north of En- 
 gland ; and it may be observed, that, from the circum- 
 ference to the centre, that is, from the sea or plain 
 country to the mountain stations specified, there is — in 
 the several ridges that enclose these vales and divide 
 them from each other, I mean in the forms and sur- 
 faces, first of the swelling grounds, ne.xt of the hills 
 and rocks, and la.stly of the mountains — an ascent of 
 almost regular gradation from elegance and richness to 
 the highest point of grandeur. It follows tlierefore 
 from this, first, that these rocks, hills, and miuntains, 
 must present themselves to view in stages rising above 
 each other, the mountains clustering together towards 
 the central point; and, next, that an observer familiar 
 with the several vales, must, from their various position 
 in relation to the sun, have had before his eyes every 
 
 possible embellishment of beauty, dignity, and splen- 
 dour, which light and shadow can bestow upon objects 
 so diversified. For example, in the vale of Winander- 
 mere, if the spectator looks for gentle and lovely scenes, 
 his eye is turned towards the south ; if for the grand, 
 towards the north ; in the vale of Keswick, which (as 
 hath been said) lies almost due north of this, it is di- 
 rectly the reverse. Hence, when the sun is setting in 
 summer far to the north-west, it is seen by the specta- 
 tor from the shores or breast of Winandermere, resting 
 amongst the summits of the loftiest mountains, some of 
 which will perhaps be half or wholly hid by clouds, or 
 by the blaze of light which the orb diffuses around it; 
 and the surface of the lake will reflect before the eye 
 correspondent colours through every variety of beauty, 
 and through all degrees of splendour. In the vale of 
 Keswick, at the same period, the sun sets over the 
 humbler regions of the landscape, and showers down 
 upon Ihem the radiance which at once veils and glori- 
 fies, — sending forth, meanwhile, broad streams of rosy, 
 crimson purple, or golden light, towards the grand 
 mountains in the south and south-east, which, thus illu- 
 minated, with all their projections and cavities, and 
 with an intermixture of solemn shadows, are seen dis- 
 tinctly through a cool and clear atmosphere. Of course, 
 there is as marked a difference between the noontide 
 appearance of these two opposite vales. The bedim- 
 ming haze that overspreads the south, and the clear 
 atmosphere and determined shadows of the clouds in 
 the north, at the same time of the day, are each seen 
 in these several vales, with a contrast as striking. The 
 reader will easily perceive in what degree the inter- 
 mediate vales partake of the same variety. 
 
 I do not indeed know any tract of country in which, 
 within so narrow a compass, may be found an equal 
 variety in the influences of light and shadow upon the 
 sublime or beautiful features of landscape; and it is 
 owing to the combined circumstances to which I have 
 directed the reader's attention. From a point between 
 Great Gavel and Scawfell, a shepherd would not re- 
 quire more than an hour to descend into any one of 
 eight of the principal vales by which he would be sur- 
 rounded ; and all the others lie (with the exception of 
 Hawswater) at but a small distance. Yet, though clus- 
 tered together, every valley has its distinct and sepa- 
 rate cliaracter ; in some instances, as if they had been 
 formed in studied contrast to each other, and in others 
 with the united pleasing diflferences and resemblances 
 of a sisterly rivalship. This concentration of interest 
 gives to the country a decided superiority over the 
 most attractive districts of Scotland and Wales, espe- 
 cially for the pedestrian traveller. In Scotland and 
 Wales are found undoubtedly individual scenes, which, 
 in their several kinds, cannot be excelled. But, in 
 Scotland, particularly, what desolate and unimpressive 
 tracts of country almost oerpetually intervene ! so that 
 the traveller, when he reaches a spot deservedly of 
 
DESCRIPTION OF THE COUNTRY OF THE LAKES. 
 
 517 
 
 great celebrity, would find it difficult to determine how 
 much of his pleasure is owing to excellence inherent 
 in the landscape itself; and how much to an instanta- 
 neous recovery from an oppression left upon his spirits 
 by the barrenness and desolation through which he has 
 passed. 
 
 But, to proceed with our survey : — and, first, of the 
 Mountains. Their forms are endlessly diversified, 
 sweeping easily or boldly in simple majesty, abrupt and 
 precipitous, or soft and elegant. In magnitude and 
 grandeur they are individually inferior to the most cele- 
 brated of those in some other parts of this island; but, 
 in the combinations which they make, towering above 
 each other, or lifting themselves in ridges like the 
 waves of a tumultuous sea, and in the beauty and va- 
 riety of their surfaces and their colours, they are sur- 
 passed by none. 
 
 The general surface of the mountains is turf, ren- 
 dered rich and green by the moisture of the climate. 
 Sometimes the turf, as in the neighbourhood of New- 
 lands, is little broken, the whole covering being soft 
 and downy pasturage. In other places rocks predomi- 
 nate: the soil is laid bare by torrents and burstings of 
 water from the sides of the mountains in heavy rains; 
 and occasionally their perpendicular sides are seamed 
 by ravines (formed also by rains and torrents) which, 
 meeting in angular points, entrench and scar over 
 the surface with numerous figures like the letters 
 W and Y. 
 
 The Mountains are composed of the stone by min- 
 eralogists termed schist, which, as you approach the 
 plain country, gives place to lime-stone and free-stone ; 
 but schist being the substance of the mountains, the 
 predominant colour of their rocky parts is bluish, or 
 hoary gray — the general tint of the lichens with which 
 the bare stone is encrusted. With this blue or gray 
 colour is frequently intermixed a red tinge, proceeding 
 from the iron that interveins the stone, and impregnates 
 the soil. The iron is the principle of decomposition in 
 these rocks; and hence, when they become pulverized, 
 the elementary particles crumbling down overspread in 
 many places the steep and almost precipitous sides of 
 the mountains with an intermixture of colours, like the 
 compound hues of a dove's neck. When, in the heat 
 of advancing summer, the fresh green tint of the her- 
 bage has somewhat faded, it is again revived by the 
 appearance of the fern profusely spread every where ; 
 and, upon this plant, more than upon any thing else, 
 do the changes which the seasons make in the colour- 
 ing of the mountains depend. About the first week in 
 October, the rich green, which prevailed through the 
 whole summer, is usually passed away. The brilliant 
 and various colours of the fern are then in harmony 
 with the autumnal woods ; bright yellow or lemon co- 
 lour, at the base of the mountains, melting gradually, 
 through orange, to a dark russet brown towards the 
 summits, where the plant being more exposed to the 
 
 weather, is in a more advanced state of decay. Neither 
 heath' nor furze are generally found upon the sides of 
 these mountains, though in some places they are richly 
 adorned by them. We may add, that the mountains 
 are of height sufficient to have the surface towards the 
 summits softened by distance, and to imbibe the finest 
 aerial hues. In common also with other mountains, 
 their apparent forms and colours are perpetually 
 changed by the clouds and vapours which float round 
 them : the effect indeed of mist or haze, in a country 
 of this character, is like that of magic. I have seen 
 six or seven ridges rising above each other, all created 
 in a moment by the vapours upon the side of a moun- 
 tain, which, in its ordinary appearance, showed not a 
 projecting point to furnish even a hint for such an 
 operation. 
 
 1 will take this opportunity of observing, that they, 
 who have studied the appearances of nature, feel that 
 the superiority, in point of visual interest, of mountain- 
 ous over other countries — is more strikingly displayed 
 in winter than in summer. This, as must be obvious, 
 is partly owing to the forms of the mountains, which, 
 of course, are not affected by the seasons ; but also, in 
 no small degree, to the greater variety that exists in 
 their winter than their summer colouring. This va- 
 riety is such, and so harmoniously preserved, that it 
 leaves little cause of regret when the splendour of au- 
 tumn is passed away. The oak-coppices, upon the sides 
 of the mountains, retain russet leaves; the birch stands 
 conspicuous with its silver stem and puce-coloured 
 twigs; the hollies, with green leaves and scarlet ber- 
 ries, have come forth to view from among the deciduous 
 trees, whose summer foliage had concealed them ; the 
 ivy is now plentifulliy apparent upon the stems and 
 boughs of the trees,, and among the woody rocks. In 
 place of the uniform summer-green of the herbage and 
 fern, many rich colours play into each other over the 
 surface of the mountains; turf (the tints of which are 
 interchangeably tawny-green, olive, and brown,) beds 
 of withered fern, and gray rocks, being harmoniously 
 blended together. The mosses and lichens are never 
 so fresh and flourishing as in winter, if it be not a sea- 
 son of frost; and their minute beauties prodigally adorn 
 the fore-ground. Wherever we turn, we find these pro- 
 ductions of nature, to which winter is rather favourable 
 than unkindly, scattered over the walls, banks of earth, 
 rocks, and stones, and upon the trunks of trees, with 
 the intermixture of several species of small fern, now 
 green and fresh; and, to the observing passenger, 
 their forms and colours are a source of inexhaustible 
 admiration. Add to this the hoar-frost and snow, with 
 all the varieties they create, and which volumes would 
 not be sufficient to describe. I will content myself 
 with one instance of the colouring produced by snow, 
 which may not be uninteresting to painters. It is ex- 
 tracted from the memorandum-book of a friend; and 
 for its accuracy I can speak, having been an eye- 
 44 
 
518 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 witness of the appearance. " I observed," says lie, 
 " the beautiful effect of the drilled snow upon the 
 mountains, and the perfect tone of colour. From the 
 top of the mountains downwards a rich olive was pro- 
 duced by the powdery snow and the grass, which olive 
 was warmed with a little brown, and in this way har- 
 moniously combined, by insensible gradations, with the 
 white. The drifting took away the monotony of snow; 
 and the whole vale of Grasmere, seen from the terrace 
 walli in Easedale, was as varied, perhaps more .so, than 
 even in the pomp of autumn. In the distance was 
 Louo-hrigg-Fell, the basin-wall of the lake : this, from 
 the summit downward, was a rich orange-olive; then 
 the lake of a bright olive-green, nearly the same tint 
 as the snow-powdered mountain tops and high slopes 
 in Easedale; and lastly, the church with its firs form- 
 ing the centre of the view. Next to the church with 
 its firs, came nine distinguishable hills, six of them 
 with woody sides turned towards us, all of them oak- 
 copses with their bright red leaves and snow-powdered 
 twigs; these hills — so variously situated to each other, 
 and to the view in general, so variously powdered, some 
 only enough to give the herbage a rich brown tint, one 
 intensely white and lighting up all the others — were 
 yet so placed, as in the most inobtrusive manner to 
 harmonize by contrast with a perfect naked, snowless 
 bleak summit in the far distance." 
 
 Having spoken of the forms, surface, and colour of 
 the mountain.s, let us descend into the Valleys. 
 Though these have been represented under the general 
 image of the spokes of a wheel, they are, for the most 
 part, winding; the windings of many being abrupt and 
 intricate. And, it may be observed, that, in one cir- 
 cumstance, the general shape of them all has been de- 
 termined by that primitive conformation through which 
 so many became receptacles of lakes. For they are 
 not formed, as are most of the celebrated Welsh val- 
 leys, by an approximation of the sloping bases of the 
 opposite mountains towards each other, leaving little 
 more between than a channel for the passage of a hasty 
 river; but the bottom of these valleys is, for the most 
 part, a spacious and gently declining area, apparently 
 level as the floor of a temple, or the surface of a lake, 
 and beautifully broken, in many cases, by rocks and 
 hills, which rise up like islands from the plain. In 
 such of the valleys as make many windings, these level 
 areas open upon the traveller in succession, divided 
 from each other sometimes by a mutual approximation 
 of the hills, leaving only passage for a river, sometimes 
 by correspondent windings, without such approxima- 
 tion ; and sometimes by a bold advance of one moun- 
 tain towards that which is opposite to it. It ir.-iy here 
 be observed with propriety, that the several rocks and 
 hills, which have been described as rising up like islands 
 from the level area of the vale, have regulated the 
 choice of the inhabitants in the situation of their dwell- 
 ings. Where none of these are found, and the incli- 
 
 nation of the ground is not sufficiently rapid easily to 
 carry off the waters, (as in the higher part of Langdale, 
 for instance,) the houses are not sprinkled over the mid- 
 dle part of the vales, but confined to their sides, being 
 placed merely so far up the mountain as to protect them 
 from the floods. But where these rocks and hills have 
 been scattered over the plain of the vale, (as in Gras- 
 mere, Donnerdale, Eskdale, &c.) the beauty which 
 they give to the scene is much heightened by a single 
 cottage, or cluster of cottages, that will be almost 
 always found under them or upon their sides; dryness 
 and shelter having tempted the Dalesmen to fix their 
 habitations there. 
 
 I shall now speak of the Lakes of this country. 
 The form of the lake is most perfect when, like Der- 
 went-water and some of the smaller lakes, it least re- 
 sembles that of a river;— I mean, when being looked 
 at from any given point where the whole may be seen 
 at once, the width of it bears such proportion to the 
 length, that, however the outline may be diversified by 
 far-shooting bays, it never assumes the shape of a river, 
 and is cunteuiplated with that placid and quiet feeling 
 which belongs peculiarly to the lake — as a body of still 
 water under the influence of no current; reflecting 
 therefore the clouds, the light, and all the imagery of 
 the sky and surrounding hills; expressing also and 
 making visible the changes of the atmosphere, and mo- 
 tions of the lightest breeze, and subject to agitation 
 only from the winds — 
 
 The visible scene 
 
 Would enter unawares into his mind 
 
 Wilh all its solemn imagery, its rocks, 
 
 Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received 
 
 Into the bosom of the sleadi/ lake ! 
 
 It must be noticed, as a favourable characteristic of 
 the lakes of this country, that, though several of the 
 largest, such as Winandermere, Ulswater, Hawswater, 
 &c. do, when the whole length of them is commanded 
 from an elevated point, lose somewhat of the peculiar 
 fortn of the lake, and assume the resemblance of a 
 magnificent river; yet, as their shape is winding, (par- 
 ticularly that of Ulswater and Hawswater) when the 
 view of the whole is obstructed by those barriers which 
 determine the windings, and the spectator is confined 
 to one reach, the appropriate feeling is revived ; and 
 one lake may thus in succession present to the eye the 
 essential characteristic of many. But, though the 
 forms of the large lakes have this advantage, it is 
 nevertheless a circumstance favourable to the beauty 
 of the country, that the largest of them are compara- 
 tively small ; and that the same valley generally fur- 
 nishes a succession of lakes, instead of being filled 
 with one. The valleys in North Wales, as hath been 
 observed, are not formed for the reception of lakes; 
 those of Switzerland, Scotland, and this part of the 
 north of England, are so formed ; but, in Switzerland 
 
DESCRIPTION OF THE COUTSITRY OF THE LAKES. 
 
 519 
 
 and Scotland, the proportion of diffused water is often 
 too great, as at the lake of Geneva for instance, and in 
 most of the Scotch lakes. No doubt it sounds magnifi- 
 cent and flatters the imagination to hear at a distance 
 of expanses of water so many leagues in length and 
 miles in width ; and such ample room may be delight- 
 ful to the fresh-water sailor scudding with a lively 
 breeze amid the rapidly-shifling scenery. But, who 
 ever travelled along the banks of Loch-Lomond, varie- 
 gated as the lower part is by islands, without feeling 
 that a speedier termination of the long vista of blank 
 water would be acceptable ; and without wishing for 
 an interposition of green meadows, trees, and cottages, 
 and a sparkling stream to run by his side ? In fact, a 
 notion of grandeur, as connected with magnitude, has 
 seduced persons of taste into a general mistake upon 
 this subject. It is much more desirable, for the pur- 
 poses of pleasure, that lakes should be numerous, and 
 small or middle-sized, than large, not only for commu- 
 nication by walks and rides, but for variety, and for re- 
 currence of similar appearances. To illustrate this by 
 one instance : — how pleasing is it to have a ready and 
 frequent opportunity of watching, at the outlet of a 
 lake, the stream pushing its way among the rocks in 
 lively contrast with the stillness from which it has es- 
 caped ; and how amusing to compare its noisy and tur- 
 bulent motions with the gentle playfulness of the breezes, 
 that may be starting up or wandering here and there 
 over the faintly-rippled surface of the broad water ! I 
 may add, as a general remark, that, in lakes of great 
 width, the shores cannot be distinctly seen at the same 
 time, and therefore contribute little to mutual illustra- 
 tion and ornament ; and if, like the American and Asi- 
 atic lakes, the opposite shores are out of sight of each 
 other, then unfortunately the traveller ia reminded of 
 a nobler object; he has the blankness of a sea-prospect 
 without the same grandeur and accompanying sense of 
 power. 
 
 As the comparatively small size of the lakes in the 
 North of England is favourable to the production of 
 variegated landscape, their boundary-line also is for the 
 most part gracefully or boldly indented. That uni- 
 formity which prevails in the primitive frame of the 
 lower grounds among all chains or clusters of moun- 
 tains where large bodies of still water are bedded, is 
 broken by the secondary agents of nature, ever at work 
 to supply the deficiencies of the mould in which things 
 were originally cast. It need scarcely be observed that 
 using the word, deficiencies, I do not speak with refer- 
 ence to those stronger emotions which a region of 
 mountains is peculiarly fitted to excite. The bases of 
 those huge barriers may run for a long space in straight 
 lines, and these parallel to each other; the opposite 
 sides of a profound vale may ascend as exact counter- 
 parts or in mutual reflection like the billows of a 
 troubled sea : and the impression be, from its very 
 simplicity, more awful and sublime. Sublimity is the 
 
 result of Nature's first great dealings with the super- 
 ficies of the earth ; but the general tendency of her 
 subsequent operations, is towards the production of 
 beauty, by a multiplicity of symmetrical parts uniting 
 in a consistent whole. This is every where exempli- 
 fied along the margin of these lakes. Masses of rock, 
 that have been precipitated from the heights into the 
 area of waters, lie frequently like stranded ships; or 
 have acquired the compact structure of jutting piers; 
 or project in little peninsulas crested with native wood. 
 The smallest rivulet — one whose silent influx is scarce- 
 ly noticeable in a season of dry weather, so faint is the 
 dimple made by it on the surface of the smooth lake — 
 will be found to have been not useless in shaping, by 
 its deposits of gravel and soil in time of flood, a curve 
 that would not otherwise have existed. But the more 
 powerful brooks, encroaching upon the level of the lake, 
 have in course of time given birth to ample promon- 
 tories, whose sweeping line often contrasts boldly with 
 the longitudinal base of the steeps on the opposite shore ; 
 while their flat or gently-sloping surface never fails to 
 introduce, into the midst of desolation and barrenness, 
 the elements of fertility, even where the habitations 
 of men may not happen to have been raised. These 
 alluvial promontories, however, threaten in some places 
 to bisect the waters which they have long adorned ; 
 and, in course of ages, they will cause some of the lakes 
 to dwindle into numerous and insignificant pools ; which, 
 in their turn, will finally be filled up. But the man 
 of taste will say, it is an impertinent calculation that 
 leads to such unwelcome conclusions ; — let us rather 
 be content with appearances as they are, and pursue 
 in imagination the meandering shores, whether rugged 
 steeps, admitting of no cultivation, descend into the 
 water; or the shore is formed by gently-sloping lawns 
 and rich woods, or by flat and fertile meadows stretch- 
 ing between the margin of the lake and the mountains. 
 Among minuter recommendations will be noted with 
 pleasure the curved rim of fine blue gravel thrown up 
 by the waves, especially in bays exposed to the setting- 
 in of strong winds; here and there are found, bordering 
 the lake, groves, if I may so call them, of reeds and 
 bulrushes; or plots of water-lilies lifting up their large 
 circular leaves to the breeze, while the white flower 
 is heaving upon the wave. 
 
 The Islands are neither so numerous nor so beau- 
 tiful as might be expected from the account I have 
 given of the manner in which the level areas of the 
 vales are so frequently diversified by rocks, hills, and 
 hillocks, scattered over them ; nor are they ornamented, 
 as are several islands of the lakes in Scotland, by the 
 remains of old castles or other places of defence, or of 
 monastic edifices. There is however a beautifiil cluster 
 of islands on Winandermere ; a pair pleasingly con- 
 trasted upon Rydal ; nor must the solitary green island 
 at Grasmere be forgotten. In the bosom of each of the 
 lakes of Ennerdale and Devock-water is a single rock 
 
520 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 which, owing to its neighbourhood to the sea, is — 
 " The haunt of cormorants and sea-mews' clang," 
 
 a music well suited to the stern and wild character of 
 the several scenes ! 
 
 This part of the subject may be concluded with ob- 
 serving — that, from the multitude of brooks and tor- 
 rents that fall into these lakes, and of internal springs 
 by which they are fed, and which circulate through 
 them like veins, they are truly living lakes, " vivi 
 lacus ;" and are thus discriminated from the stagnant 
 and sullen pools frequent among mountains that have 
 been formed by volcanoes, and from the shallow meres 
 found in flat and fenny countries. The water is also 
 pure and crystalline; so that, if it were not for the 
 reflections of the incumbent mountains by which it is 
 darkened, a delusion might be felt, by a person resting 
 quietly in a boat on the bosom of Winandermere or 
 Derwent-water, similar to that which Carver so beau- 
 tifully describes when he was floating alone in the 
 middle of the lake Erie or Ontario, and could almost 
 have imagined that his boat was suspended in an 
 element as pure as air, or rather that the air and water 
 were one. 
 
 Having spoken of Lakes I must not omit to mention, 
 as a kindred feature of this country, those bodies of 
 still water called Tarns. These are found in some of 
 the valleys, and are very numerous upon the moun- 
 tains. A Tarn, in a Vale, implies, for the most part, 
 that the bed of the vale is not happily formed ; that the 
 water of the brooks can neither wholly escape, nor dif- 
 fuse itself over a large area. Accordingly, in such sit- 
 uations. Tarns are often surrounded by a tract of boggy 
 ground which has an unsightly appearance ; but this is 
 not always the case, and in the cultivated parts of the 
 country, when the shores of the Tarn are determined, 
 it difl^ers only from the Lake in being smaller, and in 
 belonging mostly to a smaller valley or circular recess. 
 Of this class of miniature lakes Loughrigg Tarn, near 
 Grasmere, is the most beautiful e.vample. It has a 
 margin of green firm meadows, of rocks, and rocky 
 woods, a few reeds here, a little company of water-lilies 
 there, with beds of gravel or stone beyond ; a tiny 
 stream issuing neither briskly nor sluggishly out of it ; 
 but its feeding rills, from the shortness of their course, 
 so small as to be scarcely visible. Five or six cottages 
 are reflected in its peaceful bosom ; rocky and barren 
 steeps rise up above the hanging enclosures; and the 
 solemn pikes of Langdale overlook, from a distance, 
 the low cultivated ridge of land that forms the northern 
 boundary of this small, quiet, and fertile domain. The 
 mountain Tarns can only be recommended to the no- 
 tice of the inquisitive traveller who has time to spare. 
 Thev are difficult of access and naked ; yet some of 
 them are, in their permanent forms, very grand ; and 
 there are accidents of things which would make the 
 meanest of them interesting. At all events, one of 
 
 these pools is an acceptable sight to the mountain wan- 
 derer, not merely as an incident that diversifies the 
 prospect, but as forming in his mind a centre or con- 
 spicuous point to which objects, otherwise disconnected 
 or unsubordinated, may be referred. Some ievi have 
 a varied outline, with bold heath-clad promontories; 
 and, as they mostly lie at the foot of a steep precipice, 
 the water, where the sun is not shining upon it, appears 
 black and sullen ; and round the margin huge stones 
 and masses of rocks are scattered ; some defying con- 
 jecture as to the means by which they came there, and 
 others obviously fallen from on high — the contribution 
 of ages ! The sense, also, of some repulsive power 
 strongly put forth — e.xcited by the prospect of a body 
 of pure water unattended with groves and other cheer- 
 ful rural images by which fresh water is usually accom- 
 panied, and unable to give any furtherance to the mea- 
 gre vegetation around it — heightens the melancholy 
 natural to such scenes. Nor is the feeling of solitude 
 often more forcibly or more solemnly impressed than by 
 the side of one of these mountain pools: though deso- 
 late and forbidding, it seems a distinct place to repair 
 to; yet where the visitants must be rare, and there 
 can be no disturbance. Water-fowl flock hither ; and 
 the lonely Angler may oftentimes here be seen; but 
 the imagination, not content with this scanty allowance 
 of society, is tempted to attribute a voluntary power to 
 every change which takes place in such a spot, whether 
 it be the breeze that wanders over the surface of the 
 water, or the splendid lights of evening resting upon it 
 in the midst of awful precipices. 
 
 " There, sometimes does a leaping fish 
 Send through the tarn a lonely cheer ; 
 The crags repeat the raven's croak 
 In S3'mphony austere : 
 Thilher the rainbow comes, the cloud, 
 And mists that spread the flying shroud, 
 And stinbeams, and the sounding blast." — 
 
 Though this country is, on one side, bounded by the 
 sea, which combines beautifully, from some elevated 
 points of view, with the inland scenery; yet the estu- 
 aries cannot pretend to vie with those of Scotland and 
 Wales : — the Lakes are such in the strict and usual 
 sense of the word, being all of fresh water ; nor have 
 the Rivers, from the shortness of their course, time to 
 acquire that body of water necessary to confer upon 
 them much majesty. In fact, while they continue in 
 the mountain and lake-country, they are rather large 
 brooks than rivers. The water is perfectly pellucid, 
 through which in many places are seen to a great depth 
 their beds of rock or of blue gravel which give to the 
 water itself an exquisitely cerulean colour: this is par- 
 ticularly striking in the rivers, Derwent and Duddon, 
 which may be compared, such and so various are their 
 beauties, to any two rivers of equal length of course in 
 any country. The number of the torrents and smaller 
 brooks is infinite, with their water-falls and water- 
 
DESCRIPTION OF THE COUNTRY OF THE LAKES. 
 
 521 
 
 breaks ; and they need not here be described. I will 
 only observe that, as many, even of the smallest of these 
 rills, have either found, or made for themselves, recesses ' 
 in the sides of the mountains or in the vales, they have 
 tempted the primitive inhabitants to settle near them 
 for shelter; and hence the retirement and seclusion by 
 which these cottages are endeared to the eye of the 
 man of sensibility. 
 
 The Woods consist chiefly of oak, ash, and birch, 
 and here and there a species of elm, with underwood 
 of hazel, the white and black thorn, and hollies; in 
 moist places alders and willows abound ; and yews 
 among the rocks. Formerly the whole country must 
 have been covered with wood to a great height up the 
 mountains ; and native Scotch Firs (as in the northern 
 part of Scotland to this day) must have grown in great 
 profusion. But no one of these old inhabitants of the 
 country remains, or perhaps has done for some hundreds 
 of years; beautiful traces however of the universal syl- 
 van appearance the country formerly had, are yet seen, 
 both in the native coppice-woods tliat remain, and have 
 been protected by enclosures, and also in the forest- 
 trees and hollies, which, though disappearing fast, are 
 yet scattered both over the inclosed and uninclosed parts 
 of the mountains. The same is expressed by the beau- 
 ty and intricacy with which the fields and coppice- 
 woods are often intermingled : the plough of the first 
 settlers having followed naturally the veins of richer, 
 dryer, or less stony soil ; and thus it has shaped out an 
 intermixture of wood and lawn with a grace and wild- 
 ness which it would have been impossible for the hand 
 of studied art to produce. Other trees have been intro- 
 duced v/ithin these last fifty years, such as beeches, 
 larches, limes, &c. and plantations of Scotch firs, sel- 
 dom with advantage, and often with great injury to the 
 appearance of the country ; but the sycamore (which 
 I believe was brought into this island from Germany, 
 not more than two hundred years ago) has long been 
 the favourite of the cottagers; and, with the Scotch fir, 
 has been chosen to screen their dwellings; and is 
 sometimes found in the fields whither the winds or 
 waters may have carried its seeds. 
 
 The want most felt, however, is that of timber trees. 
 There are few magnificent ones to be found near any 
 of the lakes ; and, unless greater care be taken, there 
 will in a short time scarcely be left an ancient oak that 
 would repay the cost of felling. The neighbourhood 
 of Rydal, notwithstanding the havoc which has been 
 made, is yet nobly distinguished. In the woods of Low- 
 ther, also, is found an almost matchless store of the 
 grandest trees, and all the majesty and wildness of the 
 native forest. 
 
 Among the smaller vegetable ornaments provided 
 
 here by nature, must be reckoned the juniper, bilberry, 
 
 and the broom-plant, with which the hills and woods 
 
 abound; the Dutch myrtle in moist places; and the 
 
 3Q, 
 
 endless variety of brilliant flowers in the fields and 
 meadows; which, if the agriculture of the country were 
 more carefully attended to, would disappear. Nor can 
 I omit again to notice the lichens and mosses, — their 
 profusion, beauty, and variety exceed tliose of any 
 other country I have seen. 
 
 Thus far I have chiefly spoken of the features by 
 which Nature has discriminated this country from 
 others. I will now describe, in general terms, in what 
 manner it is indebted to the hand of man. What I 
 have to notice on this subject will emanate most easily 
 and perspicuously from a description of the ancient 
 and present inhabitants, their occupations, their con- 
 dition of life, the distribution of landed property among 
 them, and the tenure by which it is holden. 
 
 The reader will sufler me here to recall to his mind 
 the shapes of the valleys and their position with respect 
 to each other, and the forms and substance of the in- 
 tervening mountains. He will people the valleys with 
 lakes and rivers; the coves and sides of the moun- 
 tains with pools and torrents; and will bound half of 
 the circle which we have contemplated by the sands 
 of the sea, or by the sea itself. He will conceive 
 that, from the point upon which he before stood, he 
 looks down upon this scene before the country had 
 been penetrated by any inhabitants: — to vary his sen- 
 sations and to break in upon their stillness, he will 
 form to himself an image of the tides visiting and re- 
 visiting the Friths, the main sea dashing against the 
 bolder shore, the rivers pursuing their course to be lost 
 in the mighty mass of waters. He may see or hear in 
 fancy the winds sweeping over the lakes, or piping 
 with a loud voice among the mountain peaks; and, 
 lastly, may think of the primeval woods shedding and 
 renewing their leaves with no human eye to notice, 
 or human heart to regret or welcome the change. 
 " When the first settlers entered this region (says 
 an animated writer) they found it overspread with 
 wood ; forest trees, the fir, the oak, the ash, and the 
 birch, had skirted the fells, tufted the hills, and shaded 
 the valleys through centuries of silent solitude ; the 
 birds and beasts of prey reigned over the meeker spe- 
 cies; and the bellum inter omnia maintained the bal- 
 ance of nature in the empire of beasts." 
 
 Such was the state and appearance of this region 
 when the aboriginal colonists of the Celtic tribes were 
 first driven or drawn towards it, and became joint 
 tenants with the wolf, the boar, the wild bull, the red 
 deer, and the leigh, a gigantic species of deer which 
 has been long extinct; while the inaccessible crags 
 were occupied by the falcon, the raven, and the eagle. 
 The inner parts were too secluded and of too little 
 value to participate much of the benefit of Roman 
 manners; and though these conquerors encouraged 
 the Britons to the improvement of their lands in the 
 plain country of Furness and Cumberland, they seem 
 44* 
 
522 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 to have had little connection with the mountains, ex- 
 cept for military purposes, or in subservience to the 
 profit they drew from the mines. 
 
 When the Romans retired from Great Britain, it is 
 well known that these mountain fastnesses furnished a 
 protection to some unsubdued Britons, long after the 
 more accessible and more fertile districts had been 
 seized by the Sa.\on or Danish invader. A few though 
 distinct traces of Roman forts or camps, as at Amble- 
 side, and upon Dunmallet, and two or three circles of 
 rude stones attributed to the Druids, are the only ves- 
 tiges that remain upon the surface of the country, of 
 these ancient occupants ; and, as the Saxons and Danes, 
 who succeeded to the possession of the villages and 
 hamlets which had been established by the Britons, 
 seem at first to have confined themselves to the open 
 country, — we may descend at once to times long pos- 
 terior to the conquest by the Normans when their feu- 
 dal polity was regularly established. We may easily 
 conceive that these narrow dales and mountain sides, 
 choaked up as they must have been with wood, lying 
 out of the way of communication with other parts of 
 the Island, and upon the edge of a hostile kingdom, 
 could have little attraction for the high-born and 
 powerful ; especially as the more open parts of the 
 country furnished positions for castles and houses of de- 
 fence sufficient to repel any of those sudden attacks, 
 which, in the then rude state of military knowledge, 
 could be made upon them. Accordingly, the more 
 retired regions (and, observe, it is to these I am now 
 confining myself) must have been neglected or shunned 
 even by the persons whose baronial or seignioral rights 
 e.xtended over them, and left, doubtless, partly as a 
 place of refuge for outlaws and robbers, and partly 
 granted out for the more settled habitation of a few 
 vassals following the employment of shepherds or wood- 
 land.Ts. Hence these lakes and inner valleys are un- 
 adorned by any of the remains of ancient grandeur, 
 castles, or monastic edifices, which are only found upon 
 the skirts of this country, as Furness Abbey, Calder 
 Abbey, the Priory of Lannercost, Gleaston Castle, — 
 long ago the residence of the Flemings, — and the nu- 
 merous ancient castles of the Cliffords and the Dacres. 
 On the southern side of these mountains, (especially 
 in that part known by the name of Furness Fells, which 
 is more remote from the borders,) the state of society 
 would necessarily be more settled ; though it was fash- 
 ioned not a little, with the rest of the country, by its 
 neighbourhood to a Iiostile kingdom. We will there- 
 fore give a sketch of the economy of the Abbots in the 
 distribution of lands among their tenants, as similar 
 plans were doubtless adopted by other Lords, and as 
 the consequences have affected the face of the country 
 materially to the present day, being in fact one of the 
 principal causes which give it such a striking superi- 
 ority, in beauty and interest, over all other parts of the 
 island. 
 
 " When the Abbots of Furness," says an author 
 before cited, " enfranchised their villains, and raised 
 them to the dignity of customary tenants, the lands, 
 which they had cultivated for their lord, were divided 
 into whole tenements; each of which, besides the cus- 
 tomary annual rent, was charged with the obligation of 
 having in readiness a man completely armed for the 
 king's service on the borders, or elsewhere: each of 
 these whole tenements was again subdivided into four 
 equal parts; each villain had one; and the party ten- 
 ant contributed his share to the support of the nian-at- 
 arms, and of other burdens. These divisions were not 
 properly distinguished ; the land remained mixed ; each 
 tenant had a share through all the arable and meadow- 
 land, and common of pasture over all the wastes. 
 These sub-tenements were judged snfliicient for the 
 support of so many families; and no further division 
 was permitted. These divisions and subdivisions were 
 convenient at the time for which they were calculated ; 
 the land, so parcelled out, was, of necessity, more 
 attended to; and the industry greater, when more 
 persons were to be supported by the produce of it. 
 The frontier of the kingdom, within which Furness 
 was considered, was in a constant state of attack and 
 defence ; more hands, therefore, were necessary to 
 guard the coast, to repel an invasion from Scotland, or 
 make reprisals on the hostile neighbour. The dividing 
 the lands in such manner as has been shov/n, increased 
 the number of inhabitants, and kept them at home 
 till called for; and, the land being mixed, and the 
 several tenants united in equipping the plough, the 
 absence of the fourth man was no prejudice to the 
 cultivation of his land, which was committed to the 
 care of three. 
 
 " While the villains of Low Furness were thus dis- 
 tributed over the land, and employed in agriculture; 
 those of High Furness were charged with the care 
 of flocks and herds, to protect them from the wolves 
 which lurked in the thickets, and in winter to browse 
 them with the tender sprouts of hollies and ash. 
 This custom was not till lately discontinued in High 
 Furness; and holly-trees were carefully preserved for 
 that purpose when all other wood was cleared off; 
 large tracts of common being so covered with these 
 trees, as to have the appearance of a forest of hollies. 
 At the Shepherd's call, the flocks surrounded the 
 holly-bush, and received the croppings at his hand, 
 which they greedily nibbled up, bleating for more. 
 The Abbots of Furness enfranchised these pastoral 
 vassals, and permitted them to enclose quillets to their 
 houses, for which they paid encroachment rent." — 
 West's Antiquilies of Furness. 
 
 However desirable, for the purposes of defence, a 
 numerous population might be, it was not possible to 
 make at once the same numerous allotments among the 
 untilled valleys, and upon the sides of the mountains, 
 as had been made in the cultivated plains. The en- 
 
DESCRIPTION OF THE COUNTRY OF THE LAKES. 
 
 523 
 
 franchisee! shepherd, or woodlander, having chosen 
 there his place of residence, builds it of sods, or of the 
 mountain-stone, and, with the permission of his lord, 
 encloses, like Robinson Crusoe, a small croft or two 
 immediately at his door for such animals chiefly as 
 he wishes to protect. Others are happy to imitate his 
 example, and avail themselves of the same privileges; 
 and thus a population, mainly of Danish or Norse 
 origin, as the dialect indicates, crept on towards the 
 more secluded parts of the valleys. Chapels, daughters 
 of some distant mother church, are first erected in the 
 more open and fertile vales, as those of Bowness and 
 Grasmere, offsets of Kendal ; which again, after a 
 period, as the settled population increases, become 
 mother-churches to smaller edifices, scattered, at 
 length, in almost every dale throughout the country. 
 The enclosures, formed by the tenantry, are for a long 
 time confined to the home-steads; and the arable and 
 meadow land of the vales is possessed in common field ; 
 the several portions being marked out by stones, bushes, 
 or trees; which portions, where the custom has sur- 
 vived, to this day are called dales, from tlie word dey- 
 len, to distribute; but while the valley was thus lying 
 open, enclosures seem to have taken place upon the 
 sides of the mountains; because the land there was 
 not intermixed, and was of little comparative value, 
 and, therefore, small opposition would be made to 
 its being appropriated by those to whose habitations it 
 was contiguous. Hence the singular appearance 
 which the sides of many of these mountains exhibit, 
 intersected, as they are, almost to their summit, with 
 stone walls, of which the fences are always formed. 
 When first erected, they must have little disfigured the 
 face of the country ; as part of the lines would every 
 where be hidden by the quantity of native wood then 
 remaining ; and the lines would also be broken (as they 
 still are) by the rocks which interrupt and vary their 
 course. In the meadows, and in those parts of the 
 lower grounds where the soil has not been sufficiently 
 drained, and could not afford a stable foundation, there, 
 when the increasing value of land, and the inconveni- 
 ence suflfered from intermixed plots of ground in com- 
 mon field, had induced each inhabitant to inclose his 
 own, they were compelled to make the fences of alders, 
 willows, and other trees. These, where the native 
 wood had disappeared, have frequently enriched the 
 valleys with a sylvan appearance ; while the intricate 
 intermixture of property has given to the fences a 
 graceful irregularity, which, where large properties are 
 prevalent, and larger capitals employed in agriculture, 
 is unknown. This sylvan appearance is still further 
 heightened by the number of ash-trees which have 
 been planted in rows along the quick fences, and 
 along the walls, for the purpose of browzing cattle at 
 the approach of winter. The branches are lopped off 
 and strewed upon the pastures ; and, when the cattle 
 have stripped them of the leaves, they are used for 
 repairing hedges, or for fuel. 
 
 We have thus seen a numerous body of Dalesmen 
 creeping into possession of their home-steads, their 
 little crofts, their mountain-enclosures; and, finally, 
 the whole vale is visibly divided ; except, perhaps, here 
 and there some marshy ground, which, till fully drain- 
 ed, would not repay the trouble of enclosing. But these 
 last partitions do not seem to have been general, till 
 j long after the pacification of the Borders, by the union 
 j of the two crowns; when the cause, which had first 
 determined the distribution of land into such small 
 parcels, had not only ceased, — but likewise a general 
 improvement had taken place in the countrj', with a 
 correspondent rise in the value of its produce. From 
 the time of the union, it is certain that this species of 
 feudal population would rapidly diminish. That it was 
 formerly much more numerous than it is at present, is 
 I evident from the multitude of tenements (I do not mean 
 ; houses, but small divisions of land,) which belonged 
 formerly each to its several proprietor, and for which 
 separate fines are paid to the manorial lord 'at this day. 
 These are often in the proportion of four to one, of the 
 present occupants. "Sir Launcelot Threlkeld, who 
 lived in the reign of Henry VII. was wont to say, he 
 had three noble houses, one for pleasure, Crosby, in 
 Westmoreland, where he had a park full of deer ; one 
 for profit and warmth, wherein to reside in winter, 
 namely, Yanvvith, nigh Penrith ; and the third, Threl- 
 keld (on the edge of the vale of Keswick) well stocked 
 with tenants to go with him to the wars." But, as I 
 have said, from the union of the two crowns, this nu- 
 merous vassalage (their services not being wanted) 
 would rapidly diminish; various tenements would be 
 united in one possessor; and the aboriginal houses, 
 probably little better than hovels, like the kraels of 
 savages, or the huts of the Highlanders of Scotland, 
 would many of them fall into decay, and wholly dis- 
 appear, while the place of others was supplied by sub- 
 stantial and comfortable buildings, a majority of which 
 remain to this day scattered over the valleys, and are 
 in many the only dwellings found in them. 
 
 From the time of the erection of these houses, till 
 within the last fifty years, the state of society, though 
 no doubt slowly and gradually improving, underwent 
 no material change. Corn was grown in these vales 
 (through which no carriage-road had been made) suffi- 
 cient upon each estate to furnish bread for each family, 
 and no more: notwithstanding the union of several 
 tenements, the possessions of each inhabitant still being 
 small, in the same field was seen an intermixture of 
 diflerent crops ; and the plough was interrupted by little 
 rocks, mostly overgrown with wood, or by spongy 
 places, which the tillers of the soil had neither leisure 
 nor capital to convert into firm land. The storms and 
 moisture of the climate induced them to sprinkle their 
 upland property with outhouses of native stone, as 
 places of shelter for their sheep, where, in tempestuous 
 weather, f >od was distributed to them. Every family 
 spun from its own flock the wool with which it was 
 
524 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 clothed ; a weaver was here and there found among 
 them; and the rest of their wants were supplied by 
 tlie produce of the yarn, which they carded and spun 
 in their own houses, and carried to market, either under 
 their arms, or more frequently on pack-horses, a small 
 train taking their way weekly down the valley or over 
 the mountains to the most commodious town. They 
 had, as I have said, their rural chapel, and of course 
 their minister, in clothing- or in manner of life, in no 
 respect differing from themselves, except on the Sab- 
 bath-day ; this was the sole distinguished individual 
 among them ; every thing else, person and possession, 
 exhibited a perfect equality, a community of shepherds 
 and agriculturists, proprietors, for the most part, of the 
 lands which they occupied and cultivated. 
 
 While the process above detailed was going on, the 
 native forest must have been every where receding; 
 but trees were planted for the sustenance of the flocks 
 in winter, — sucli was then the rude state of agricul- 
 ture ; and, for the same cause, it was necessary that 
 care should be taken of some part of the growth of the 
 native forest. Accordingly, in Queen Elizabeth's time, 
 this was so strongly felt, that a petition was made to 
 the Crown, praying, " that the Blomaries in high Fur- 
 ness might be abolished, on account of the quantity of 
 wood which was consumed in them for the use of the 
 mines, to the great detriment of the cattle." But this 
 same cause, about a hundred years after, produced 
 effects directly contrary to those which had been de- 
 precated. The re-establishment, at that period, of fur- 
 naces upon a large scale, made it the interest of the 
 people to convert the steeper and more stony of the 
 enclosures, sprinkled over with remains of the native 
 forest, into close woods, which, when cattle and sheep 
 were excluded, rapidly sowed and thickened them- 
 selves. I have already directed the reader's attention 
 to the cause by which tufts of wood, pasturage, meadow, 
 and arable land, with its various produce, are intricately 
 intermingled in the same field, and he will now see, in 
 like manner, how enclosures entirely of wood, and 
 those of cultivated ground, are blended all over the 
 country under a law of similar wildness. 
 
 An historic detail has thus been given of the manner 
 in which the hand of man has acted upon the surface 
 of the inner regions of this mountainous country, as 
 incorporated with and subservient to the posvers and 
 processes of nature. We will now take a view of the 
 same agency acting, within narrower bounds, for the 
 production of the few works of art and accommoda- 
 tions of life which, in so simple a state of society, 
 could be necessary. These are merely habitations of 
 man and coverts for beasts, roads and bridjfes, and 
 places of worship. 
 
 And to begin with the Cottages. They are scat- 
 tered over the valleys, and nnder the hill sides, and on 
 the rocks ; and, even to this day, in the more retired 
 dales, without any intrusion of more assuming buildings. 
 
 Clustered hke stars some few, but single most. 
 
 And lurking dimly in their shy retreats, 
 
 Of glancing on each other cheerCul looks, 
 
 Like separated stars with clouds between. MS. 
 
 The dwelling-houses, and contiguous outhouses, are, 
 in many instances, of the colour of the native rock, out 
 of which they have been built; but, frequently the 
 dwelling-house has been distinguished from tlie barn 
 and byer by roughcast and white wash, which, as the 
 inhabitants are not hasty in renewing it, in a few years 
 acquires, by the influence of weather, a tint at once 
 sober and variegated. As these houses have been from 
 father to son inhabited by persons engaged in the same 
 occupations, yet necessarily with changes in their cir- 
 cumstances, they have received additions and accom- 
 modations adapted to the needs of each successive oc- 
 cupant, who, being for the most part proprietor, was at 
 liberty to follow his own fancy ; so that these humble 
 dwellings reinind the contemplative spectator of a pro- 
 duction of nature, and may (using a strong expression) 
 rather be said to have grown than to have been erected ; 
 — to have risen by an instinct of their own out of 
 the native rock ! so little is there in them of formality ; 
 such is their wildness and beauty. Among the nu- 
 merous recesses and projections in the walls and in the 
 different stages of their roofs, are seen the boldest and 
 most harmonious effects of contrasted sunshine and 
 shadow. It is a favourable circumstance, that the 
 strong winds, which sweep down the valleys, induced 
 the inhabitants, at a time when the materials for 
 building were easily procured, to furnish many of these 
 dwellings with substantial porches; and such as have 
 not this defence, are seldom unprovided with a pro- 
 jection of two large slates over their thresholds. Nor 
 will the singular beauty of the chimneys escape the 
 eye of the attentive traveller. Sometimes a low chim- 
 ney, almost upon a, level with the roof, is overlaid with 
 a slate, supported upon four slender pillars, to prevent 
 the wind from driving the smoke down the chimney. 
 Others are of a quadrangular shape, rising one or two 
 feet above the roof; which low square is often sur- 
 mounted by a tall cylinder, giving to the cottage chim- 
 ney the most beautiful shape in which it is ever seen. 
 Nor will it be too fanciful or refined to remark, that 
 there is a pleasing harmony between a tall chimney of 
 this circular form, and the living column of smoke, 
 through tlie still air ascending from it. These dwellings, 
 as has been said, are built of rough unhewn stone; and 
 they are roofed with slates, which were rudely taken 
 from the quarry before the present art of splitting them 
 was understood, and are therefore rough and uneven in 
 their surfaces, so that both the coverings and sides of 
 the houses have furnished places of rest for the seeds 
 of lichens, mosses, ferns, and flowers. Hence buildings, 
 which, in their very form call to mind the processes of 
 nature, do thus, clothed with this vegetable garb, appear 
 to be received into the bosom of the living principle of 
 
DESCRIPTION OF THE COUNTRY OP THE LAKES. 
 
 525 
 
 things, as it acts and exists among the woods and 
 fields : and, by their colour and their shape, affectingly 
 direct the thoughts to that tranquil course of nature 
 and simplicity, along which the humble-minded inhabit- 
 ants have throiigli so many generations been led. Add 
 the little garden with its shed for bee-hives, its small 
 beds of pot-herbs, and its borders and patches of flowers 
 for Sunday posies, with sometimes a choice few too 
 much prized to be plucked; an orchard of proportioned 
 size; a cheese-press, often supported by some tree 
 near the door; a cluster of embowering sycamores for 
 summer shade ; with a tall Scotch fir, through which 
 the winds sing when other trees are leafless; the little 
 rill or household spout murmuring in all seasons ; — 
 combine these incidents and images together, and you 
 have the representative idea of a mountain-cottage in 
 this country so beautifully formed in itself, and so richly 
 adorned by the hand of nature. 
 
 Till within the last fifty years there was no commu- 
 nication between any of these vales by carriage-roads ; 
 all bulky articles were transported on pack-horses; 
 Owing, however, to the population not being concen- 
 trated in villages but scattered, the valleys themselves 
 were intersected as now by innumerable lanes and path- 
 ways leading from house to house and from field to 
 field. These lanes, where they are fenced by stone 
 walls, are mostly bordered with ashes, hazels, wild roses, 
 and beds of tall fern, at their base ; while the walls 
 themselves if old are overspread with mosses, small 
 ferns, wild strav,'berries, the geranium, and lichens ; 
 and if the wall happen to rest against a bank of earth, 
 it is sometimes almost wholly concealed by a rich fa- 
 cing of stone-fern. It is a great advantage to a traveller 
 or resident, that these numerous lanes and paths, if he 
 be a zealous admirer of nature, will introduce him, 
 nay, will lead him on into all the recesses of the coun- 
 try, so that the hidden treasures of its landscapes will 
 by an ever-ready guide be laid open to his eyes. 
 
 Likewise to the smallness of the several properties 
 is owing the great number of bridges over the brooks 
 and torrents, and the daring and graceful neglect of 
 danger or accommodation with which so many of them 
 are constructed, the rudeness of the forms of some, and 
 their endless variety. But, when I speak of this rude- 
 ness, I must at the same time add that many of these 
 structures are in' themselves models of elegance, as if 
 they had been formed upon principles of the most 
 thoughtful architecture. It is to be regretted that these 
 monuments of the skill of our ancestors, and of that 
 happy instinct by which consummate beauty was pro- 
 duced, are disappearing fast ; but sufficient specimens 
 remain to give a high gratification to the man of genu- 
 ine taste. Such travellers as may not be accustomed 
 to pay attention to these things, will excuse me if I 
 point out the proportion between the span and elevation 
 of the arch, the lightness of the parapet, and the 
 graceful manner in which its curve follows faithfully 
 that of the arch. 
 
 Upon this subject I have nothing fbrther to notice, 
 except the places of worship, which have mostly a little 
 school-house adjoining. The architecture of those 
 churches and chapels, where they have not been re- 
 cently rebuilt or modernised, is of a style not less 
 appropriate and admirable than that of the dwelling- 
 houses and other structures. How sacred the spirit by 
 which our forefathers were directed ! The religio loci 
 is no where outraged by these unstinted, yet unpre- 
 tending, works of human hands. They exhibit gene- 
 rally a well proportioned oblong with a suitable porch, 
 in some instances a steeple tower, and in otliers nothing 
 more than a small belfry in which one or two bells 
 hang visibly. — But these objects, though pleasing in 
 their forms, must necessarily, more than others in rural 
 scenery, derive their interest from the sentiments of 
 piety and reverence for the modest virtues and simple 
 manners of humble life with which they may be con- 
 templated. A man must be very insensible who would 
 not be touched with pleasure at the sight of the chapel 
 of Butlermere, so strikingly expressing by its diminu- 
 tive size how small must be the congregation there as- 
 sembled, as it were, like one family ; and proclaiming 
 at the same time to the passenger, in connection with 
 the surrounding mountains, the depth of that seclusion 
 in which the people live that has rendered necessary 
 'the building of a separate place of worship for so few. 
 A Patriot, calling to mind the images of the stately 
 fabrics of Canterbury, York, or Westminster, will find 
 a heart-felt satisfaction in presence of this lowly pile, 
 as a monument of the wise institutions of our country, 
 and as evidence of the all-pervading and paternal care 
 of that venerable Establishment of which it is perhaps 
 the humblest daughter. — The edifice is scarcely larger 
 than many of the single stones or fragments of rock 
 which are scattered near it. 
 
 We have thus far confined our observations on this 
 division of the subject to that part of these Dales which 
 runs up far into the mountains. In addition to such 
 objects as have been hitherto described, it may he 
 mentioned that, as we descend towards the open part 
 of the Vales, we meet with the remains of ancient 
 Parks, and with old Mansions of more stately archi- 
 tecture ; and it may be observed that to these circum- 
 stances the country owes whatever ornament it retains 
 of majestic and full-grown timber, as the remains of 
 the park of the ancient family of the RatclifFs at Der- 
 went-water, Gowbraypark, and the venerable woods 
 of Rydal. Through the open parts of the vales are 
 scattered, with more spacious domains attached to 
 them, houses of a middle rank, between the pastoral 
 cottage and the old hall-residence of the more wealthy 
 Estatesman. 
 
 Thus has been given a faithful description, the mi- 
 nuteness of which the reader will pardon, of the face 
 of this country as it was, and had been through cen- 
 turies, till within the last fifty years. Towards the 
 head of these Dales was found a perfect Republic of 
 
526 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Shepherds and Agriculturists, among whom the plough 
 of each man was confined to the maintenance of his 
 own family, or to the occasional accommodation of his 
 neighbour. Two or three cows furnished each family 
 with milk and cheese. The Chapel was the only edi- 
 fice that presided over these dwellings, the supreme 
 head of this pure Commonwealth ; the members of 
 which existed in the midst of a powerful empire, like 
 an ideal society or an organised community, whose con- 
 stitution had been imposed and regulated by the moun- 
 tains which protected it. Neither Knight, nor Esquire, 
 nor high-born Nobleman, was here ; but many of these 
 humble sons of the hills had a consciousness that the 
 land, which they walked over and tilled, had for more 
 than five hundred years been possessed by men of their 
 name and blood ; — and venerable was the transition, 
 when a curious traveller, descending from the heart of 
 the mountains, had come to some ancient manorial res- 
 idence in the more open parts of the Vales, which, 
 through the rights attached to its proprietor, connected 
 the almost visionary mountain Republic he had been 
 contemplating with the substantial frame of society 
 as existing in the laws and constitution of a mighty 
 empire. 
 
 Such, as I have said, was the appearance of things 
 till witliin these last fifty years. A practice, by a 
 strange abuse of terms denominated Ornamental Gar- 
 dening, was at that time becoming prevalent over En- 
 gland. In union with an admiration of this art and 
 in some instances in opposition to it, had been 
 generated a relish for select parts of natural sce- 
 nery ; and Travellers, instead of confining their ob- 
 servations to Towns, Manufactories, or Mines, began 
 (a thing till then unheard of) to wander over the Island 
 in search of sequestered spots distinguished, as they 
 might accidentally have learned, for the sublimity or 
 beauty of the forms of Nature there to be seen. — 
 Dr. Brown, the celebrated Author of the Estimate of 
 the Manners and Principles of the Times, published 
 a letter to a Friend in which the attractions of the Vale 
 of Keswick were delineated with a powerful pencil, 
 and the feeling of a genuine Enthusiast. Gray the 
 Poet followed ; he died soon after his forlorn and mel- 
 anclioly pilgrimage to the Vale of Keswick, and the 
 record left behind him of what he had seen and felt in 
 this journey excited that pensive interest with which 
 the human mind is ever disposed to listen to the fare- 
 well words of a Man of genius. The journal of Gray 
 feelingly showed how the gloom of ill health and low 
 spirits had been irradiated by objects, which the Au- 
 thor's powers of mind enabled him to describe with dis- 
 tinctness and unafiocted simplicity. Every reader of 
 this journal must have been impressed with the words 
 that conclude his notice of the Vale of Grasmere — 
 " Not a single red tile, no flaring gentleman's house or 
 garden-wall, breaks in upon the repose of this little 
 unsuspected paradise ; but all is peace, rusticity, and 
 
 happy poverty in its neatest and most becoming at- 
 tire." 
 
 What is here so justly said of Grasmere applied 
 almost equally to all its sister Vales. It was well for 
 the undisturbed pleasure of the Poet that he had no 
 forebodings of the change which was soon to take 
 place ; and it might have been hoped that these words, 
 indicating how much the charm of what ii'os, depended 
 upon what was not, would of themselves have pre- 
 served the ancient franchises of this and other kindred 
 mountain retirements from trespass; or, (shall I dare 
 to say !) would have secured scenes so consecrated 
 from profanation. The lakes had now become celebra- 
 ted ; visitors flocked hither from all parts of England ; 
 the fancies of some were smitten so deeply, that they 
 became settlers ; and the Islands of Derwent-water 
 and Winandermere, as they oflfered the strongest tempt- 
 ation, were the first places seized upon, and were in- 
 stantly defaced by the intrusion. 
 
 The venerable wood that had grown for centuries 
 round the small house called St. Herbert's Hermitage, 
 had indeed some years before been felled by its native 
 proprietor, and the whole island had been planted 
 anew with Scotch firs left to spindle up by each other's 
 side — a melancholy phalanx, defying the power of tlie 
 winds, and disregarding the regret of the spectato.', who 
 might otherwise have cheated himself into a belief, 
 that some of the decayed remains of those oaks, the 
 place of which is in this manner usurped, had been 
 planted by the Hermit's own hand. Comparatively, 
 however, this sainted spot suffered little injury. The 
 Hind's Cottage upon Vicai's island, in the same lake, 
 with its embowering sycamores and cattle shed, disap- 
 peared, at the bidding of an alien improver, from the 
 corner where they had stood ; and right in the middle, 
 and upon the precise point of the island's highest ele- 
 vation, rose a tall square habitation, with four sides 
 exposed, like an observatory, or a warren-house reared 
 upon an eminence for the detection of depredators, or, 
 like the temple of CEolus, where all the winds pay him 
 obeisance. Round this novel structure, but at respect- 
 ful distance, platoons of firs were stationed, as if to pro- 
 tect their commander when weather and time should 
 somewhat have shattered his strenglli. Within the 
 narrow limits of this island were typified also the state 
 and strength of a kingdom, and its religion as it had 
 been and was, — for neither was the druidical circle un- 
 created, nor the church of the present establishment; 
 nor the stately pier, emblem of commerce and naviga- 
 tion; nor the fort, to deal out thunder upon tlie ap- 
 proaching invader. The taste of a succeeding propri- 
 etor rectified the mistakes as far as was practicable, 
 atid has ridded the spot of all its puerilities. The 
 church, after having been docked of its steeple, is ap- 
 plied, both ostensibly and really, to the purpose for 
 which the body of the pile was actually erected, name- 
 ly, a boat-house ; the fort is demolished, and, without 
 
DESCRIPTION OF THE COUNTRY OF THE LAKES. 
 
 527 
 
 indignation on the part of the spirits of the ancient 
 Druids who officiated at the circle upon the opposite 
 hill, thn mimic arrangement of stones, with its sanctum 
 sanctorum, has been swept away. 
 
 The present instance has been singled out, extrava- 
 gant as it is, because, unquestionably, this beautiful 
 country has, in numerous other places, suffered from 
 the same spirit, though not clothed exactly in the same 
 form, nor active in an equal degree. It will be suffi- 
 cient here to utter a regret for the changes that have 
 been made upon the principal Island at Winandermere, 
 and in its neiglibourhood. What could be more unfortu- 
 nate than the taste that suggested the paring of the 
 shores, and surrounding with an embankment this spot 
 of ground, the natural shape of which was so beautiful ! 
 An artificial appearance has thus been given to the 
 whole, while infinite varieties of minute beauty have 
 been destroyed. Could not the margin of this noble 
 island be given back to nature 1 Winds and waves 
 work with a careless and graceful hand ; and, should 
 they in some places carry away a portion of the soil, 
 the trifling loss would be amply compensated by the 
 additional spirit, dignity, and loveliness, which these 
 agents and the other powers of nature would soon 
 communicate to what was left behind. As to the larch- 
 plantations upon the main shore, — they who remember 
 the original appearance of the rocky steeps scattered 
 over with native hollies and ash-trees, will be prepared 
 to agree with what I shall have to say hereafter upon 
 plantations in general. 
 
 But, in truth, no one can now travel through the 
 more frequented tracts, without being offended at al- 
 most every turn by an introduction of discordant ob- 
 jects, disturbing that peaceful harmony of form and 
 colour which had been through a long lapse of ages 
 most happily preserved. 
 
 All gross transgressions of this kind originate, doubt- 
 less, in a feeling natural and honourable to the human 
 mind, viz. the pleasure which it receives from distinct 
 ideas, and from the perception of order, regularity, and 
 contrivance. Now, unpractised minds receive these 
 impressions only from objects that are divided from 
 each other by strong lines of demarcation ; hence the 
 delight with which such minds are smitten by formality 
 and harsh contrast. But I would beg of those who 
 are eager to create the means of such gratification, 
 first carefully to study what already exists; and they 
 will find, in a country so lavishly gifted by nature, an 
 abundant variety of forms marked out with a precision 
 that will satisfy their desires. Moreover, a new habit 
 of pleasure will be formed opposite to this, arising out 
 of the perception of the fine gradations by which in 
 nature one thing passes away into another, and the 
 bounBaries that constitute individuality, disappear in 
 one instance, only to be revived elsewhere under a 
 more alluring form. The hill of Dunmallet, at the 
 foot of Ulswater, was once divided into different por- 
 
 tions, by avenues of fir-trees, with a green and almost 
 perpendicular lane descending down the steep hill 
 through each avenue ; — contrast this quaint appearance 
 with the image of the same hill overgrown with self- 
 planted wood, — each tree springing up in the situation 
 best suited to its kind, and with that shape which 
 the situation constrained or suffered it to take. What 
 endless melting and playing into each other of forms 
 and colours does the one offer to a mind at once atten- 
 tive and active ; and how insipid and lifeless, compared 
 with it, appear those parts of the former exhibition 
 with which a child, a peasant perhaps, or a citizen 
 unfamiliar with natural imagery, would have been most 
 delighted ! 
 
 I cannot, however, omit observing, that the disfigure- 
 ment which this country has undergone, has not pro- 
 ceeded wholly from those common feelings of human 
 nature which have been referred to as the primary 
 sources of bad taste in rural scenery ; another cause 
 must be added, which has chiefly shown itself in its 
 effect upon buildings. I mean a warping of the 
 natural mind occasioned by a consciousness that, this 
 country being an object of general admiration, every 
 new house would be looked at and commented upon 
 either for approbation or censure. Hence all the 
 deformity and ungracefulness that ever pursue the steps 
 of constraint or affectation. Men, who in Leicester- 
 shire or Northamptonshire would probably have built a 
 modest dwelling like those of their sensible neighbours, 
 have been turned out of their course ; and, acting a 
 part, no wonder if, having had little experience, they 
 act it ill. The craving for prospect also, which is im- 
 moderate, particularly in new settlers, has rendered it 
 impossible that buildings, whatever might have been 
 their architecture, should in most instances be orna- 
 mental to the landscape ; rising as they do from the 
 summits of naked hills in staring contrast to the snug- 
 ness and privacy of the ancient houses. 
 
 No man is to be condemned for a desire to decorate 
 his residence and possessions ; feeling a disposition to 
 applaud such an endeavour, I would show how the end 
 may be best attained. The rule is simple ; with re- 
 spect to grounds — work, where you can, in the spirit 
 of nature with an invisible hand of art. Planting, and 
 a removal of wood, may thus and thus only be carried 
 on with good effect; and the like may be said of 
 building, if Antiquity, who may be styled the co-part- 
 ner and sister of Nature, be not denied the respect to 
 which she is entitled. I have already spoken of the 
 beautiful forms of the ancient mansions of this country, 
 and of the happy manner in which they harmonise with 
 the forms of nature. Why cannot these be taken as a 
 model, and modern internal convenience be confined 
 within their external grace and dignity ? Expense to 
 bo avoided, or ditRculties to be overcome, may prevent 
 a close adherence to this model ; still, however, it 
 might he followed to a certain degree in the style of 
 
528 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 architecture and in the choice of situation, if the thirst ' 
 for prospect were mitigated by those considerations of 
 comfort, shelter, and convenience, which used to be 
 chiefly sought after. But, should an aversion to old 
 fashions unfortunately exist, accompanied with a desire 
 to transplant into the cold and stormy North, the ele- 
 gancies of a villa formed upon a model taken from 
 countries with a milder climate, I will adduce a pas- 
 sage from an English poet, the divine Spenser, which 
 will show in what manner such a plan may be realised 
 without injury to the native beauty of these scenes. 
 
 " Into that forest farre Iliey thence him led. 
 Where was their dwelling in a pleasant glade 
 With MOUNTAINS round about environed, 
 And iMiGiiTY WOODS whicli did the valley shade 
 And iilie a stately theatre it made, 
 Spreading itself into a spacious plaine ; 
 And in the midst a liMle river plaide 
 Emongst the puiriy stones which seem'd to 'plaine 
 With gentle murmure that his course they did restraine. 
 
 Beside the same a dainty place there lay, 
 
 Planted witli mirtle trees and laurels green, 
 
 In which the birds sang many a lovely lay 
 
 Of God's high praise, and of their sweet loves teene, 
 
 As it an earthly paradise had beene ; 
 
 In whose enclosed shadow there was pight 
 
 A fair pavilion, scarcely to be seen. 
 
 The which was all within most richly dight. 
 
 That greatest princes living it mote well delight." 
 
 Houses or mansions suited to a mountainous region, 
 should be "not obvious, nor obtrusive, but retired;" 
 and the reasons for this rule, though they have been 
 little adverted to, are evident. Mountainous coun- 
 tries, more frequently and forcibly than other?, remind 
 us of the power of the elements, as manifested in winds, 
 snows, and torrents, and accordingly make the notion 
 of exposure very unpleasing; while shelter and comfort 
 are in proportion necessary and acceptable. Far-wind- 
 ing valleys difficult of access, and the feelings of sim- 
 plicity habitually connected with mountain retire- 
 ments, prompt us to turn from ostentation as a thing 
 there eminently unnatural and out of place. A man- 
 sion, amid such scenes, can never have sufficient dig- 
 nity or interest to become principal in the landscape, 
 and render the mountains, lakes, or torrents by which 
 it may be surrounded, a subordinate part of the view. 
 It is, I grant, easy to conceive, that an ancient castel- 
 lated building, hanging over a precipice or raised upon 
 an island, or the peninsula of a lake, like that of Kil- 
 churn Castle, upon Loch Awe, may not want, whether 
 deserted or inhabited, sufficient majesty to preside for 
 a moment in the spectator's thoughts over the high 
 mountains among which it is embosomed; but its titles 
 are from antiquity — a power readily submitted to upon 
 occasion as the vicegerent of Nature: it is respected, 
 as having owed its e.xistence to the necessities of things, 
 as a monument of security in times of disturbance and 
 
 danger long passed-away, — as a record of the pomp 
 and violence of passion, and a symbol of the wisdom 
 of law; — it bears a countenance of authority, which is 
 not impaired by decay. 
 
 "Child of loud-lhroated war, the mountain-stream 
 Koars in thy hearing ; but thy hour of rest 
 Is come, and thou art silent in thy age !" MS. 
 
 To such honours a modern edifice can lay no claim; 
 and the puny efforts of elegance appear contemptible, 
 when, in such situations, they are obtruded in rival- 
 ship with the sublimities of Nature. But, towards the 
 verge of a district like this of which we are treating, 
 where the mountains subside into hills of moderate 
 elevation, or in an undulating or flat country, a gen- 
 tleman's mansion may, with propriety, become a prin- 
 cipal feature in the landscape ; and, itself being a work 
 of art, works and traces of artificial ornament may, 
 without censure, be extended around it, as they will be 
 referred to the common centre, the house; the right 
 of which to impress within certain litnits a character 
 of obvious ornament will not be denied, where no com- 
 manding forms of nature dispute it, or set it aside. 
 Now, to a want of the perception of this difference, 
 and to the causes before assigned, may chiefly be at- 
 tributed the disfigurement which the Country of the 
 Lakes has undergone, from persons who may have built, 
 demolished, and planted, with full confidence, that 
 every change and addition was or would become an 
 improvement. 
 
 The principle that ought to determine the position, 
 apparent size, and architecture of a house, viz. that it 
 should be so constructed, and (if large) so much of it 
 hidden, as to admit of its being gently incorporated 
 into the scenery of nature — should also determine its 
 colour. Sir Joshua Reynolds used to say, "if you 
 would fix upon the best colour for your house, turn up 
 a stone, or pluck up a handful of grass by the roots, and 
 see what is the colour of the soil where the house is to 
 stand, and let that be your choice." Of course, this 
 precept, given in conversation, could not have been 
 meant to be taken literally. For example, in Low 
 Furness, where the soil, from its strong impregnation 
 with iron, is universally of a deep red, if this rule were 
 strictly followed, the house also must be of a glaring 
 red; in other places it must be of a sullen black; which 
 would only be adding annoyance to annoyance. The 
 rule, however, as a general guide, is good ; and, in 
 agricultural districts, where large tracts of soil are 
 laid bare by the plough, particularly if (the face of the 
 country being undulating) they are held up to view, 
 this rule, though not to be implicitly adliered to, 
 should never be lost sight of; — the colour of the house 
 ought, if possible, to have a cast or shade of the •clour 
 of the soil. The principle is, that the house must liar- 
 monise with the surrounding landscape: accordingly, 
 in mountainous countries, with still more confidence 
 
DESCRIPTION OF THE COUiNTRY OF THE LAKES. 
 
 529 
 
 may it be said, " look at the rocks and those parts of 
 the mountains where the soil is visible, and they will 
 furnish a safe direction." Nevertheless, it will often 
 happen that the rocks may bear so large a proportion 
 to the rest of the landscape, and may be of such a tone 
 of colour, that the rule may not admit even here of 
 being implicitly followed. For instance, the chief de- 
 fect in tlie colouring of the Country of the Lakes, 
 (which is most strongly felt in the summer season) is 
 an over-prevalence of a bluish tint, which the green 
 of the herbage, the fern, and the woods, does not suffi- 
 ciently counteract. If a house, therefore, should stand 
 where this defect prevails, I have no hesitation in say- 
 ing, that the colour of the neighbouring rocks would 
 not be the best that could be chosen. A tint ought to 
 be introduced approaching nearer to those which, in 
 the technical language of painters, are called warm: 
 this, if happily selected, would not disturb but would 
 animate the landscape. How often do we see this 
 exemplified upon a small scale by the native cottages, 
 in cases where the glare of white-wash has been sub- 
 dued by time and enriched by weather-stains ! No 
 harshness is then seen ; but one of these cottages, thus 
 coloured, will often form a central point to a landscape 
 by which the whole shall be connected, and an influence 
 of pleasure diffused over all the objects that compose 
 the picture. Bat where the cold blue tint of the rocks 
 is enriched by the iron tinge, the colour cannot be too 
 closely imitated ; and it will be produced of itself by 
 tlie stones hewn from the adjoining quarry, and by the 
 mortar, which may be tempered with the most gravelly 
 part of the soil. The pure blue gravel, from the bed 
 of the river, is, however, more suitable to the mason's 
 purpose, who will probably insist also that the house 
 must be covered with rough-cast, otherwise it cannot 
 be kept dry; if this advice be taken, the builder of 
 taste will set about contriving such means as may en- 
 able him to come the nearest to the effect aimed at. 
 
 The supposed necessity of rough-cast to keep out 
 rain in houses not built of hewn stone or brick, has 
 tended greatly to injure English landscape, and the 
 neighbourliood of these Lakes especially, by furnish- 
 ing such apt occasion for whitening buildings. That 
 white should be a favourite colour for rural residences 
 is natural for many reasons. The mere aspect of clean- 
 liness and neatness thus given, not only to an individu- 
 al house, but, where the practice is general, to tlie 
 whole face of the country, produces moral associations 
 so powerful, that, in the minds of many, they take place 
 of every other relating to such objects. But what has 
 already been said upon the subject of cottages, must 
 have convinced men of feeling and imagination, that 
 a human habitation of the humblest class may be ren- 
 dered more deeply interesting to the affections, and far 
 more pleasing to the eye, by other influences than a 
 sprightly tone of colour spread over its outside. I do 
 not, however, mean to deny, that a small white build- 
 3R 
 
 ing, embowered in trees, may, in some situations, be 
 a delightful and animating object — in no way injurious 
 to the landscape ; but this only, where it sparkles from 
 the midst of a thick shade, and in rare and solitary in- 
 stances ; especially if the country be itself rich, and 
 pleasing, and full of grand forms. On the sides of 
 bleak and desolate moors, we are indeed thankful for 
 the sight of white cottages and white houses plentifully 
 scattered, where, without these, perhaps every thing 
 would be cheerless: this is said, however, with hesita- 
 tion, and with a wilful sacrifice of some higher enjoy- 
 ments. But I have certainly seen such buildings glit- 
 tering at sunrise, and in wandering lights, with no 
 common pleasure. The continental traveller also will 
 remember, that the convents hanging from the rocks 
 of the Rhine, the Rlione, the Danube, or among the 
 Appenines or the mountains of Spain, are not looked 
 at with less complacency when, as is often the case, 
 they happen to be of a brilliant white. But this is 
 perhaps owing, in no small degree, to the contrast of 
 that lively colour with the gloom of monastic life, and 
 to the general want of rural residences of smiling and 
 attractive appearance, in those countries. 
 
 The objections to white, as a colour, in large spots 
 or masses in landscapes, especially in a mountainous 
 country, are insurmountable. In nature, pure white is 
 scarcely ever found but in small objects, such as 
 flowers; or in those which are tiansitory, as the clouds, 
 foam of rivers, and snow. Mr. Gilpin, who notices 
 this, has also recorded the just remark of Mr. Locke, 
 of N , that white destroys the gradations of dis- 
 tance ; and, therefore, an object of pure white can 
 scarcely ever be managed with good effect in landscape- 
 painting. Five or six white houses, scattered over a 
 valley, by their obtrusiveness, dot the surface, and di- 
 vide it into triangles, or other mathematical figures, 
 haunting the eye, and disturbing that repose which 
 might otherwise be perfect. I have seen a single 
 white house materially impair the majesty of a moun- 
 tain ; cutting away, by a harsh separation, the whole 
 of its base, below the point on which the house stood. 
 Thus was the apparent size of the mountain reduced, 
 not by the interposition of another object in a manner 
 to call forth the imagination, which will give more than 
 the eye loses ; but what had been abstracted in this 
 case was left visible; and the mountain appeared to 
 take its beginning, or to rise from the line of the house, 
 instead of its own natural base. But, if I may express 
 my own individual feeling, it is after sunset, at the 
 coming on of twilight, that white objects are most to 
 be complained of. The solemnity and quietness of na- 
 ture at that time are always marred, and often destroy- 
 ed by them. When the ground is covered with snow, 
 they are of course inoffensive; and in moonshine they 
 are always pleasing — it is a tone of light with which 
 they accord; and the dimness of the scene is enlivened 
 by an object at once conspicuous and cheerful. I will 
 4.5 
 
530 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 conclude this subject with noticing-, that the cold, sla- 
 ty colour, which many persons, who have heard the 
 white condemned, have adopted in its stead, must be 
 disapproved of for the reason already given. The fla- 
 ring yellow runs into the opposite extreme, and is still 
 more censurable. Upon the whole, the safest colour, 
 for general use, is something between a cream and a 
 dust-colour, commonly called stone-colour; — there are, 
 among the Lakes, examples of this that need not be 
 pointed out. 
 
 The principle taken as our guide, viz. that the house 
 should be so formed, and of such apparent size and 
 colour, as to admit of its being gently incorporated with 
 the scenery of nature, should also be applied to the 
 management of the grounds and plantations, and is 
 here more urgently needed ; for it is from abuses in this 
 department, far more even than from the introduction 
 of exotics in architecture (if the phrase may be used) 
 that this country has suifered. Larch and fir plant- 
 ations have been spread every where, not merely with a 
 view to profit, but in many instances for the sake 
 of ornament. To those who plant for profit, and are 
 thrnsting every other tree out of the way to make room 
 for their favourite, the larch, I would utter first a regret 
 that they should have selected these lovely vales for 
 their vegetable manufactory, when there is so much 
 barren and irreclaimable land in tlie neighbouring moors, 
 and in other parts of the Island, which might have been 
 had for this purpose at a far cheaper rate. And I 
 will also beg leave to represent to them, that they ought 
 not to be carried away by flattering promises from the 
 speedy growth of this tree ; because, in rich soils and 
 sheltered situations, the wood, though it thrives fast, is 
 full of sap, and of little value ; and is, likewise, very 
 subject to ravage from the attacks of insects, and from 
 blight. Accordingly, in Scotland, where planting is 
 much better understood, and carried on upon an in- 
 comparably larger scale than among us, good soil and 
 sheltered situations are appropriated to the oak, the 
 ash, and other deciduous trees ; and the larch is now 
 generally confined to barren and exposed ground. There 
 the plant, which is a hardy one, is of slower growth ; 
 much less liable to injury; and the timber is of better 
 quality. But there are many, whose circumstances 
 permit them, and whose taste leads them, to plant with 
 little regard to profit ; and others, less wealthy, who 
 have such a lively feeling of the native beauty of these 
 scenes, that they are laudably not unwilling to make 
 some sacrifices to heighten it. Both these classes of 
 persons, I would entreat to enquire of themselves 
 wherein that beauty which they admire consists. They 
 would then see that, after the feeling has been gratified 
 that prompts us to gather round our dwelling a few 
 flowers and shrubs, which, from the circumstance of 
 their not being native, may, by their very looks, re- 
 mind us that they owe their existence to our hands, 
 and their prosperity to our care ; they will see that, after 
 
 I this natural desire has been provided for, the course of 
 all beyond has been predetermined by the spirit of the 
 place. Before I proceed with this subject, I will pre- 
 I pare my way with a remark of general application, 
 by reminding those who are not satisfied with the 
 restraint thus laid upon them, that they are liable to a 
 charge of inconsistency, when they are so eager to 
 change the face of that country, whose native attrac- 
 tions, by the act of erecting their habitations in it, they 
 have so emphatically acknowledged. And surely there 
 is not in this country a single spot that would not have, 
 if well managed, sufficient dignity to support itself, 
 unaided by the productions of other climates, or by 
 elaborate decorations which might be becoming else- 
 where. 
 
 But to return ;— having adverted to the considerations 
 that justify the introduction of a few exotic plants, pro- 
 vided they be confined almost to the doors of the house, 
 we may add, that a transition should be contrived with- 
 out abruptness, from these foreigners to the rest of the 
 shrubs, which ought to be of the kinds scattered by 
 Nature through the woods — holly, broom, wild-rose, 
 elder, dogberry, white and black thorn, &c. either 
 these only, or such as are carefully selected in conse- 
 quence of their uniting in form, and harmonising in 
 colour with them, especially with respect to colour, 
 vi'hen the tints are most diversified, as in antumn and 
 spring. The various sorts of fruit-and-blossom-bearincr 
 trees usually found in orchards, to which may be added 
 those of the woods,— namely, the wilding, black cherry 
 tree, and wild cluster-cherry (here called heck-berry), 
 may be happily admitted as an intermediate link between 
 the shrubs and the forest trees ; which last ouffht almost 
 entirely to be such as are natives of the country. Of 
 the birch, one of the most beautiful of the native trees, 
 it may be noticed, that, in dry and rocky situations, it 
 outstrips even the larch, which many persons are tempt- 
 ed to plant merely on account of the speed of its growth. 
 Sycamore, and the Scotch fir (which, when it has room 
 to spread out its arms, is a noble tree) may be placed 
 with advantage near the house; for, from their mas- 
 siveness, they unite well with buildings, and in some 
 situations with rocks also; having, in their forms and 
 apparent substances, the effect of something interme- 
 diate betwixt the inimoveableness and solidity of stone, 
 and the sprays and foliage of the lighter trees. If these 
 general rules be just, what shall we say to whole acres 
 of artificial shrubbery and exotic trees among rocks and 
 dashing torrents, with their own wild wood in sight — 
 where we have the whole contents of the nurseryman's 
 catalogue jumbled together — colour at war with colour, 
 and form with form — among the most peaceful subjects 
 of Nature's kingdom every where discord, distraction, 
 and bewilderment ! But this deformity, bad as it is, is 
 not so obtrusive as the small patches and large tracts 
 of larch plantations that are over-running the hill-sides. 
 To justify our condemnation of these, let us again re- 
 
DESCRIPTION OF THE COUNTRY OF THE LAKES. 
 
 531 
 
 cur to Nature. The process, by which she forms woods 
 and forests, is as follovvs. Seeds are scattered indis- 
 criminately by winds, brought by waters, and dropped 
 by birds. They perish, or produce, accordincf as the 
 soil upon which they fall is suited to them ; and under 
 the same dependence, the seedling or sucker, if not crop- 
 ped by animals, thrives, and the tree grows, sometimes 
 single, taking its own shape without constraint, but for 
 the most part being compelled to conform itself to some 
 law impo.sed upon it by its neighbours. From low and 
 sheltered places, vegetation travels upwards to the more 
 exposed ; and the young plants are protected, and to a 
 certain degree fashioned, by those that have preceded 
 them. Tlie continuous mass of foliage which would be 
 thus produced, is broken by rocks, or by glades or open 
 places, where the browzing of animals has prevented 
 the growth of wood. As vegetation ascends, the winds 
 begin also to bear their part in moulding the forms of 
 the trees ; but, thus mutually protected, trees, though 
 not of the hardiest kind, are enabled to climb high up 
 the mountains. Gradually, however, by the quality of 
 the ground, and by increasing exposure, a stop is put to 
 their ascent ; the hardy trees only are left ; these also, 
 by little and little, give way, — and a wild and irregular 
 boundary is established, graceful in its outline, and 
 never contemplated without some feeling more or 
 less distinct of the powers of nature by which it is 
 imposed. 
 
 Contrast the liberty that encourages, and the law that 
 limits, this joint work of nature and time, with the dis- 
 heartening necessities, restrictions, and disadvantages, 
 under which the artificial planter must proceed, even he 
 whom long observation and fine feeling have best quali- 
 fied for his task. In the first place his trees, however 
 well chosen and adapted to their several situations, must 
 generally all start at the same time; and this circum- 
 stance would of itself prevent that fine connection of 
 parts, that sympathy and organization, if I may so ex- 
 press myself, which pervades the whole of a natural 
 wood, and appears to the eye in its single trees, its 
 masses of foliage, and their various colours when they 
 are held up to view on the side of a mountain ; or 
 when spread over a valley, they are looked down upon 
 from an eminence. It is then impossible, under any cir- 
 cumstances, for the artificial planter to rival the beauty 
 of nature. But a moment's thought will show that, if 
 ten thousand of this spiky tree, the larch, are stuck in 
 at once upon the side of a hill, they can grow up into 
 nothing but deformity; that, while they are suffered 
 to stand, we shall look in vain for any of those appear- 
 ances which are the chief sources of beauty in a natural 
 wood. 
 
 It must be acknowledged that the larch, till it has 
 outgrown the size of a shrub, shows, when looked at 
 singly, some elegance in its form and appearance, es- 
 pecially in spring, decorated, as it then is, by the 
 pink tassels of its blossoms ; but, as a tree, it is less 
 
 than any other pleasing ; its branches (for houghs it has 
 none) have no variety in the youth of the tree ; and little 
 dignity even when it attains its full growth ; leaves it 
 cannot be said to have, consequently neither affords 
 shade nor shelter. In spring it becomes green long be- 
 fore the native trees; and its green is so peculiar and 
 vivid that, finding nothing to harmonise with it, 
 wherever it comes forth, a disagreeable speck is pro- 
 duced. In summer, when all other trees are in their 
 pride, it is of a dingy lifeless hue ; in autumn of a spirit- 
 less unvaried yellow, and in winter it is still more 
 lamentably distinguished from every other deciduous 
 tree of the forest, for they seem only to sleep, but the 
 larch appears absolutely dead. If an attempt be made 
 to mingle thickets, or a certain proportion of other 
 forest-trees, with the larch, its horizontal branches in- 
 tolerantly cut them down as with a scythe, or force 
 them to spindle up to keep pace with it. The spike, 
 in which it terminates, renders it impossible, when it 
 is planted in numbers, that the several trees sliould ever 
 blend together so as to form a mass or masses of wood. 
 Add thousands to tens of thousands, and the appearance 
 is still the same — a collection of separate individual 
 trees, obstinately presenting themselves as such ; and 
 which, from whatever point they are looked at, if but 
 seen, may be counted upon the fingers. Sunshine, or 
 shadow, has little power to adorn the surface of such 
 a wood ; and the trees not carrying up their heads, the 
 wind raises among them no majestic undulations. It 
 is indeed true, that, in countries where the larch is a 
 native, and where without interruption it may sweep 
 from valley to valley and from hill to hill, a sublime 
 image may be produced by such a forest, in the same 
 manner as by one composed of any other single tree, 
 to the spreading- of which no limits can be assigned. 
 For sublimity will never be wanting, where the sense 
 of innumerable multitude is lost in, and alternates with, 
 that of intense unity ; and to the ready perception 
 of this effect, similarity and almost identity of indi- 
 vidual form and monotony of colour contribute. But 
 this feeling is confined to the native immeasurable for- 
 est ; no artificial plantation can give it. 
 
 The foregoing observations will, I hope, (as nothing 
 has been condemned or recommended without a sub- 
 stantial reason) have some influence upon those who 
 plant for ornament merely. To those who plant for 
 profit, I have already spoken. Let me then entreat 
 that the native deciduous trees may be left in com- 
 plete possession of the lower ground ; and that plant- 
 ations of larch, if introduced at all, may be confined 
 to the highest and most barren tracts. Interposition 
 of rocks would there break the dreary uniformity of 
 which we have been complaining; and the winds would 
 take hold of the trees, and imprint upon their shapes a 
 wildness congenial to their situation. 
 
 Having determined what kinds of trees must be whol- 
 ly rejected, or at least very sparingly used, by those 
 
532 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 who are unwilling to disfigure the country ; and having 
 shown what kinds ought to be chosen ; I should have 
 given, if I had not already overstepped my limits, a few 
 practical rules for the manner in which trees ought to 
 be disposed in planting. But to this subject I should 
 attach little importance, if I could succeed in banishing 
 such trees as introduce deformity, and could prevail 
 upon the proprietor to confine liimself either to those 
 found in the native woods, or to such as accord with 
 them. This is indeed the main point; for, much as 
 these scenes have been injured by what has been taken 
 from them — buildings, trees, and woods, either through 
 negligence, necessity, avarice, or caprice — it is not 
 these removals, but the harsh additions that have been 
 made, which are the worst grievance — a standing and 
 unavoidable annoyance. Often have I felt this distinc- 
 tion with mingled satisfaction and regret; for, if no po- 
 sitive deformity or discordance be substituted or super- 
 induced, such is the benignity of nature that, take 
 away from her beauty after beauty, and ornament after 
 ornament, her appearance cannot be marred; — the 
 scars, if any be left, will gradually disappear before a 
 healing spirit; and what remains will still be soothing 
 and pleasing. — 
 
 " Many hearts deplored 
 Tlie fate of itinse old trees ; and oft with pain 
 Tlie traveller at tliis day will stop and gaze 
 On wrongs whirh nature scarcely seems to heed : 
 For stioltcred places, liosoms, nooks, and tjays, 
 And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed, 
 And the green silent pastures yet remain." 
 
 There are few ancient vi-oods left in this part of Eng- 
 land tipon which such indiscriminate ravage as is here 
 "deplored" could now be committed. BtJt, out of the 
 numerous copses, fine woods might in time be raised, 
 probably without any sacrifice of profit, by leaving, at 
 the periodical felling.-, a due proportion of the healthiest 
 trees to grow up into timber. — This plan has fortu- 
 nately, in many instances, been adopted ; and they, 
 who have set the example, are entitled to the thanks 
 of all persons of taste. As to the management of 
 planting with reasonable attention to ornament, let the 
 images of nature be your guide, and the whole secret 
 lurks in a few words; thickets or underwoods — single 
 trees — trees clustered or in groups — groves — un- 
 broken woods, but with varied masses of foliage — 
 glades — invisible or winding boundaries — in rocky 
 districts, a seemly proportion of rock left wholly bare, 
 and other parts half hidden — disagreeable objects con- 
 cealed, and fortnal lines broken — trees climbing up to 
 the horizon, and in some places ascending from its sharp 
 edge in which they are rooted, with the whole Wly of 
 the tree appearing to stand in the clear sky — in other 
 parts woods stirmounled by rocks utterly hare and na- 
 ked, which add to the sense of height as if vegetation 
 could not thither be carried, and impress a feeling of 
 duration, power of resistance, and security from change ! 
 
 I have been induced to speak thus at length with a 
 wisli to preserve the native beauty of this delightful dis- 
 trict, because still farther changes in its appearance 
 must inevitably follow, from the change of inhabitants 
 and owners which is rapidly taking place. — About the 
 same time that strangers began to be attracted to the 
 country, and to feel a wish to settle in it, the difficulty, 
 that would have stood in the way of their procurino' 
 situations, was lessened by an unfortunate alteration in 
 the circumstances of the native peasantry, proceeding 
 from a cause which then began to operate, and is now 
 felt in every house. The family of each man, whether 
 estatPsman or farmer, formerly had a twofold support; 
 first, the produce of his lands and flocks; and secondly, 
 the profit drawn from the employment of the women 
 and children, as manufacturers; spinning their own 
 wool in their own houses, (work chiefly done in the 
 winter season,) and carrying it to market for sale. 
 Hence, however numerous the children, the income of 
 the family kept pace with its increase. But, by the 
 invention and universal application of machinery, this 
 second resource has been wholly cut off; the gains 
 being so far reduced, as not to be sought after but by 
 a few aged persons disabled from other employment. 
 Doubtless, the invention of machinery has not been to 
 these people a pure loss; for the profits arising from 
 home-manufacttires operated as a strong temptation 
 to choose that mode of labour in neglect of husbandry. 
 They also participate in the general benefit which the 
 island has derived from the increased value of the pro- 
 duce of land, brought about by the establishment of 
 manufactories, and in the consequent quickening of 
 agricultural industry. But this is far from making tliem 
 amends: and now that home-manufactures are nearly 
 done away, though the men and children might at many 
 seasons of the year employ themselves with advantage 
 in the fields beyond what they are accustomed to do, 
 yet still all possible exertion in this way cannot be ra- 
 tionally expected from persons whose agricultural 
 knowledge is so confined, and above all where there 
 must necessarily be so small a capital. The conse- 
 quence, then, is — that, farmers being no longer able to 
 maintain themselves upon .small farms, several are uni- 
 ted in one, and the buildings go to decay, or are de- 
 stroyed : and that the lands of the eslalesmen being 
 mortgaged and the owners constrained to part with 
 them, they fall into the hands of wealthy purchasei-s, 
 who in like manner unite and consolidate; and, if they 
 wish to become residents, erect new mansions out of 
 the ruins of the ancient cottages, whose little enclo- 
 sures, with all the wild graces that grew out of them, 
 disappear. The feudal tenure under which the estates 
 are held has indeed done something towards checking 
 this influx of new-settlers; but so strong is the incli- 
 nation that these galling re.'^traints are endured ; and it 
 is probable that in a kw years the country on the mar- 
 gin of the Lakes will fall altnost entirely into the pos- 
 
DESCRIPTION OF THE COUNTRY OF THE LAKES. 
 
 533 
 
 session of Gentry, either strangers or natives. It is 
 then much to be wished, that a better taste should 
 prevail among these new proprietors; and, as they 
 cannot be expected to leave things to themselves, that 
 skill and knowledge should prevent unnecessary devi- 
 ations from that path of simplicity and beauty along 
 which, without design and unconsciously, their humble 
 predecessors have moved. In this wish the author 
 will be joined by persons of pure taste througliout 
 the v?hole Island, who, by their visits (often repeated) 
 to the Lakes in the North of England, testify that they 
 deem the district a sort of national property, in which 
 every man has a right and interest who has an eye to 
 perceive and a heart to enjoy. 
 
 A FEW words may not improperly be annexed, with 
 an especial view to promote the enjoymentof the Tour- 
 ist. And first, in respect to the Time when this Coun- 
 try can be seen to most advantage. Mr. West, in his 
 well-known Guide to the Lakes, recommends the inter- 
 val from the beginning of June to the end of August ; 
 and, the two latter months being a season of vacation 
 and leisure, it is almost exclusively in tliese that stran- 
 gers visit the Country. But that season is by no means 
 the best; there is a want of variety in the colouring of 
 the mountains and woods ; which, unless where they 
 are diversified by rocks, are of a monotonous green ; 
 and, as a large portion of the Valleys is allotted to hay- 
 grass, a want of variety is found there also. The mea- 
 dows, however, are sufficiently enlivened after hay- 
 making begins, which is much later than in the southern 
 part of the Island. A stronger objection is rainy 
 weather, setting in often at this period with a vigour, 
 and continuing with a perseverance, that may remind 
 the disappointed and dejected traveller of those delu- 
 ges of rain, which fall among the Abyssinian Mountains 
 for the annual supply of the Nile. The months of Sep- 
 tember and October (particularly October) are generally 
 attended with much finer weather; and the scenery 
 is then, beyond comparison, more diversified, more 
 splendid, and beautiful; but, on the other hand, short 
 days prevent long excursions, and sharp and chill gales 
 are unfavourable to parties of pleasure out of doors. 
 Nevertheless, to the sincere admirer of Nature, who is 
 in good health and spirits, and at liberty to make a 
 choice, the six weeks following the 1st of September 
 may be recommended in preference to July and August. 
 For there is no inconvenience arising from the season 
 which, to such a person, would not be amply recom- 
 pensed by the Auiumnal appearance of any of the 
 more retired Valleys, into which discordant plantation 
 and unsuitable buildings have not yet found entrance. 
 — In such spots, at this season, there is an admirable 
 compass and proportion of natural harmony in form and 
 colour, through the whole scale of objects; — in the ten- 
 
 der green of the after-grass upon the meadows inter- 
 spersed with islands of gray or mossy rock crowned by 
 shrubs and trees; in the irregular inclosures of standing 
 corn or stubble-fields in like manner broken ; in the 
 mountain sides glowing with fern of divers colours; in 
 the calm blue Lakes and River-pools; and in the foli- 
 age of the trees, through all the tints of Autumn, from 
 the pale and brilliant yellow of the birch and ash, to 
 the deep greens of the unfaded oak and alder, and of 
 the ivy upon the rocks, upon the trees, and the cottages. 
 Yet, as most travellers are either stinted or stint them- 
 selves for time, I would recommend the space between 
 the middle or last week in May and the middle or last 
 week of June, as affording the best combination of long 
 days, fine weather, and variety of impressions. Few 
 of the native trees are then in full leaf; but, for what- 
 ever may be wanting in depth of shade, far more than 
 an equivalent will be found in the diversity of foliage, 
 in the blossoms of the fruit-and-berry-bearing trees 
 which abound in the woods, and in the golden flowers 
 of the broom and other shrubs, with which many of the 
 copses are interveined. In those woods, also, and on 
 those mountain-sides which have a northern aspect, and 
 in the deep dells, many of the spring-flowers still lin- 
 ger ; while the open and sunny places are stocked with 
 the flowers of approaching summer. And, besides, is 
 not an exquisite pleasure still untasted by him who has 
 not heard the choir of Linnets and Thrushes chaunting 
 their love-songs in the copses, woods, and hedge-rows, 
 of a mountainous country ; safe from the birds of prey, 
 which build in the inaccessible crags, and are at all 
 hours seen or heard wheeling about in the air "! The 
 number of those formidable creatures is probably the 
 cause why, in the narrow valleys, there are no Sky- 
 larks; as the Destroyer would be enabled to dart upon 
 them from the near and surrounding crags, before they 
 could descend to their ground-nests for protection. It 
 is not often that Nightingales resort to these Vales ; 
 but almost all the other tribes of our English warblers 
 are numerous; and their notes, when listened to by 
 the side of broad still waters, or when heard in unison 
 with the murmuring of mountain-brooks, have the com- 
 pass of their power enlarged accordingly. There is 
 also an imaginative influence in the voice of the Cuc- 
 koo, when that voice has taken possession of a deep 
 mountain valley, very different from any thing which 
 can be excited by the same sound in a flat country. 
 Nor must a circumstance be omitted which here ren- 
 ders the close of Spring especially interesting; I mean 
 the practice of bringing dovvn the ewes from the moun- 
 tains to yean in the valleys and enclosed grounds. The 
 herbage being thus cropped as it springs, that first ten- 
 der emerald green of the season, which would other- 
 wise have lasted little more than a fortnight is pro- 
 longed in the pastures and meadows for many weeks ; 
 while they are farther enlivened by the multitude of 
 lambs bleating and skipping about. These sportive 
 45* 
 
534 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 creatures, as they gather strength, are turned out upon 
 the open mountains, and with their slender limbs, 
 their snow-white colour, and their wild and light mo- 
 tions, beautifully accord or contrast with the rocks and 
 lawns, upon which they must now begin to seek their 
 food. And last, but not least, at this time the traveller 
 will be sure of room and comfortable accommodation, 
 even in the smaller inns. I am aware that few of those, 
 who may be inclined to profit by this recommendation 
 will be able to do so, as the time and manner of an ex- 
 cursion of this kind is mostly regulated by circumstan- 
 ces which prevent an entire freedom of choice. It will 
 therefore be more pleasant to me to observe, that, though 
 the months of July and August are liable to many ob- 
 jections, yet it not unfrequently happens that the 
 weather, at this time, is not more wet and stormy than 
 they, who are really capable of enjoying the sublime 
 forms of Nature in their utmost sublimity, would desire. 
 For no Traveller, provided he be in good health and 
 with any command of time, would have a just privilege 
 to visit such scenes, if he could grudge the price of a 
 little confinement among them or interruption in his 
 journey for the sight or sound of a storm coming-on or 
 clearing-away. Insensible must he be who would not 
 congratulate himself upon the bold bursts of sunshine, 
 the descending vapours, wandering lights and shadows, 
 and the invigorated torrents and water-falls, with which 
 broken weather, in a mountainous region, is accompa- 
 nied. At such a time there is no cause to complain, 
 either of the monotony of midsummer colouring or the 
 glaring atmosphere of long, cloudless, and hot days. 
 
 Thus far respecting the most eligible season for vis- 
 iting this country. As to the order in which objects are 
 best seen — a Lake being composed of water flowing 
 from higher grounds, and expanding itself till its re- 
 ceptacle is filled to the brim, — it follows from the nature 
 of things, that it will appear to most advantage when 
 approached from its outlet, especially if the Lake be in 
 a mountainous country ; for, by this way of approach, 
 the traveller faces the grander features of the scene, 
 and is gradually conducted into its most sublime recesses. 
 Now, every one knows, that from amenity and beauty 
 the transition to sublimity is easy and favourable; but 
 the reverse is not so; for, after the faculties have been 
 raised by communion with the sublime, they are indis- 
 posed to humbler excitement. 
 
 It is not likely that a mountain will be ascended with- 
 out disappointment if a wide range of prospect be the 
 object, unless either the summit be reached before sun- 
 rise, or the visitant remains there until the time of sun- 
 set, and afterwards. The precipitous sides of the 
 mountain, and the neighbouring summits, may be seen 
 with effect under any atmosphere which allows them 
 to be seen at all ; but he is the most fortunate adventu- 
 rer who chances to be involved in vapours which open 
 and let in an extent of country partially, or, dispersing 
 
 suddenly, reveal the whole region from centre to cir- 
 cumference. 
 
 After all, it is upon the mind which a Traveller 
 brings along with him that his acquisitions, whether 
 of pleasure or profit, must principally depend. — May I 
 be allowed a concluding word upon this subject"! 
 
 Notliing is more injurious to genuine feeling than the 
 practice of hastily and ungraciously depreciating the 
 face of one country by comparing it with that of another. 
 True it is. Qui bene distinguit bene docet ; yet fasti- 
 diousness is a wretched travelling companion ; and the 
 best guide to which in matters of taste we can entrust 
 ourselves, is a disposition to be pleased. For example, 
 if a Traveller be among the Alps, let him surrender up 
 his mind to the fury of the gigantic torrents, and take 
 delight in the contemplation of their almost irresistible 
 violence, without complaining of the monotony of their 
 foaming course, or being disgusted with the muddiness 
 of the water — apparent wherever it is unagitated. In 
 Cumberland and Westmoreland let not the comparative 
 weakness of the streams prevent him from sympathising 
 with such impetuosity as they possess ; and, making the 
 most of present objects, let him, as he justly may do, 
 observe with admiration the unrivalled brilliancy of the 
 water, and that variety of motion, mood, and character, 
 that arises out of the want of those resources by which 
 the power of the streams in the Alps is supported. — 
 
 ; Again, with respect to the mountains ; though these are 
 comparatively of diminutive size, though there is little 
 of perpetual snow, and no voice of summer-avalanches 
 is heard among them ; and though traces left by the 
 ravage of the elements are here comparatively rare and 
 
 I unimpressive, yet out of this very deficiency proceeds 
 a sense of stability and permanence that is, to many 
 minds, more grateful — 
 
 *' While the coarse rushes to Ihe sweeping breeze 
 Sigh forth their ancient melodies." 
 
 Ode, The Pass of Kirislone. 
 
 Among the Alps are few places that do not preclude 
 this feeling of tranquil sublimity. Havoc, and ruin, 
 and desolation, and encroachment, are every where more 
 or less obtruded ; and it is difficult, notwithstanding the 
 naked loftiness of the Pikes, and the snow-capped sum- 
 mits of the Mounts, to escape from the depressing sen- 
 sation that the whole are in a rapid process of disso- 
 lution, and, were it not that the destructive agency 
 must abate as the heights diminish, would, in time to 
 come, be levelled with the plains. Nevertheless I 
 would relish to the utmost the demonstrations of every 
 species of power at work to effect such changes. 
 
 From these general views let us descend a moment 
 to detail. A stranger to mountain-scenery naturally on 
 his first arrival looks out for sublimity in every object 
 that admits of it; and is almost always disappointed. 
 For this disappointment there exists, I believe, no gen- 
 eral preventive ; nor is it desirable that there should. 
 
DESCRIPTION OP THE COUxNTRY OF THE LAKES. 
 
 535 
 
 Bat with regard to one class of objects, there is a point 
 in which injurious expectations may be easily corrected. 
 It is generally supposed that waterfalls are scarcely 
 worth being looked at except after much rain, and that, 
 the more swoln the stream, the more fortunate the 
 spectator ; but this is true only of large cataracts with 
 sublime accompaniments ; and not even of these without 
 some drawbacks. The principal charm of the smaller 
 waterfalls or cascades, consists in certain proportions of 
 form and affinities of colour, among the component 
 parts of the scene, and in the contrast maintained be- 
 tween the falling water and that which is apparently at 
 rest ; or rather settling gradually into quiet, in the pool 
 
 below. Peculiarly, also, is the beauty of such a scene, 
 where there is naturally so much agitation, heightened, 
 here by the glimmering, and, towards the verge of the 
 pool, by the steady, reflection of the surrounding ima- 
 ges. Now, all those delicate distinctions are destroyed 
 by heavy floods, and the whole stream rushes along 
 in foam and tumultuous confusion. I will conclude 
 with observing, that a happy proportion of component 
 parts is generally noticeable among the landscapes of 
 the North of England ; and, in this characteristic es- 
 sential to a perfect picture, they surpass the scenes of 
 Scotland, and, in a stOl greater degree, those of Swit- 
 zerland. 
 
APPENDIX V. 
 
 ESSAY UPON EPITAPHS* 
 
 It needs scarcely be said, that an Epitaph pre-sup- 
 poses a Monument, upon which it is to be engraven. 
 Almost all Nations have wished that certain external 
 signs should point out the places where their Dead are 
 interred. Among savage Tribes unacquainted with 
 letters, this has mostly been done either by rude 
 stones placed near the Graves, or by Mounds of earth 
 raised over them. This custom proceeded obviously 
 from a twofold desire ; first, to guard the remains of 
 the deceased from irreverent approach or from savage 
 violation: and, secondly, to preserve their memory. 
 " Never any," says Camden, " neglected burial but some 
 savage Nations; as the Bactrians, which cast their 
 dead to tlie dogs ; some varlet Philosophers, as Dioge- 
 nes, who desired to be devoured of fishes; some disso- 
 lute courtiers, as Blectenas, who was wont to say, Non 
 tumulum euro; sepelit natura relictos. 
 
 I'm careless of a grave: — Nature her dead will save." 
 
 As soon as Nations had learned the use of letters, 
 Epitaphs were inscribed upon these Monuments ; in 
 order that their intention might be more surely and 
 adequately fulfilled. I have derived Monuments and 
 Epitaphs from two sources of feeling: but these do 
 in fact resolve themselves into one. The invention of 
 Epitaphs, Weever, in his Discourse of Funeral Monu- 
 ments, says rightly, " proceeded from the presage or 
 fore-feeling of Immortality, implanted in all men na- 
 turally, and is referred to the Scholars of Linus the 
 Theban Poet, who flourished about the year of the 
 World two thousand seven hundred ; who first be- 
 wailed this Linus their Master, when he was slain, in 
 doleful verses, then called of him ffilina, afterwards 
 Epitaphia, for that they were first sung at burials, 
 after engraved upon the Sepulchres." 
 
 And, verily, without the consciousness of a princi- 
 ple of Immortality in the human soul, Man could never 
 have had awakened in him the desire to live in the 
 remembrance of his fellows: mere love, or the yearn- 
 ing of Kind towards Kind, could not have produced it. 
 The Dog or Horse perishes in the field, or in the 
 
 * See ' The Excuksion,' Book v, p. 444, Note. 
 
 stall, by the side of his companions, and is incapable of 
 anticipating the sorrow with which his surrounding 
 Associates shall bemoan his death, or pine for his loss; 
 he cannot pre-conceive this regret, he can form no 
 thouglit of it; and therefore cannot possibly have a 
 desire to leave such regret or remembrance behind him. 
 Add to the principle of love, which exists in the in- 
 ferior animals, the faculty of reason which exists in 
 Man alone ; vifill the conjunction of these account for 
 the desire ! Doubtless it is a necessary consequence of 
 this conjunction ; yet not I think as a direct result, 
 but only to be come at through an intermediate thought, 
 viz. that of an intimation or assurance within us, that 
 some part of our nature is imperishable. At least the 
 precedence, in order of birth, of one feeling to the 
 other, is unquestionable. If we look back upon the 
 days of childhood, we shall find that the time is not in 
 remembrance when, with respect to our own individual 
 Being, the mind was without this assurance ; whereas, 
 the wish to be remembered by our Friends or Kindred 
 after Death, or even in Absence, is, as we shall discover, 
 a sensation that does not form itself till the social 
 feelings have been developed, and the Reason has con- 
 nected itself with a wide range of objects. Forlorn, 
 and cut off from communication with the best part of 
 his nature, must that Man be, who sliould derive the 
 sense of immortality, as it exists in tlie mind of a Child, 
 from the same unthinking gaiety or liveliness of animal 
 Spirits with which the Lamb in the meadow, or any 
 other irrational Creature, is endowed ; who should 
 ascribe it, in short, to blank ignorance in the Child ; to 
 an inability arising from the imperfect state of his 
 faculties to come, in any point of his being, into con- 
 tact with a notion of Death ; or to an unreflecting 
 acquiescence in what had been instilled into him ! Has 
 such an unfolder of the mysteries of Nature, though he 
 may have forgotten his former self, ever noticed the 
 early, obstinate, and unappeasable inquisitiveness of 
 Children upon the subject of origination 1 This single 
 fact proves outwardly the monstrousness of those sup- 
 positions: for, if we had no direct external testimony 
 that the minds of very young Children meditate feeling- 
 ly upon Death and Immortality, these inquiries, which 
 
ESSAY UPON EPITAPHS. 
 
 537 
 
 we all know they are perpetually making concerning 
 the whence, do necessarily include correspondent habits 
 of interrogation concerning the whither. Origin and 
 tendency are notions inseparably co-relative. Never 
 did a Child stand by the side of a running Stream, 
 pondering within himself what power was the feeder of 
 the perpetual current, from what never-wearied sources 
 the body of water was supplied, but he must have been 
 inevitably propelled to follow this question by another: 
 " Towards what abyss is it in progress? what receptacle 
 can contain the mighty influx'!" And the spirit of 
 the answer must have been, though the word might be 
 Sea or Ocean, accompanied perhaps with an image 
 gathered from a Map, or from the real object in Nature 
 — these might have been the letter, but the spirit of 
 the answer must have been as inevitably, — a recepta- 
 cle without bounds or dimensions ; — nothing less than 
 infinity. We may, then, be justified in asserting, that 
 the sense of Immortality, if not a co-existent and twin 
 birth with Reason, is among the earl lest of her Offspring: 
 and we may further assert, that from these conjoined, 
 and under their countenance, the human aflictions are 
 gradually formed and opened out. This is not the 
 place to enter into the recesses of these investigations ; 
 but the subject requires me here to make a plain avowal, 
 that, for my own part, it is to me inconceivable, that 
 the sympathies of love towards each other, which grow 
 with our growth, could ever attain any new strength, 
 or even preserve the old, after we had received from 
 the outward senses the impression of Death, and were 
 in the habit of having that impression daily renewed 
 and its accompanying feeling brought home to ourselves, 
 and to those we love ; if the same were not counter- 
 acted by those communications with our internal Being, 
 which are anterior to all these experiences, and with 
 which revelation coincides, and has through that coin- 
 cidence alone (for otherwise it could not possess it) a 
 power to afl^ect us. I confess, with me the conviction 
 is absolute, that, if the impression and sense of Death 
 were not thus counterbalanced, such a hollowness would 
 pervade the whole system of things, such a want of 
 correspondence and consistency, a disproportion so as- 
 tounding betwixt means and ends, that there could be 
 no repose, no joy. Were we to grow up unfostered by 
 this genial warmth, a frost would chill the spirit, so 
 penetrating and powerful, that there could be no mo- 
 tions of the life of love; and infinitely less could we 
 have any wish to be remembered after we had passed 
 away from a world in which each man had moved 
 about like a shadow. — If, then, in a Creature endowed 
 with the faculties of foresight and reason, the social 
 affections could not have unfolded themselves uncoun- 
 tenanced by the faith that Man is an immortal being; 
 and if, consequently, neither could the individual dying 
 have had a desire to survive in the remembrance of his 
 fellows, nor on their side could they have felt a wish 
 to preserve for future times vestiges of the departed ; 
 3S 
 
 it follows, as a final inference, that without the belief 
 in Immortality, wherein these several desires origin- 
 ate, neither monuments nor epitaphs, in affectionate or 
 laudatory commemoration of the Deceased, could have 
 existed in the world. 
 
 Simonides, it is related, upon landing in a strange 
 Country, found the Corse of an unknown person lying 
 by the Sea-side; he buried it, and was honoured 
 throughout Greece for the piety of that act. Another 
 ancient Philosopher, chancing to fix his eyes upon a 
 dead Body, regarded the same with slight, if not with 
 contempt; saying, "See the Shell of the flown Bird!" 
 But it is not to be supposed that the moral and tender- 
 hearted Simonides was incapable of the lofty movements 
 of thought, to which that other Sage gave way at the 
 moment while his soul was intent only upon the inde- 
 structible being ; nor, on the other hand, that he, in 
 whose sight a lifeless human Body was of no more 
 value than the worthless Shell from which the living 
 fowl had departed, would not, in a different mood of 
 mind, have been aff'ected by those earthly considerations 
 which had incited the philosophic Poet to the perform- 
 ance of that pious duty. And with regard to this 
 latter we may be assured that, if he had been destitute 
 of the capability of communing with the more e-valted 
 thoughts that appertain to human Nature, he would 
 have cared no more for the Corse of the Stranger than 
 for the dead body of a Seal or Porpoise which might 
 have been cast up by the Waves. We respect the 
 corporeal frame of Man, not merely because it is the 
 habitation of a rational, but of an immortal Soul. Each 
 of these Sages was in Sympathy with the best feelings 
 of our Nature; feelings which, though they seem op- 
 posite to each other, have another and a finer connec- 
 tion than that of contrast. — It is a connection formed 
 through the subtle progress by which, both in the na- 
 tural and the moral world, qualities pass insensibly into 
 their contraries, and things revolve upon each other. 
 As, in sailing upon the orb of this Planet, a voyage 
 towards the regions where the Sun sets, conducts gra- 
 dually to the quarter where we have been accustomed 
 to behold it come forth at its risings; and, in like 
 manner, a voyage towards the East, the birth-place in 
 our imagination of the morning, leads finally to th© 
 quarter where the Sun is last seen when he departs 
 from our eyes ; so the contemplative Soul, travelling in 
 the direction of mortality, advances to the Country of 
 everlasting Life ; and, in like manner, may she con^ 
 tinue to explore those cheerful tracts, till she is 
 brought back, for her advantage and benefit, to the 
 land of transitory things — of sorrow and of tears. 
 
 On a midway point, therefore, which commands the 
 thoughts and feelings of the two Sages whom we have 
 represented in contrast, does the Author of that spe- 
 cies of composition, the Laws of which it is our pre- 
 sent purpose to explain, take his stand. Accordingly, 
 recurring to the twofold desire of guarding the Re- 
 
533 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 mains of the deceased and preserving their memory, 
 it may be said that a sepulchral Monument is a tribute 
 to a Man as a human Being ; and that an Epitapli (in 
 the ordinary meaning attached to the word) includes 
 this general feeling and something more; and is a record 
 to preserve the memory of the dead, as a tribute due 
 to his individual worth, for a satisfaction to the sorrow- 
 ing hearts of the Survivors, and for the common bene- 
 fit of the living: which record is to be accomplished, 
 not in a general manner, but, where it can, in close 
 connection with the bodily remains of the deceased : 
 and these, it may be added, among the modern Nations 
 of Europe, are deposited within, or contiguous to, their 
 places of worship. In ancient times, as is well known, 
 it was the custom to bury the dead beyond the Walls 
 of Towns and Cities; and among the Greeks and 
 Romans they were frequently interred by the way- 
 sides. 
 
 I could here pause with pleasure, and invite the 
 Reader to indulge with me in contemplation of the 
 advantages which must have attended such a practice. 
 We might ruminate upon the beauty which the Monu- 
 ments, thus placed, must have borrowed from the sur- 
 rounding images of Nature — from the trees, tlie wild 
 flowers, from a stream running perhaps within sight or 
 hearing, from the beaten road stretching its weary length 
 hard by. Many tender similitudes must these objects 
 have presented to the mind of the Traveller leaning 
 upon one of the Tombs, or reposing in the coolness of 
 its shndc, whether he had halted from weariness or in 
 compliance with the invitation, "Pause, Traveller!" 
 so often found upon the Monuments. And to its 
 Epitaph also must have been supplied strong appeals to 
 visible appearances or immediate impressions, lively 
 and affecting analogies of Life as a Journey — Death as 
 a Sleep overcoming the tired Wayfarer — of Misfortune 
 as a Storm that falls suddenly upon him — of Beauty as 
 a Flower that passeth away, or of innocent pleasure as 
 one that may be gathered — of Virtue that standeth 
 firm as a Rock against the beating Waves; — of Hope 
 " undermined insensibly like the Poplar by the side of 
 the River that has fed it," or blasted in a moment like 
 a Pine-tree by the stroke of lightning upon the Moun- 
 tain-top — of admonitions and heart-stirring remem- 
 brances, like a refresliing Breeze that comes without 
 warning, or the taste of the waters of an une,xpected 
 Fountain. These, and similar suggestions, must have 
 given, formerly, to the language of the senseless stone a 
 voice enforced and endeared by the benignity of that 
 Nature with which it was in unison. — We, in modern 
 times, have lost much of these advantages; and they 
 are but in a small degree counterbalanced to the In- 
 habitants of large Towns and Cities, by the custom of 
 depositing the Dead within, or contiguous to, their 
 places of worship; however splendid or imposing may 
 be the appearance of those Edifices, or however interest- 
 ing or salutary the recollections associated with them. 
 
 Even were it not true that tombs lose their monitory 
 virtue when thus obtruded upon the Notice of Men 
 occupied with the cares of the World, and too often 
 sullied and defiled by those cares, yet still, when Death 
 is in our thoughts, nothing can make amends for the 
 want of the soothing influences of Nature, and for the 
 absence of those types of renovation and decay, which 
 the fields and woods offer to the notice of the serious 
 and contemplative mind. To feel the force of this 
 sentiment, let a man only compare in imagination the 
 unsightly manner in which our Monuments are crowded 
 together in the busy, noisy, unclean, and almost grass- 
 less Church-yard of a large Town, with the still seclu- 
 sion of a Turkish Cemetery, in some remote place ; 
 and yet further sanctified by the Grove of Cypress 
 in which it is embosomed. Thoughts in the same 
 temper as these have already been expressed with 
 true sensibility by an ingenuous Poet of the present 
 day. The subject of his Poem is " All Saints Church, 
 Deiby :" he has been deploring the forbidding and 
 unseemly appearance of its burial-ground, and uttering 
 a wish, that in past times the practice had been 
 adopted of interring the Inhabitants of large Towns in 
 the Country. — 
 
 "Then in some rural, calm, sequestered spot, 
 Where healing iValure her bt-nigiiant look 
 IVe'er changes, save at that lurn season, when, 
 VVilh tresses drooping o'er her sable slole. 
 She yearly mourns the mortal doom of man, 
 Her nohlest work, (so Israel's virgins eret. 
 With annual moan upon the mountains wept 
 Their ijiirest gone) there in that rural scene, 
 So placid, so congenial lo the wish 
 The Christian feels, of peaceful rest within 
 The silent grave, I would have strayed ; 
 
 — wandered forth, where the cold dew of heaven 
 
 Lay on the humbler graves around, what time 
 
 The pale moon gazed upon the turfy mounds. 
 
 Pensive, as though like me, in lonely muse, 
 
 'T were brooding on the dead inhumed beneath. 
 
 There while with him, the holy man of Uz, 
 
 O'er human destiny I sympathised, 
 
 Counting the long, long periods prophecy 
 
 Decrees to roll, ere the great ilay arrives 
 
 Of resurrection, oft the blue-eyed Spring 
 
 Had met me with her blitssoms, as the Dove, 
 
 Of old, returned with olive leaf, lo cheer 
 
 The Patriarch mourning o'er a world destroyed : 
 
 And I would bless her visit ; for lo me 
 
 'T is sweet to trace the consonance thai links 
 
 As one. the works of Nature and the word 
 
 Of God." 
 
 John EDW,\Rns. 
 
 A Village Church-yard, lying as it does in the lap 
 of Nature, may indeed be most favourtibly contrasted 
 with that of a Town of crowded population ; and 
 Sepulture therein combines many of the best tenden- 
 cies which belong to the mode practised by the An- 
 cients, with others peculiar to itself. The sensations 
 
ESSAY UPON EPITAPHS. 
 
 539 
 
 of pious cheerfulness, which attend the celebration 
 of the Sabbath-day in rural places, are profitably 
 chastised by the sight of the Graves of Kindred and 
 Friends, gathered together in that general Home 
 towards which the thoughtful yet happy Spectators 
 themselves are journeying. Hence a Parish Church, 
 in the stillness of the Country, is a visible centre of 
 a community of the living and the dead ; a point to 
 which are habitually referred the nearest concerns of 
 both. 
 
 As, then, both in Cities and in Villages, the Dead 
 are deposited in close connection with our places of 
 worship, with us the composition of an Epitaph natu- 
 rally turns, still more than among the Nations of 
 Antiquity, upon the most serious and solemn affections 
 of the human mind; upon departed Worth — upon 
 personal or social Sorrow and Admiration — upon Re- 
 ligion, individual and social — upon Tune, and upon 
 Eternity. Accordingly, it suffices, in ordinary cases, 
 to secure a composition of this kind from censure, that 
 it contains nothing that shall shock or be inconsistent 
 with this spirit. But, to entitle an Epitaph to praise, 
 more than this is necessary. It ought to contain 
 some Thought or Feeling belonging to the mortal or 
 immortal part of our Nature touchingly expressed ; 
 and if that be done, however general or even trite 
 the sentiment may be, every man of pure mind will 
 read the words with pleasure and gratitude. A Hus- 
 band bewails a Wife ; a Parent breathes a sigh of 
 disappointed hope over a lost Child; a. Son utters a 
 sentiment of filial reverence for a departed Father 
 or Mother ; a Friend perhaps inscribes an encomium 
 recording the companionable qualities, or the solid 
 virtues, of the Tenant of the Grave, whose departure 
 has left a sadness upon his memory. This, and a 
 pious admonition to the Living, and a humble expres- 
 sion of Christian confidence in Immortality, is the 
 language of a thousand Church-yards : and it does 
 not often happen that any thing, in a greater degree 
 discriminate or appropriate to the Dead or to the 
 Living, is to be found in them. This want of dis- 
 crimination has been ascribed by Dr. Johnson, in his 
 Essay upon the Epitaphs of Pope, to two causes; 
 first, the scantiness of the Objects of human praise; 
 and, secondly, the want of variety in the Characters 
 of Men ; or, to use his own words, " to the fact, that 
 the greater part of Mankind have no character at 
 all." Such language may be holden without blame 
 among the generalities of common conversation ; but 
 does not become a Critic and a Moralist speaking 
 seriously upon a serious Subject. The objects of 
 admiration in Human-nature are not scanty, but abun- 
 dant; and every Man has a Character of his own, 
 to the eye that has skill to perceive it. The real 
 cause of the acknowledged want of discrimination in 
 sepulchral memorials is this: That to analyse the 
 Characters of others, especially of those whom we 
 
 love, is not a common or natural employment of Men 
 at any time. We are not anxious unerringly to 
 understand the constitution of the Minds of those 
 who have soothed, who have cheered, who have sup- 
 ported us: with whom we have been long and daily 
 pleased or delighted. The afieclions are their own 
 justification. The Light of Love in our Hearts is 
 a satisfactory evidence that there is a body of worth 
 in the minds of our friends or kindred, whence that 
 Light has proceeded. We shrink from the thought 
 of placing their merits and defects to be weighed 
 against each other in the nice balance of pure intel- 
 lect ; nor do we find much temptation to detect the 
 shades by which a good quality or virtue is discrimi- 
 nated in them from an excellence known by the same 
 general name as it exists in the mind of another ; 
 and, least of all, do we incline to these refinements 
 when under the pressure of Sorrow, Admiration, or 
 Regret, or when actuated by any of those feelings 
 which incite men to prolong the memory of their 
 Friends and Kindred, by records placed in the bosom 
 of the all-uniting and equalizing Receptacle of the 
 Dead.* 
 
 The first requisite, then, in an Epitaph is, that it 
 should speak, in a tone which shall sink into the 
 heart, the general language of humanity as connected 
 with the subject of Death — the source from v.'hich 
 an Epitaph proceeds; of death and of life. To be 
 born and to die are the two points in which all men 
 feel themselves to be in absolute coincidence. This 
 general language may be uttered so strikingly as to 
 entitle an epitaph to high praise ; yet it cannot lay 
 claim to the highest unless other excellencies be 
 superadded. Passing through all intermediate steps, 
 we will attempt to determine at once what these 
 excellencies are, and wherein consists the perfection 
 of this species of composition. It will be found to 
 
 * [It is pleasant to look at this subject through the medium 
 of another mind — to see the .serious philosophy of Wordsworth 
 and the thoughtful humour of Charles Lamb, each travelling 
 its own peculiar road and yet resting at the same conclu- 
 sion : the ibUowing passage occurs in the Tale of ' Rosammid 
 Gray : 
 
 " Still I continued in the church-yard, reading the various 
 
 inscriptions, and moralizing on them with that kind of levity, 
 which will not unfrequently spring up in the mind, in the midst 
 of deep melancholy. 
 
 "I read of nothing but careful parents, loving husbands, and 
 dutiful children. I said jestingly, where be all the bad people 
 buried ? Bad parents, bad husbands, bad children — what 
 cemeteries are appointed for these ? do they not sleep in con- 
 secrated ground ? or is it but a pious fiction, a generous oversight, 
 in the survivors, which thus tricks out men's epitaphs when 
 dead, who, in their life-time, discharged the offices of life, per- 
 haps, but lamely? — Their failings, with their reproaches, now 
 sleep with them in the grave. Ma7i wars not with the dead. It 
 is a trait of human nature, for which I love it." 
 
 Lamb's Prose Works. H. R.] 
 
540 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 lie in a due proportion of the common or universal 
 feeling of humanity to sensations excited by a distinct 
 and clear conception, conveyed to the Reader's mind, 
 of the Individual, whose death is deplored and whose 
 memory is to be preserved ; at least of his character, 
 as, afler death, it appeared to those who loved him 
 and lament his loss. The general sympathy ought 
 to be quickened, provoked, and diversified, by particu- 
 lar thoughts, actions, images, — circumstances of age, 
 occupation, manner of life, prosperity which the 
 Deceased had known, or adversity to which he had 
 been subject; and these ought to be bound together 
 and solemnised into one harmony by the general 
 sympathy. The two powers should temper, restrain, 
 and exalt each other. The Reader ought to know 
 who and what the Man was whom he is called upon 
 to think of with interest. A distinct conception 
 should be given (implicitly where it can, rather than 
 explicitly) of the Individual lamented. But the 
 Writer of an Epitaph is not an Anatomist, who dis- 
 sects the internal frame of the mind ; he is not even 
 a Painter, who executes a portrait at leisure and in 
 entire tranquillity; his delineation, we must remem- 
 ber, is performed by the side of the Grave ; and, 
 what is more, the grave of one whom he loves and 
 admires. What purity and brightness is that virtue 
 clothed in, the image of which must no longer bless 
 our living eyes ! The character of a deceased Friend 
 or beloved Kinsman is not seen, no — nor ought to 
 be seen, otherwise than as a Tree through a tender 
 haze or a luminous mist, that spiritualizes and beau- 
 tifies it ; that takes away, indeed, but only to the 
 end that the parts which are not abstracted may ap- 
 pear more dignified and lovely, may impress and 
 affect the more. Shall we say, then, that this is 
 not truth, not a faithful image ; and that, accordingly, 
 the purposes of commemoration cannot be answered ! 
 — It is truth, and of the highest order ! for, though 
 doubtless things are not apparent which did exist ; 
 yet, the object being looked at through this medium, 
 parts and proportions are brought into distinct view 
 which before had been only imperfectly or uncon- 
 sciously seen: it is truth hallowed by love — the joint 
 offspring of the worth of the Dead and the affections 
 of the Living! — This may easily be brought to the 
 test. Let one, whose eyes have been sharpened by 
 personal hostility to discover what was amiss in the 
 character of a good man, hear the tidings of his death, 
 and what a change is wrought in a moment! — En- 
 mity melts away ; and, as it disappears, unsightliness, 
 disproportion, and deformity, vanish ; and, through 
 the influence of commiseration, a harmony of love 
 and beauty succeeds. Bring such a Man to the 
 Tombstone on which shall be inscribed an Epitaph 
 on his Adversary, composed in the spirit which we 
 have recommended. Would he turn from it as from 
 
 an idle tale 7 No — the thoughtful look, the sigh, 
 and perhaps the involuntary tear, would testify that 
 it had a sane, a generous, and good meaning; and 
 that on the Writer's mind had remained an impres- 
 sion which was a true abstract of the character of 
 the deceased ; that his gifts and graces were remem- 
 bered in the simplicity in which they ought to be 
 remembered. The composition and quality of the 
 mind of a virtuous man, contemplated by the side 
 of the Grave where his body is mouldering, ought to 
 appear, and be felt as something midway between 
 what he was on Earth walking about with his living 
 frailties, and what he may be presumed to be as a Spi- 
 rit in Heaven. 
 
 It suffices, therefore, that the Trunk and the main 
 Branches of the Worth of the Deceased be boldly and 
 unaffectedly represented. Any further detail, minute- 
 ly and scrupulously pursued, especially if this be done 
 with laborious and antithetic discriminations, must 
 inevitably frustrate its own purpose; forcing the pass- 
 ing Spectator to this conclusion, — either that the 
 Dead did not possess the merits ascribed to him, or 
 that they who have raised a monument to his memory, 
 and must tlierefore be supposed to have been closely 
 connected with him, were incapable of perceiving those 
 merits; or at least during the act of composition had 
 lost sight of them; for, the Understanding having been 
 so busy in its petty occupation, how could the heart 
 of the Mourner be other than cold 7 and in either of 
 these cases, whether the fault be on the part of the 
 buried Person or the Survivors, the Memorial is un- 
 affecting and profitless. 
 
 Much better is it to fall short in discrimination 
 than to pursue it too far, or to labour it unfeelingly. 
 For in no place are we so much disposed to dwell 
 upon those points, of nature and condition, wherein 
 all Men resemble each other, as in the Temple where 
 the universal Father is worshipped, or by the side 
 of the Grave which gathers all Human Beings to itself, 
 and "equalizes the lofty and the low." We suffer 
 and we weep with the same heart; we love and are 
 anxious for one another in one spirit ; our hopes look 
 to the same quarter; and the virtues by which we 
 are all to be furthered and supported, as patience, 
 meekness, good-will, temperance, and temperate de- 
 sires, are in an equal degree the concern of us all. 
 Let an Epitaph, then, contain at least these acknow- 
 ledgments to our common nature ; nor let the sense 
 of their importance be sacrificed to a balance of op- 
 posite qualities or minute distinctions in individual 
 character; which if they do not, (as will for the most 
 part be the case) when examined, resolve themselves 
 into a trick of words, will, even when they are true 
 and just, for the most part be grievously out of place ; 
 for, as it is probable that few only have explored 
 these intricacies of human nature, so can the tracing 
 
ESSAY UPON EPITAPHS. 
 
 541 
 
 of them be interesting only to a few. But an Epi- 
 taph is not a proud Writing shut up for the studious: 
 it is exposed to all, to the wise and the most ignorant; 
 it is condescending, perspicuous, and lovingly solicits 
 regard ; its story and admonitions are brief, that the 
 thoughtless, the busy, and indolent, may not be de- 
 terred, nor the impatient tired: the stooping Old 
 Man cons the engraven record like a second horn- 
 book ; — the Child is proud that he can read it ; — 
 and the Stranger is introduced by its mediation to 
 the company of a Friend: it is concerning all, and 
 for all: — in the Church-yard it is open to the day; 
 the sun looks down upon the stone, and the rains of 
 Heaven beat against it. 
 
 Yet, though the Writer who would excite sympa- 
 thy is bound in this case, more than in any other, 
 to give proof that he himself has been moved, it is 
 to be remembered, that to raise a Monument is a 
 sober and a reflective act; that the inscription which 
 it bears is intended to be permanent, and for uni- 
 versal perusal ; and that, for this reason, the thoughts 
 and feelings expressed should be permanent also — 
 liberated from that weakness and anguish of sorrow 
 which is in nature transitory, and which with instinc- 
 tive decency retires from notice. The passions should 
 be subdued, the emotions controlled ; strong, indeed, 
 but nothing ungovernable or wholly involuntary. 
 Seomliness requires this, and truth requires it also: 
 for how can the Narrator otherwise be trusted 1 More- 
 over, a Grave is a tranquillizing object: resignation 
 in course of time springs up from it as naturally as 
 the wild flowers, besprinkling the turf with which 
 it may be covered, or gathering round the monument 
 by which it is defended. The very form and sub- 
 stance of the monument which has received the 
 inscription, and the appearance of the letters, testi- 
 fying with what a slow and laborious hand they must 
 have been engraven, might seem to reproach the 
 Author who had given way upon this occasion to 
 transports of mind, or to quick turns of conflicting 
 passion ; though the same might constitute the life 
 and heauty of a funeral Oration or elegiac Poem. 
 
 These sensations and judgments, acted upon per- 
 haps unconsciously, have been one of the main causes 
 why Epitaphs so often personate the Deceased, and 
 represent him as speaking from his own Tomb- 
 stone. The departed Mortal is introduced telling you 
 himself that his pains are gone ; that a state of rest 
 is come ; and he conjures you to weep for him no 
 longer. He admonishes with the voice of one expe- 
 rienced in the vanity of those afiections which are 
 confined to earthly objects, and gives a verdict like 
 a superior Being, performing the ofiice of a Judge, 
 who has no temptations to mislead him, and whose 
 decision cannot but be dispassionate. Thus is Death 
 disarmed of its sting, and afiliction unsubstantialized. 
 
 By this tender fiction, the Survivors bind themselves 
 to a sedater sorrow, and employ the intervention of the 
 Imagination in order that the reason may speak her 
 own language earlier than she would otherwise have 
 been enabled to do. This shadowy interposition also 
 harmoniously unites the two worlds of the Living and 
 the Dead by their appropriate affections. And it may 
 be observed, that here we have an additional proof of 
 the propriety with which sepulchral inscriptions were 
 referred to the consciousness of Immortality as their 
 primal source. 
 
 I do not speak with a wish to recommend that an 
 Epitaph should be cast in this mould preferably to the 
 still more common one, in which what is said comes 
 from the Survivors directly ; but rather to point out 
 how natural those feelings are which have induced 
 men, in all states and ranks of Society, so frequently 
 to adopt this mode. And this I have done chiefly in 
 order that the laws, which ought to govern the com- 
 position of the other, may be better understood. This 
 latter mode, namely, that in which the Survivors 
 speak in their own Persons, seems to me upon the 
 whole greatly preferable : as it admits a wider range 
 of notices; and, above all, because, excluding the fic- 
 tion which is the groundwork of the other, it rests 
 upon a more solid basis. 
 
 Enough has been said to convey our notion of a 
 perfect Epitaph ; but it must be borne in mind that one 
 is meant which will best answer the general ends of 
 that species of composition. According to the course 
 pointed out, the worth of private life, through all vari- 
 eties of situation and character, will be most honour- 
 ably and profitably preserved in memory. Nor would 
 the model recommended less suit public Men, in all 
 instances save of those persons who by the greatness 
 of their services in the employments of Peace or War, 
 or by the surpassing excellence of their works in Art, 
 Literature, or Science, have made themselves not only 
 universally known, but have filled the heart of their 
 Country with everlasting gratitude. Yet I must here 
 pause to correct myself In describing the general 
 tenour of thought which Epitaphs ought to hold, I have 
 omitted to say, that if it be the actions of a Man, or 
 even some one conspicuous or beneficial act of local or 
 general utility, which have distinguished him, and ex- 
 cited a desire that he should be remembered, then, of 
 course, ought the attention to be directed chiefly to 
 those actions or that act: and such sentiments dwelt 
 upon as naturally arise out of them or it. Having made 
 this necessary distinction, I proceed. — The mighty 
 benefactors of mankind, as they are not only known by 
 the immediate Survivors, but will continue to be 
 known familiarly to latest Posterity, do not stand in 
 need of biographic sketches, in such a place ; nor of 
 delineations of character to individualize them. This 
 is already done by their Works, in the Memories of 
 46 
 
542 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Men. Their naked names, and a grand comprehensive 
 sentiment of civic Gratitude, patriotic Love, or human 
 Admiration; or the utterance of some elementary 
 Principle most essential in the constitution of true 
 Virtue; or an intuition, communicated in adequate 
 words, of the sublimity of intellectual Power, — these 
 are the only tribute which can here be paid — Iho 
 only offering that upon such an Altar would not be 
 unworthy ! 
 
 " What needs my Siiakspeare for his honoured bones 
 The labour of an age in piled stones, 
 Or that his hallowed reliqiies should be hid 
 Under a star-ypoinling pyramid ? 
 Dear Son of Memory, great Heir of Fame, 
 What needst thou such weak witness of thy name ? 
 Thou in our wonder and astonishment 
 Hast built thyself a livelong Monument, 
 And so sepulchred, in such pomp dost he. 
 That Kings for such a Tomb would wish to die." 
 
APPENDIX VI. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT 
 
 TO THE VOLUME ENTITLED " YARROW REVISITED AND 
 OTHER POEMS: 1835." 
 
 In the present volume, as in the author's previous 
 poems, the reader will have found occasionally opinions 
 expressed upon the course of public affairs, and feelings 
 given vent to as national interests excited them. Since 
 nothing, he trusts, has been uttered but in the spirit of 
 reflective patriotism, those notices are left to produce 
 their own effect ; but, among the many objects of 
 general concern, and the changes going forward, which 
 he has glanced at in verse, are some especially affecting 
 the lower orders of society : in reference to these, he 
 v.ishes here to add a few words in plain prose. 
 
 Were he conscious of being able to do justice to 
 those important topics, he might avail himself of the 
 periodical press for offering anonymously his thoughts, 
 such as they are, to the world ; but he feels that, in 
 procuring attention, they may derive some advantage, 
 however small, from his name, in addition to that of 
 being presented in a less fugitive shape. It is also not 
 impossible that the state of mind which some of the 
 foregoing poems may have produced in the reader will 
 dispose him to receive more readily the impression the 
 author desires to make, and to admit the conclusions he 
 would establish. 
 
 I. The first thing that presses upon his attention is the 
 Poor-Law Amendment Act. He is aware of the mag- 
 nitude and complexity of the subject, and the unwearied 
 attention which it has received from men of far wider 
 experience than his own ; yet he cannot forbear touching 
 upon one point of it, and to this he will confine himself, 
 though not insensible to the objection which may rea- 
 sonably be brought against treating a portion of this, or 
 any other, great scheme of civil polity separately from 
 the whole. The point to which he wishes to draw 
 the reader's attention is, that all persons who cannot 
 find employment, or procure wages sufficient to support 
 the body in health and strength, are entitled to mainte- 
 nance by law. 
 
 This principle is acknowledged in the Report of the 
 Commissioners : but is there not room for apprehension 
 that some of the regulations of the new act have a ten- 
 dency to render the principle nugatory by difficulties 
 thrown in the way of applying if! If this be so, 
 persons will not be wanting to show it, by examining 
 the provisions of the act in detail, — an attempt which 
 would be quite out of place here; but it will not, there- 
 fore, be deemed unbecoming in one who fears that the 
 prudence of the head may, in framing some of those 
 provisions, have supplanted the wisdom of the heart, 
 to enforce a principle which cannot be violated v,'ithout 
 infringing upon one of the most precious rights of the 
 English people, and opposing one of the most sacred 
 claims of civilized humanity. 
 
 There can be no greater error, in this department of 
 legislation, than the belief that this principle does by 
 necessity operate for the degradation of those who claim, 
 or are so circumstanced as to make it likely they may 
 claim, through laws founded upon it, reliefer assistance. 
 The direct contrary is the truth : it may be unanswerably 
 maintained that its tendency is to raise, not to depress ; 
 by stamping a value upon life, which can belong to it 
 only wliere the laws have placed men who are willing 
 to work, and yet cannot find employment, above the 
 necessity of looking for protection against hunger and 
 other natural evils, either to individual and casual char- 
 ity, to despair and death, or to the breach of lavv by 
 theft or violence. 
 
 And hero, as the fundamental principle has been 
 recognised in the Report of the Commissioners, the 
 author is not at issue with them any farther than he is 
 compelled to believe that their "remedial measures" 
 obstruct the application of that principle more than the 
 interests of society require. 
 
 And, calling to mind the doctrines of political economy 
 which are now prevalent, he cannot forbear to enforce 
 
544 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 the justice of the principle, and to insist upon its 
 salutary operation. 
 
 And first for its justice : If self-preservation be the 
 first law of our nature, would not every one in a state 
 of nature be morally justified in taking to himself that 
 which is indispensable to such preservation, where, by 
 60 doing-, he would not rob another of that which might 
 be equally indispensable to his preservation 1 And if 
 the value of life be regarded in a right point of view, 
 may it not be questioned whether this right of preserv- 
 ing life, at any expense short of endangering the life 
 of another, does not survive man's entering into the 
 social state ; whether this right can be surrendered or 
 f )rfeited, except when it opposes the divine law, upon 
 any supposition of a social compact, or of any conven- 
 tion for the protection of mere rights of property 1 
 
 But, if it be not safe to touch the abstract question 
 of man's right in a social state to help himself even in 
 the last extremity, may we not still contend for the 
 duty of a Christian government, slani'mg in loco paren- 
 tis towards all its subjects, to make such effectual pro- 
 vision, that no one shall be in danger of perishing 
 either through tlie neglect or harshness of its legisla- 
 tion? Or, waiving this, is it not indisputable that the 
 claim of the state to the allegiance, involves the pro- 
 tection, of the subject ? And, as all rights in one party 
 impose a correlative duty upon another, it follows that 
 the right of the state to require the services of its 
 members, even to the jeoparding of their lives in the 
 common defence, establishes a right in the people (not 
 to be gainsaid by utilitarians and economists) to public 
 support when, from any cause, they may be unable to 
 support themselves. 
 
 Let us now consider the salutary and benign opera- 
 tion of this principle. Here we must have recourse to 
 elementary feelings of human nature, and to truths 
 which from their very obviousness are apt to be slighted, 
 till they are forced upon our notice by our own suffer- 
 ings or those of others. In the Paradise Lost, Milton 
 represents Adam, after the Fall, as exclaiming, in the 
 anguish of his soul, — 
 
 "Did I request Thee, Maker, from my clay 
 To mould me man, did I solicit Thee 
 From darkness to promote me ? 
 
 My will 
 Concurred not to my being." 
 
 Under how many various pressures of misery have 
 men been driven thus, in a strain touching upon im- 
 piety, to expostulate with the Creator; and under few 
 so afiiictive as when the source and origin of earthly 
 existence have been brought back to the mind by its 
 impending close in the pangs of destitution. But as 
 long as, in our legislation, due weight shall be given 
 to this principle, no man will be forced to bewail the 
 gift of life in hopeless want of the necessaries of life. 
 
 Englishmen have, therefore, by the progress of civi- 
 
 lisation among them, been placed in circumstancesniore 
 favourable to piety, and resignation to the divine will, 
 than the inliabitants of other countries, where a like 
 provision has not been established. And as Providence, 
 in this care of our countrymen, acts through a human 
 medium, the objects of that care must, in like manner, 
 be more inclined towards a grateful love of their fel- 
 low-men. Tims, also, do stronger ties attach the 
 people to their country, whether while they tread its 
 soil, or, at a distance, think of their native land as 
 an indulgent parent, to whose arms, even they who 
 have been imprudent and undeserving may, like the 
 prodigal son, betake themselves, without fear of being 
 rejected. 
 
 Such is the view of tlie case that would first present 
 itself to a reflective mind ; and it is in vain to show, 
 by appeals to experience, in contrast with this view, 
 that provisions founded upon the principle have pro- 
 moted profaneness of life, and dispositions the reverse 
 of philanthropic, by spreading idleness, selfishness, and 
 rapacity : for these evils have arisen, not as an inevi- 
 table consequence of the principle, but for want of judg- 
 ment in framing laws based upon it; and, above all, 
 from faults in the mode of administering the law. The 
 mischief that has grown to such a height from granting 
 relief in cases where proper vigilance would have shown 
 that it was not required, or in bestowing it in undue 
 measure, will be urged by no truly enlightened states- 
 man, as a sufficient reason for banishing the principle 
 itself from legislation. 
 
 Let us recur to the miserable states of consciousness 
 that it precludes. 
 
 There is a story told, by a traveller in Spain, of a 
 female who, by a sudden shock of domestic calamity, 
 was driven out of her senses, and ever after looked up 
 incessantly to the sky, feeling that her fellow-creatures 
 could do nothing for her relief Can there be English- 
 men who, with a good end in view, would, upon system, 
 expose their brother Englishmen to a like necessity of 
 looking upwards only ; or downwards to the earth, 
 after it shall contain no spot where the destitute can 
 demand, by civil right, what by right of nature they 
 are entitled to? 
 
 Suppose the objects of our sympathy not sunk into 
 this blank despair, but wandering about as strangers in 
 streets and ways, with the hope of succour from casual 
 charity ; what have we gained by such a change of 
 scene ? Woful is the condition of the famished Northern 
 Indian, dependent, among winter snows, upon the 
 chance-passage of a herd of deer, from whicli one, if 
 brought down by his rifle-gun, may be made the means 
 of keeping him and his companions alive. As miserable 
 is that of some savage Islander, who, when the land 
 has ceased to afford him sustenance, watches for food 
 which the waves may cast up, or in vain endeavours to 
 extract it from the inexplorable deep. But neither of 
 these is in a state of wretchedness comparable to that, 
 
POSTSCRIPT, ETC. 
 
 545 
 
 which is so often endured in civilised society : multi- 
 tudes, in all ages, have known it, of whom may be 
 said : — 
 
 '* Homeless, near a thousand homes they stood, 
 And near a tliousand tables pined, and wanted food." 
 
 The author may justly be accused of wasting time 
 in an uncalled-for attempt to excite the feelings of his 
 reader, if systems of political economy, widely spread, 
 did not impugn the principle, and if the safeguards 
 against such extretnities were left unimpaired. It is 
 broadly asserted by many, that every man who en- 
 deavours to find work, may find it: were this assertion 
 capable of being verified, there still would remain a 
 question, what kind of work, and how far may the 
 labourer be fit for it ? For if sedentary work is to be 
 exchanged for standing ; and some light and nice ex- 
 ercise of the fingers, to which an artisan has been ac- 
 customed all his life, for severe labour of the arms; the 
 best efforts would turn to little account, and occasion 
 would be given for the unthinking and the unfeeling 
 unwarrantably to reproach those who are put upon such 
 employment, as idle, froward, and tinvvorthy of relief, 
 either by law or in any other way ! Were this state- 
 ment correct, there would indeed be an end of the 
 argument, the principle here maintained would be super- 
 seded. But, alas, it is far otherwise. That principle, 
 applicable to the benefit of all countries, is indispensable 
 for England, upon whose coast families are perpetually 
 deprived of their support by shipwreck, and where large 
 masses of men are so liable to be thrown out of their 
 ordinary means of gaining bread, by changes in com- 
 mercial intercourse, subject mainly or solely to the 
 will of foreign powers; by new discoveries in arts 
 and manufactures; and by reckless laws, in conformity 
 with theories of political economy, which, whether 
 right or wrong in the abstract, have proved a scourge 
 to tens of thousands, by the abruptness with which they 
 have been carried into practice. 
 
 But it is urged, — refuse altogether compulsory relief 
 to the able-bodied, and the number of those who stand 
 in need of relief will steadily diminish, through a con- 
 viction of an absolute necessity for greater forethought, 
 and more prudent care of a man's earnings. Undoubt- 
 edly it would, but so also would it, and in a much 
 greater degree, if the legislative provisions were re- 
 tained, and parochial relief administered under the 
 care of the upper classes, as it ought to be. For it has 
 been invariably found, that wherever the funds have 
 been raised and applied under the superintendence of 
 gentlemen and substantial proprietors, acting in vestries, 
 and as overseers, pauperism has diminished accordingly. 
 Proper care in that quarter would effectually check 
 what is felt in some districts to be one of the worst 
 evils in the poor law system, viz. the readiness of small 
 and needy proprietors to join in imposing rates that 
 seemingly subject them to great hardships, while, in 
 3T 
 
 fact, this is done with an understanding, which pre- 
 pares the way for the relief that each is ready to bestow 
 upon his still poorer neighbours being granted to him- 
 self, or his relatives, when it shall be applied for. 
 
 But let us look to inner sentiments of a nobler qual- 
 ity, in order to know what we have to build upon. 
 Affecting proofs occur in every one's experience, who is 
 acquainted with the unfortunate and the indigent, of 
 their unwillingness to derive their subsistence from 
 aught but their own funds or labour, or to be indebted 
 to parochial assistance for the attainmentof any object, 
 however dear to them. A case was reported, tlie other 
 day, from a coroner's inquest, of a pair who, through 
 the space of four years, had carried about their dead 
 infant from house to house, and from lodging to lodg- 
 ing, as their necessities drove them, rather than ask 
 the parish to bear the expense of its interment : the 
 poor creatures lived in the hope of one day being able 
 to bury their child at their own cost. It must have 
 been heart-rending to see and hear the mother, who 
 had been called upon to account for the state in which 
 the body was found, make this deposition. She and 
 her husband had, it is true, been once in prosperity. 
 But examples, where the spirit of independence works 
 with equal strength, though not with like miserable ac- 
 companiments, are frequently to be found even yet 
 among the humblest peasantry and mechanics. There 
 is not, then, sufficient cause for doubting that a like 
 sense of honour may be revived among the people, and 
 their ancient habits of independence restored, without 
 resorting to those severities which the new Poor Law 
 Act has introduced. 
 
 But, even if the surfaces of things only are to be 
 examined, we have a right to expect that lawgivers 
 should take into account the various tempers and dis- 
 positions of mankind : while some are led, by the 
 existence of a legislative provision, into idleness and 
 extravagance, the economical virtues might be cherished 
 in others by the knowledge, that if all their efforts fail, 
 they have in the Poor-Laws a " refuge from tlie storm 
 and a shadow from the heat." Despondency and dis- 
 traction are no friends to prudence : the springs of in- 
 dustry will relax, if cheerfulness be destroyed by anxi- 
 ety ; without hope men become reckless, and have a 
 sullen pride in adding to the heap of their own wretch- 
 edness. He who feels that he is abandoned by his fel- 
 low men will be almost irresistibly driven to care little 
 for himself; will lose his self-respect accordingly, and 
 with that loss what retnains to him of virtue. 
 
 With all due deference to the particular experience, 
 and general intelligence of the individuals who framed 
 the Act, and of those who in and out of parliament have 
 approved of and supported it; it may be said, that it 
 proceeds too much upon the presumption that it is a 
 labouring man's own fault if he be not, as the phrase 
 is, beforehand with the world. But the most prudent 
 are liable to be throsvn back by sickness, cutting them 
 46* 
 
546 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 o3"froni labour, and causing to them expense; and who 
 but has observed how distress creeps upon multitudes 
 without misconduct of their own; and merely from a 
 gradual fall in the price of labour, without a correspond- 
 ent one in the price of provisions; so that men who 
 may have ventured upon the marriaope state with a fair 
 prospect of maintaining their families in comfort and 
 happiness, see them reduced to a pittance which no 
 efforts of theirs can increase ] Let it be remembered, 
 also, that there are thousands with whom vicious habits 
 of expense are not the cause why they do not store up 
 their gains; but they are generous and kind-hearted, 
 and ready to help their kindred and friends; moreover, 
 they have a faith in Providence that those who have 
 been prompt to assist others, will not be left destitute, 
 should they themselves come to need. By acting from 
 these blended feelings, numbers have rendered them- 
 selves inc:ipable of standing upagainsta sudden reverse. 
 Nevertheless, these men, in common with all who have 
 the misfortune to be in want, if many theorists had 
 their wish, would be thrown upon one or other of those 
 three sharp points of condition before adverted to, from 
 which the intervention of law has hitlierto saved them. 
 All that has been said tends to show how the princi- 
 ple contended for makes the gift of life more valuable, 
 and has, the writer hopes, led to the conclusion that its 
 legitimate operation is to make men worthier of that 
 gift: in other words, not to degrade but to exalt human 
 nature. But the subject must not be dismissed without 
 adverting to the indirect influence of the same principle 
 upon tlie moral sentiments of a people among whom it 
 is embodied in law. In our criminal jurisprudence 
 there is a maxim, deservedly eulogised, that it is better 
 that ten guilty persons should escape, than that one 
 innocent man should suffer; so, also, might it be main- 
 tained, with regard to the Poor Laws, that it is better for 
 the interests of humanity among the people at large, 
 that ten undeserving should partake of the funds pro- 
 vided, than that one morally good m.an, through want 
 of relief, should either liave his principles corrupted, or 
 his energies destroyed ; than that such a one should 
 either be driven to do wrong, or be cast to the earth in 
 utter hopelessness. In France, the English maxim of 
 criminal jurisprudence is reversed ; there, it is deemed 
 better that ten innocent men should suffer, than one 
 guilty escape : in France, there is no universal provision 
 for the poor; and we may judge of the small value set 
 upon human life in the metropolis of that country, by 
 merely noticing the disrespect with which, after death, 
 the body is treated, not by the thoughtless vulgar, but 
 in schools of anatomy, presided over by men allowed 
 to be, in their own art and in physical science, imong 
 the most enlightened in the world. In the East, where 
 countries are overrun with population as with a weed, 
 infinitely more respect is shown to the remains of the 
 deceased; and what a bitter mockery is it, that this in- 
 sensibility should be found where civil polity is so busy 
 
 in minor regulations, and ostentatiously careful to gra- 
 tify the luxurious propensities, whether social or intel- 
 lectual, of the multitude ! Irreligion is, no doubt, much 
 concerned with this offensive disrespect, shown to the 
 bodies of the dead in France ; but it is mainly attri- 
 butable to the state in which so many of the living 
 are left by the absence of compulsory provision for 
 the indigent, so humanely established by the law of 
 England. 
 
 Sights of abject misery, perpetually recurring, harden 
 the heart of the community. In the perusal of history, 
 and of works of fiction, we are not, indeed, unwilling 
 to have our commiseration e.xcited by such objects of 
 distress as they present to us ; but in the concerns of 
 real life, men know that such emotions are not given to 
 be indulged for their own sakes: there, the conscience 
 declares to them that sympathy must be followed by 
 action ; and if there exist a previous conviction that 
 the power to relieve is utterly inadequate to the demand, 
 the eye shrinks from communication with wretchedness, 
 and pity and compassion languish, like any other 
 qualities that are deprived of their natural aliment. 
 Let these considerations be duly weighed by those who 
 trust to the hope that an increase of private charity, 
 with all itsadvantagesof superior discrimination, would 
 more than compensate for the abandonment of those 
 principles, the wisdom of which has been here insisted 
 upon. How discouraging, also, would be the sense of 
 injustice, which could not fail to arise in the minds of 
 the well-disposed, if the burden of supporting the 
 poor, a burden of which the selfish have hitherto by 
 compulsion borne a share, should now, or hereafler, bo 
 thrown exclusively upon the benevolent. 
 
 By having put an end to the Slave Trade and Slavery, 
 the British people are exalted in the scale of humanity ; 
 and they cannot but feel so, if they look into them- 
 selves, and duly consider their relation to God and their 
 fellow-creatures. That was a noble advance; but a re- 
 trograde movement will assuredly be made, if ever the 
 principle, which has been here defended, should be 
 either avowedly abandoned, or but ostensibly retained. 
 II. In a poem of the foregoing collection, the state 
 of the workmen congregated in manufactories is alluded 
 to.* May the author here be permitted to say, that, 
 after much reflection upon this subject, he has not 
 been able to discover a more effectual mode of al- 
 leviating the evils to wliich that class are liable, and 
 establishing a better harmony between them and their 
 employers, than by a repeal of such laws as prevent 
 the formation of joint-stock companies ! The com- 
 binations of masters to keep down, unjustly, the price 
 of labour, would be fairly checked by these associations ; 
 they would encourage economy, inasmuch as they would 
 enable a man to draw profit from his savings, by vesting 
 them in buildings or machinery for processes of manu- 
 
 * See Lines entitled ' Humanity', p. 366. 
 
POSTSCRIPT, ETC. 
 
 547 
 
 facture with which he was habitually connected. His 
 little capital would then be working for him while 
 he was at rest or asleep ; he would more clearly per- 
 ceive the necessity of capital for carrying on great 
 works ; he would better learn to respect the larger por- 
 tions of it in the hands of others ; he would be less 
 tempted to join in unjust combinations; and, for the 
 sake of his own property, if not for higher reasons, he 
 would be slow to promote local disturbance, or en- 
 danger public tranquillity ; he would, at least, be loth 
 to act in that way knowingly : for it is not to be de- 
 nied that such societies might be nurseries of opinions 
 unfavourable to a mixed constitution of government, 
 like that of Great Britain. Tlie democratic and re- 
 publican spirit which they might be apt to foster 
 would not, however, be dangerous in itself, but only as 
 it might act without being sufficiently counterbalanced, 
 either by landed proprietorship, or by a Cliurch ex- 
 tending itself so as to embrace an ever-growing and 
 ever-shifting population of mechanics and artisans. 
 But if the tendencies of such societies would be to 
 make the men prosper who might belong to them, rulers 
 and legislators should rejoice in the result, and do their 
 duty to the state by upholding and extending the 
 influence of that Church to which it owes, in so great 
 a measure, its safety, its prosperity, and its glory. 
 
 This, in the temper of the present times, may be 
 difficult, but it is become indispensable, since large 
 towns in great numbers have sprung up, and others 
 have increased tenfold, with little or no dependence 
 upon the gentry and the landed proprietors; and apart 
 from those mitigated feudal institutions, which, till of 
 late, have acted so powerfully upon the composition of 
 the House of Commons. Now it may be affirmed, that, 
 in quarters where there is not an attachment to the 
 Church, or the landed aristocracy, and a pride in sup- 
 porting them, there the people will dislike both, and be 
 ready, upon such incitements as are perpetually re- 
 curring, to join in attempts to overthrow them. There 
 is no neutral ground here : from want of due attention 
 to the state of society in large towns and manufacturing 
 districts, and ignorance or disregard of these obvious 
 truths, innumerable well-meaning persons became zeal- 
 ous supporters of a Reform Bill, the qualities and powers 
 of which, whether destructive or constructive, they 
 would otherwise have been afraid of; and even the 
 framers of that bill, swayed as they might be by party 
 resentments and personal ambition, could not have 
 gone so far, had not they too been lamentably ignorant 
 or neglectful of the same truths both of fact and philo- 
 sophy. 
 
 But let that pass ; and let no opponent of the bill be 
 tempted to compliment his own foresight, by exagge- 
 rating the mischiefs and dangers that have sprung from 
 it: let not time be wasted in profitless regrets; and let 
 those party distinctions vanish to their very names that 
 have separated men who, whatever course they may have 
 
 pursued, have ever had a bond of union in the wish to 
 save tbe limited monarcliy, and tho^-e other in!>titutiona 
 that have, under Providence, rendered tor so long a 
 period of time this country the happiest and worthiest 
 of which tnere is any record since the foundation of 
 civil society. 
 
 ni. A philosophic mind is best pleased when looking 
 at religion in its spiritual bearing; as a guide of conduct, 
 a solace under affliction, and a support amid the insta- 
 bilities of mortal life: but the Cliurch having been 
 forced by political considerations upon the notice of the 
 author, while treating of the labouring classes, he cannot 
 forbear saying a few words upon that momentous topic. 
 
 There is a loud clamour for extensive change in that 
 department. The clamour would be entitled to m.ore 
 respect if tliey who are the most eager to swell it with 
 their voices were not generally the most ignorant of the 
 real state of the Church, and the service it renders to 
 the community. Reform is the word employed. Let 
 us pause and consider what sense it is apt to carry, and 
 how things are confounded by a lax use of it. The 
 great religious Reformation, in the sixteenth century, 
 did not profess to be a new construction, but a resto- 
 ration of something fallen into decay, or put out of 
 sight. That familiar and justifiable use of the word 
 seems to have paved the way for fallacies with respect 
 to the term reform, which it is difficult to escape from. 
 Were we to speak of improvement, and the correction 
 of abuses, we should run less risk of being deceived 
 ourselves, or of misleading others. We should he less 
 likely to fall blindly into the belief, that the change 
 demanded is a renewal of something that has existed 
 before, and that, therefore, we have experience on our 
 side; nor should we be equally tempted to beg the 
 question, that the change for which we are eager must 
 be advantageous. From generation to generation, men 
 are the dupes of words; and it is painful to observe, 
 that so many of our species are most tenacious of those 
 opinions which they have formed with the least con- 
 sideration. They who are the readiest to meddle with 
 public affairs, w'hether in church or slate, fly to gene- 
 ralities, that they may be eased from the trouble of 
 thinking about particulars; and thus is deputed to 
 mechanical instrumentality the work which vital know- 
 ledge only can do weU. 
 
 "Abolish pluralities, have a resident incumbent in 
 every parish," is a favourite cry ; but, without adverting 
 to other obstacles in the way of this specious scheme, it 
 may be asked what benefit would accrue from its 
 indiscriminate adoption to counterbalance the harm it 
 would introduce, by nearly extinguishing the order of 
 curates, unless the revenues of the church should grow 
 with the population, and be greatly increased in many 
 thinly-peopled districts, especially among the parishes 
 of the North. 
 
 The order of curates is so beneficial, that some par- 
 ticular notice of it seems to be required in this place. 
 
548 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 For a church poor as, relatively to the numbers of the 
 people, that of Entrlaiui is, and probably will continue 
 to be, it is no small advantage lo have youthful servants, 
 who will work upon the wages of hope and expectation. 
 Still more advantageous is it to have, by means of this 
 order, young men scattered over the countrj', vvlio being 
 more detached from the temporal concerns of the bene- 
 fice, have more leisure for improvement and study, and 
 are less subject to be brought into secular collision with 
 those who are under their spiritual guardianship. The 
 curate, if he reside at a distance from the incumbent, 
 undertakes tlie requisite responsibilities of a temporal 
 kind, in that modified way which prevents him, as a 
 new-comer, from being charged with selfishness: while 
 it prepares him for entering upon a benefice of his 
 own, with something of a suitable experience. If he 
 should act under and in co-operation with a resident 
 iticumbent, the gain is mutual. His studies will pro- 
 bably be assisted ; and his training, managed by a supe- 
 rior, will not be liable to relapse in matters of prudence, 
 seemlJness, or in any of the highest cares of his func- 
 tions ; and by way of return for these benefits to the 
 pupil, it will often happen that the zeal of a middle- 
 aged or declining incumbent will be revived, by being 
 in near communion with the ardour of youth, when 
 liis own efiibrts may have languished through a melan- 
 cluily consciousness that they have not produced as 
 much good among his flock as, when he first entered 
 upon the charge, he fondly hoped. 
 
 Let one remark, and that not the least important, be 
 added. A curate, entering for the first time upon his 
 office, comes from college after a course of expense, and 
 with such inexperience in the use of money, that, in 
 his new situation, he is apt to fall unawares into pe- 
 cuniary difficulties. If this happens to him, much 
 more likely is it to happen to the youthful incumbent; 
 whose relations, to his parishioners and to society, are 
 more complicated ; and, his income being larger and 
 independent of another, a costlier style of living is 
 required of him by public opinion. If embarrassment 
 should ensue, and with that unavoidably some loss of 
 respectability, his future usefulness will be proportion- 
 ably impaired : not so with tlie curate, for he can easily 
 remove and start afresh with a stock of experience and 
 an unblemished reputation, whereas the early indis- 
 cretions of an incumbent being rarely forgotten, may 
 be impediments to the efficacy of his ministry for the 
 remainder of his life. The same observations would 
 apply with equal force to doctrine. A young minister 
 is liable to errors, from his notions being either too lax 
 or overstrained. In both cases it would prove injurious 
 that the error should be remembered, after study and 
 reflection, with advancing years, shall Iiave brought him 
 to a clearer discernment of the truth, and better judg- 
 ment in the application of it. 
 
 It must bo acknowledged that, among the regula- 
 tions of ecclesiastical polity, none at first view are more 
 
 attractive than that which prescribes for every parish a 
 resident incumbent. How agreeable to picture to one's 
 self, as has been done by poets and romance-writers, 
 from Chaucer down to Goldsmith, a man devoted to his 
 ministerial office, with not a wish or a thought ranging 
 beyond the circuit of its cares ! Nor is it in poetry and 
 fiction only that such characters are found ; they are 
 scattered, it is hoped not sparingly, over real life, 
 especially in sequestered and rural districts, where there 
 is but small influx of new inhahitants, and little cliange 
 of occupation. The spirit of the Gospel, unaided by 
 acquisitions of profane learning and experience in the 
 world, that spirit, and the obligations of the sacred 
 office may, in such situations, suffice to efiect most 
 of what is needful. But for the complex state of 
 society that prevails in England, much more is required, 
 both in large towns, and in many extensive districts of 
 the country. A minister (here should not only be 
 irreproachable in manners and morals, but accomplished 
 in learning, as far as is possible without sacrifice of the 
 least of his pastoral duties. As necessary, peihaps 
 more so, is it that he should be a citizen as well as a 
 scholar; thoroughly acquainted with the structure of 
 society, and the constitution of civil government, and 
 able to reason upon both with the most expert; all 
 ultimately in order to support the truths of Christia.iity, 
 and to diffuse its blessings. 
 
 A ycung man coming fresh from the place of his 
 education, cannot have brought with him these accom- 
 plishments; and if the scheme of equalising church 
 incomes, which many advisers are much bent upon, be 
 realised, so that there should be little or no secular 
 inducement for a clergyman to desire a removal from 
 the spot where he may chance to have been first set 
 down; surely not only opportunities for obtaining tlie 
 requisite qualifications would be diminished, but the 
 motives for desiring to obtain them would be propor- 
 tionably weakened. And yet these qualifications are 
 indispensable for the diffusion of that knowledge, by 
 which alone the political philosophy of the New Testa- 
 ment can be rightly expounded, and its precepts 
 adequately enforced. In these times, when the press is 
 daily exercising so great a power over the minds of Hic 
 people, for wrong or for right as may happen, that 
 preacher ranks among the first of benefactors who, 
 without stooping to the direct treatment of current 
 politics and passing events, can furnish infallible guid- 
 ance through the delusions that surround them : and 
 who, appealing to the sanctions of Scripture, may place 
 the grounds of its injunctions in so clear a light, that 
 disaffection shall cease to be cultivated as a laudable 
 propensity, and loyalty cleansed from the dishonour of 
 a blind and prostrate obedience. 
 
 It is not, however, in regard to civic duties alone, 
 that this knowledge in a minister of the Gospel ia 
 important; it is still more so for softening and subduing 
 private and personal discontents. In all places, and at 
 
POSTSCRIPT, ETC. 
 
 549 
 
 all times, men have gratuitously troubled themselves, 
 because their survey of the dispensations of Providence 
 has been partial and narrow ; but now that readers are 
 so greatly multiplied, men judge as they are taught, and 
 repinings are engendered every where, by imputations 
 being cast upon the government, and are prolonged or 
 aggravated by being ascribed to misconduct or injustice 
 in rulers, when the individual himself only is in fault. 
 If a Christian pastor be competent to deal with these 
 humours, as they. may be dealt with, and by no mem- 
 bers of society so successfully, both from more frequent 
 and more favourable opportunities of intercourse, and by 
 aid of the authority with which he speaks; he will be 
 a teacher of moderation, a dispenser of the wisdom 
 that blunts approaching distress by submission to God's 
 will, and lightens, by patience, grievances which cannot 
 be removed. 
 
 We live in times when nothing, of public good at 
 least, is generally acceptable, but what we believe can be 
 traced to preconceived intention, and specific acts and 
 formal contrivances of human understanding. A Chris- 
 tian instructor thoroughly accomplislied would be a 
 standing restraint upon such presumptuousness of judg- 
 ment, by impressing the truth that — 
 
 In the unreasoning progress of the world 
 
 A wiser spirit is at work ibr us, 
 
 A better eye tlian ours. MS. 
 
 Revelation points to the purity and peace of a future 
 world; but our sphere of duty is upon earth ; and the 
 relations of impure and conflicting things to each other 
 must be understood, or we shall be perpetually going 
 wrong in all but goodness of intention; and goodness 
 of intention will itself relax through frequent disappoint- 
 ment. How desirable, then, is it, that a minister of 
 ths Gospel should be versed in the knowledge of existing 
 facts, and be accustomed to a wide range of social 
 experience ! Nor is it less desirable for the purpose of 
 counterbalancing and tempering in his own mind that 
 ambition with which spiritual power is as apt to be 
 tainted as any other species of power which men covet 
 or possess. 
 
 It must be obvious that the scope of the argument is 
 to discourage an attempt which would introduce into the 
 Cluirch of England an equality of income, and station, 
 upon the model of that of Scotland. The sounder part 
 of the Scottish nation know what good their ancestors 
 derived from tlieir church, and feel how deeply the living 
 generation is indebted to it. They respect and love it, 
 as accommodated in so great a measure to a comparative- 
 ly poor country, through the far greater portion of which 
 prevails a uniformity of employment; but the acknow- 
 ledged deficiency of theological learning among the cler- 
 gy of that church is easily accounted for by this very 
 equality. What else may be wanting there, it would be 
 unpleasant to inquire, and might prove invidious to de- 
 termine: one thing, however, is clear ; that in all coun- 
 tries the temporalities of the Church Establishment 
 
 should bear an analogy to the state of society, otherwise 
 it cannot diffuse its influence through the whole commu- 
 nity. In a country so rich and luxurious as England, the 
 character of its clergy must unavoidably sink, and their 
 influence be every where impaired, if individuals from 
 the upper ranks, and men of leading talents, are to have 
 no inducements to enter into that body but such as are 
 purely spiritual. And this "tinge of secularity" is no 
 reproach to the clergy, nor does it imply a deficiency of 
 spiritual endowments. Parents and guardians, looking 
 forward to sources of honourable maintenance for their 
 children and wards, often direct their thoughts early 
 towards the church, being determined partly by outward 
 circumstances, and partly by indications of seriousness, 
 or intellectual fitness. It is natural that a boy or youth, 
 with such a prospect before him, should turn his attention 
 to those studies, and be led into those habits of re- 
 flection, which will in some degree dispose and tend to 
 prepare him for the duties he is hereafter to undertake. 
 As he draws nearer to the time when he will be called 
 to these duties, he is both led and compelled to examine 
 the Scriptures. He becomes more and more sensible of 
 their truth. Devotion grows in him ; and what might 
 begin in temporal consideration, will end (as in a ma- 
 jority of instances we trust itdoes) in a spiritual-minded- 
 ness not unworthy of that Gospel, the lessons of which 
 he is to teach, and the faith of which he is to inculcate. 
 Not inappositely may be here repeated an observation, 
 which, from its obviousness and importance, must have 
 been frequently made, viz. that the impoverishing of the 
 clergy, and bringing their incomes much nearer to a 
 level, would not cause them to become less worldly- 
 minded : the emoluments, howsoever reduced, would be 
 as eagerly sought for, but by men from lower classes in 
 society ; men who, by their manners, habits, abilities, 
 and the scanty measure of their attainments, would un- 
 avoidably be less fitted for their station, and less com- 
 petent to discharge its duties. 
 
 Visionary notions have in all ages been afloat upon 
 the subject of best providing for the clergy ; notions 
 which have been sincerely entertained by good men, 
 with a view to the improvement of that order, and 
 eagerly caught at and dwelt upon, by the designing, for 
 its degradation and disparagement. Some are beguiled 
 by what they call the voluntary system, not seeing (what 
 stares one in the face at the very threshold) that they 
 who stand in most need of religious instruction are 
 unconscious of the want, and therefore cannot reasonably 
 be expected to make any sacrifices in order to supply it. 
 Will the licentious, the sensual, and the depraved, take 
 from the means of their gratifications and pursuits, to 
 support a discipline that cannot advance without uproot- 
 ing the trees that bear tlie fruit which they devour so 
 greedily'! Will they pay the price of that seed whose 
 harvest is to be reaped in an invisible world 3 A volun- 
 tary system for the religious e.xigences of a people 
 numerous and circumstanced as we are ! Not more 
 
650 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 absurd would it be to expect that a knot of boys should 
 draw upon the pittance of their pocket-money to build 
 schools, or out of the abundance of their discretion be 
 able to select fit masters to teach and keep them in order ! 
 Some, who clearly perceive the incompetence and folly 
 of such a scheme for the agricultural part of the people, 
 nevertheless think it feasible in large towns, where the 
 rich might subscribe for the religious instruction of the 
 poor. Alas ! they know little of the thick darkness that 
 spreads over the streets and alleys of our large towns. 
 The parish of Lambeth, a few years since, contained not 
 more than one church and three or four small proprie- 
 tary chapels, while dissenting chapels of every denom- 
 ination were still more scantily found there ; yet the 
 inhabitants of the parish amounted at that time to 
 upwards of 50,000. Were the parish church and the 
 chapels of the Establishment existing there, an impedi- 
 ment to the spread of the Gospel among that mass of 
 people? Who shall dare to say sol 
 
 For the preservation of the Church Establishment, all 
 men, whether they belong to it or not, could they 
 perceive their true interest, would be strenuous; but 
 how inadequate are its provisions for the needs of the 
 country ! and liow mucTi is it to be regretted that, while 
 its zealous friends yield to alarms on account of the 
 hostility of dissent, they should so much over-rate the 
 danger to be appreliended from that quarter, and almost 
 overlook the fact that hundreds of tliousands of our 
 ftUow-countrymen, though formally and nominally of 
 the Church of England, never enter her places of 
 worship, neither have they communication with her 
 ministers ! This deplorable state of things seems 
 partly owing to a decay of zeal among the rich and 
 influential, and partly to a want of due expansive power 
 in the constitution of the Establishment as regulated 
 by law. Private benefactors, in their efforts to build 
 and endow churches, have been frustrated, or too much 
 impeded, by legal obstacles: these, where they are 
 unreasonable or unfitted for the times, ought to be 
 removed; and, keeping clear of intolerance and in- 
 justice, means should be used to render the presence 
 and powers of the church commensurate with the wants 
 of a shifting and still-increasing population. 
 
 This cannot be efiiected, unless the English Govern- 
 ment vindicate the truth, that, as her church e.xists for 
 the benefit of all (though not in an equal degree), whether 
 of her communion or not, all should be made to con- 
 tribute to its support. If (his ground be abandoned, 
 the not remote consequence will be, the infliction of a 
 v/ound upon the moral heart of the English people, 
 fi-ora which, till ages shall have gone by, it will not 
 recover. 
 
 But let the friends of the church be of good courage. 
 Powers are at work, by whicli, under Divine Providence, 
 she may be strengthened and the sphere of her useful- 
 ness extended; not by alterations in her Liturgy, ac- 
 commodated to this or that demand of finical taste, nor 
 
 by cutting ofi" this or that from her Articles or Canons, 
 to which the scrupulous or the overweening may object. 
 Covert schism, and open nonconformity, would survive 
 after alterations, however promising in tlie eyes of 
 those whose subtilty had been exercised in making them. 
 Latitudinarianism is the parhelion of liberty of con- 
 science, and will ever successfully lay claim to a divided 
 worship. Among Presbyterians, Socinians, Baptists, 
 and Independents, there will always be found numbers 
 who will tire of their several creeds, and some will 
 come over to the Church. Conventicles may disappear, 
 congregations in each denomination may full into decay 
 or be broken up, but the conquests which the National 
 Church ought chiefly to aim at, lie among the thousands 
 and tens of thousands of the unhappy outcasts who grow 
 up with no religion at all. The wants of these cannot 
 but be feelingly remembered. Whatever may be the 
 dispositions of the new constituencies under the reformed 
 parliament, and the course which the men of their 
 choice may be inclined or compelled to follow, it may 
 be confidently hoped that individuals, acting in their 
 private capacities, will endeavour to make up for the 
 deficiencies of the legislature. Is it too much to expect 
 that proprietors of large estates, where the inhabitants 
 are without religious instruction, or where it is sparingly 
 supplied, will deem it their duty to take part in this 
 good work; and that thriving manufacturers and mer- 
 chants will, in Iheir several neighbourhoods, be sensible 
 of the like obligation, and act upon it with generous 
 rivalry ] 
 
 Moreover, the force of public opinion is rapidly 
 increasing: and some may bend to it, who are not. so 
 happy as to be swayed by a higher motive ; especially 
 they who derive large incomes from lay-impropriations, 
 in tracts of country where ministers are few and mea- 
 grely provided for. A claim still stronger may be 
 acknowledged by those who, round their superb habit- 
 ations or elsewhere, walk over vast estates which were 
 lavished upon their ancestors by royal favouritism, or 
 purchased at insignificant prices after church-spoliation ; 
 such proprietors, though not conscience-stricken (there 
 is no call for that) may be prompted to make a return 
 for which their tenantry and dependants will learn to 
 bless their names. An impulse has been given ; an ac- 
 cession of means from these several sources, co-operating 
 with a joeW-considered change in the distribution of 
 some parts of the property at present possessed by the 
 church, a change scrupulously founded upon due re- 
 spect to law and justice, will, we trust, bring about so 
 much of what her friends desire, that the rest may be 
 calmly waited for, with thankfuhiess for what shall 
 have been obtained. 
 
 Let it not be thought unbecoming in a layman, to 
 have treated at length a subject with whicli the clergy 
 are more intimately conversant. All may, without impro- 
 priety, speak of what deeply concerns all ; nor need an 
 apology be ofiered for going over ground which has 
 
POSTSCRIPT, ETC. 
 
 551 
 
 been trod before so ably and so often : without pre- 
 tending, however, to any thing of novelty, either in 
 matter or manner, something may have been offered to 
 view, which will save the writer from the imputation of 
 having little to recommend his labour, but goodness of 
 intention. 
 
 It was with reference to thoughts expressed in verse, 
 that the Author entered upon the above notices, and 
 with verse he will conclude. The passage is extracted 
 from his MSS. written above thirty years ago: it turns 
 upon the individual dignity which humbleness of 
 social condition does not preclude, but frequently pro- 
 motes. It has no direct bearing upon clubs for the 
 discussion of public affairs, nor upon political or trade- 
 unions; but if a single workman — who, being a 
 member of one of those clubs, runs the risk of be- 
 coming an agitator, or who, being enrolled in a union, 
 must be left vvitliout a will of his own, and therefore a 
 slave — should read these lines, and be touched by 
 them, the Author would indeed rejoice, and little 
 would he care for losing credit as a poet with intem- 
 perate critics, who think differently from him upon 
 political philosophy or public measures, if the sober- 
 minded admit that, in general views, his affections have 
 been moved, and his imagination exercised, under and 
 for the guidance of reason. 
 
 " Here might I pause, and bend in reverence 
 To Nature, and the power of human minds; 
 To men as they are men within themselves. 
 How oft high service is performed within. 
 When all the external man is rude in show ; 
 Not like a temple rich with pomp and gold, 
 ■ But a mere mountain chapel that protects 
 Its simple worshippers from sun and shower! 
 Of these, said I, shall be my song ; of these. 
 If future years mature me for the task, 
 Will I record the praises, making verse 
 Deal boldly with substantial things — in truth 
 And sanctity of passion, speak of these. 
 That justice may be done, obeisance paid 
 
 Where it is due. Thus haply shall I teach, 
 
 Inspire, through unadulterated ears 
 
 Pour rapture, tenderness, and hope ; my theme 
 
 No other than the very heart of man. 
 
 As found among the best of those who live. 
 
 Not unexalted by religious faith, 
 
 Nor uninformed by books, good books, though few, 
 
 In Nature's presence: thence may I select 
 
 Sorrow that is not sorrow, but delight. 
 
 And miserable love that is not pain 
 
 To hear of, for the glory that redounds 
 
 Therefrom to human kind, and what we are. 
 
 Be mine to follow with no timid step 
 
 Where knowledge leads me ; it shall be my pride 
 
 That I have dared to tread this holy ground. 
 
 Speaking no dream, but things oracular. 
 
 Matter not lightly to be heard by those 
 
 Who to the letter of the outward promise 
 
 Do read the invisible soul ; by men adroit 
 
 In speech, and for communion with the world 
 
 Accomplished, minds whose faculties are then 
 
 Most active when they are most eloquent. 
 
 And elevated most when most admired. 
 
 Men may be found of other mould than these ; 
 
 Who are their own upholders, to themselves 
 
 Encouragement, and energy, and will ; 
 
 Expressing liveliest thoughts in lively words 
 
 As native passion dictates. Others, too, 
 
 There are, among the walks of homely life, 
 
 Still higher, men for contemplation framed ; 
 
 Shy, and unpractised in the strife of phrase ; 
 
 Meek men, whose very souls perhaps would sink 
 
 Beneath them, summoned to such intercourse. 
 
 Their 's is the language of the heavens, the power, 
 
 The thought, the image, and the silent joy : 
 
 Words are but under-agents in their souls ; 
 
 When they are grasping with their greatest strength 
 
 They do not breathe among them ; this I speak 
 
 In gratitude to God, who feeds our hearts 
 
 For his own service, knoweth, loveth us. 
 
 When we are unregarded by the world." 
 
 THE END. 
 
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