JsL /f/m \ ^ ^ 3 . 'The dew was falling- fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice: it said, Drink, pretty Creature, ^^^■"^-!" Page 10. POEMS / WORDSWORTH CHOSEN AND EDITED BY MATTHEW ARNOLD ILLUSTRATED BY EDMUND H. GARRETT NEW YORK THOMAS V. CROWELL & CO. 46 East Fourteenth St. 29 30^ \ ?< TT^s^^"' Copyright, By T. Y. CROWELL & CO. |3.-^^i«^t LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Drawn by Edmund H. Garrett. Photogravures by A. W. Elson & Co. " The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink, I heard a voice: it said. Drink, pretty Creature, drink!" frontispiece " Sisters and brothers, little Maid, page How many may you be?" 2 " Lonely as a Cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills." .... 123 " Towards the roof of Lucy's cot The moon descended still." ....... 136 " Fair is the swan, whose majesty, prevailing O'er breezeless water, on Locarno's lake." . . . 176 Wansfell 218 " Green as the salt-sea billows, white and green. Poured down the hills, a choral multitude." . . . 220 Highland Hut 228 PREFACE I REMEMBER hearing Lord Macaulay say, after Words- worth's death, when subscriptions were being collected to found a memorial of him, that ten years earlier more money could have been raised in Cambridge alone, to do honour to Wordsworth, than was now raised all through the country. Lord Macaulay had, as we know, his own heightened and telling way of putting things, and we must always make allowance for it. But probably it is true that Wordsworth has never, either before or since, been so accepted and popular, so established in possession of the minds of all who profess to care for poetry, as he was between the years 1830 and 1840, and at Cambridge. From the very first, no doubt, he had his believers and witnesses. But I have myself heard him declare that, for he knew not how many years, his poetry had never brought him in enough to buy his shoe-strings. The poetry-reading public was very slow to recognise him, and was very easily drawn away from him. Scott effaced him with this public, Byron effaced him. The death of Byron seemed, however, to make an opening for Wordsworth. Scott, who had for some time ceased to produce poetry himself, and stood before the public as a great novelist; Scott, too genuine himself not to feel the profound genuineness of Wordsworth, and IV PREFACE. with an instinctive recognition of his firm hold on nature and of his local truth, always admired him sincerely, and praised him generously. The influence of Coleridge upon young men of ability was then powerful, and was still gathering strength; this influence told entirely in favour of Wordsworth's poetry. Cambridge was a place where Coleridge's influence had great action, and where Words- worth's poetry, therefore, flourished especially. But even amongst the general public its sale grew large, the emi- nence of its author was widely recognised, and Rydal Mount became an object of pilgrimage. I remember Wordsworth relating how one of the pilgrims, a clergy- man, asked him if he had ever written anything besides the Guide to the Lakes. Yes, he answered modestly, he had written verses. Not every pilgrim was a reader, but the vogue was established, and the stream of pilgrims came. Mr. Tennyson's decisive appearance dates from 1842. One cannot say that he effaced Wordsworth as Scott and Byron had effaced him. The poetry of Wordsworth had been so long before the public, the suffrage of good judges was so steady and so strong in its favour, that by 1842 the verdict of posterity, one may almost say, had been already pronounced, and Wordsworth's English fame was secure. But the vogue, the ear and applause of the great body of poetry-readers, never quite thoroughly perhaps his, he gradually lost more and more, and Mr. Tennyson gained them. Mr. Tennyson drew to himself, and away from Wordsworth, the poetry-reading public, and the new generations. Even in 1850, when Wordsworth died, this diminution of popularity was visible, and occasioned the remark of Lord Macaulay which I quoted at start- ing. PREFACE. V The diminution has continued. The influence of Coleridge has waned, and Wordsworth's poetry can no longer draw succour from this ally. The poetry has not, however, wanted eulogists; and it may be said to have brought its eulogists luck, for almost every one who has praised Wordsworth's poetry has praised it well. But the public has remained cold, or, at least, undetermined. Even the abundance of Mr. Palgrave's fine and skilfully chosen specimens of Wordsworth, in \he. Golden Treas- ury, surprised many readers, and gave offence to not a few. To tenth-rate critics and compilers, for whom any violent shock to the public taste would be a temerity not to be risked, it is still quite permissible to speak of Wordsworth's poetry, not only with ignorance, but with impertinence. On the Continent he is almost unknown. I cannot think, then, that Wordsworth has, up to this time, at all obtained his deserts. "Glory," said M. Renan the other day, " glory after all is the thing which has the best chance of not being altogether vanity." Wordsworth was a homely man, and himself would cer- tainly never have thought of talking of glory as that which, after all, has the best chance of not being altogether vanity. Yet we may well allow that few things are less vain than real glory. Let us conceive of the whole group of civilised nations as being, for intellectual and spiritual purposes, one great confederation, bound to a joint action and working towards a common result; a confederation whose members have a due knowl- edge both of the past, out of which they all proceed, and of one another. This was the ideal of Goethe, and it is an ideal which will impose itself upon the thoughts of our modern societies more and more. Then to be recognised by the verdict of such a confederation as VI PREFACE. a master, or even as a seriously and eminently worthy workman, in one's own line of intellectual or spiritual activity, is indeed glory; a glory which it would be difficult to. rate too highly. For what could be more beneficent, more salutary? The world is forwarded by having its attention fixed on the best things; and here is a tribunal, free from all suspicion of national and provin- cial partiality, putting a stamp on the best things, and recommending them for general honour and acceptance. A nation, again, is furthered by recognition of its real gifts and successes; it is encouraged to develop them further. And here is an honest verdict, telling us which of our supposed successes are really, in the judgment of the great impartial world, and not in our own private judgment only, successes, and which are not. It is so easy to feel pride and satisfaction in one's own things, so hard to make sure that one is right in feeling it ! We have a great empire. But so had Nebuchad- nezzar. We extol the " unrivalled happiness " of our national civilisation. But then comes a candid friend, and remarks that our upper class is materiahsed, our middle class vulgarised, and our lower class brutalised. We are proud of our painting, our music. But we find that in the judgment of other people our painting is questionable, and our music non-existent. We are proud of our men of science. And here it turns out that the world is with us; we find that in the judgment of other people, too, Newton among the dead, and Mr. Darwin among the living, hold as high a place as they hold in our national opinion. Finally, we are proud of our poets and poetry. Now poetry is nothing less than the most perfect speech of man, that in which he comes nearest to being able to PREFACE. VU utter the truth. It is no small thing, therefore, to succeed eminently in poetry. And so much is required for duly estimating success here, that about poetry it is perhaps hardest to arrive at a sure general verdict, and takes longest. Meanwhile, our own conviction of the superiority of our national poets is not decisive, is almost certain to be mingled, as we see constantly in English eulogy of Shakspeare, with much of provincial infatuation. And we know what was the opinion current amongst our neighbours the French, people of taste, acuteness, and quick literary tact, not a hundred years ago, about our great poets. The old Biographic Universelle notices the pretension of the English to a place for their poets among the chief poets of the world, and says that this is a pre- tension which to no one but an Englishmen can ever seem admissible. And the scornful, disparaging things said by foreigners about Shakspeare and Milton, and about our national over-estimate of them, have been often quoted, and will be in every one's remembrance. A great change has taken place, and Shakspeare is now generally recognised, even in France, as one of the greatest of poets. Yes, some anti-Gallican cynic will say, the French rank him with Corneille and with Victor Hugo ! But let me have the pleasure of quoting a sentence about Shakspeare, which I met with by acci- dent not long ago in the Correspondant, a French re- view which not a dozen English people, I suppose, look at. The writer is praising Shakspeare's prose. With Shakspeare, he says, "prose comes in whenever the subject, being more familiar, is unsuited to the majestic English iambic." And he goes on : " Shakspeare is the king of poetic rhythm and style, as well as the king of the realm of thought ; along with his dazzling prose, Vlll PREFACE. Shakspeare has succeeded in giving us the most varied, the most harmonious verse which has ever sounded upon the human ear since the verse of the Greeks." M. Henry Cochin, the v^^riter of this sentence, deserves our gratitude for it; it would not be easy to praise Shak- speare, in a single sentence, more justly. And when a foreigner and a Frenchman writes thus of Shakspeare, and when Goethe says of Milton, in whom there was so much to repel Goethe rather than to attract him, that " nothing has been ever done so entirely in the sense of the Greeks as Samson Agonistes" and that " Milton is in very truth a poet whom we must treat with all rever- ence," then we understand what constitutes a European recognition of poets and poetry as contradistinguished from a merely national recognition, and that in favour both of Milton and of Shakspeare the judgment of the high court of appeal has finally gone. I come back to M. Renan's praise of glory, from which I started. Yes, real glory is a most serious thing, glory authenticated by the Amphictyonic Court of final appeal, definitive glory. And even for poets and poetry, long and difficult as may be the process of arriving at the right award, the right award comes at last, the definitive glory rests where it is deserved. Every establishment of such a real glory is good and wholesome for mankind at large, good and wholesome for the nation which pro- duced the poet crowned with it. To the poet himself it can seldom do harm; for he, poor man, is in his grave, probably, long before his glory crowns him. Wordsworth has been in his grave for some thirty years, and certainly his lovers and admirers cannot flatter themselves that this great and steady light of glory as yet shines over him. He is not fully recognised at home; PREFACE. IX he is not recognised at all abroad. Yet I firmly believe that the poetical performance of Wordsworth is, after that of Shakspeare and Milton, of which all the world now recognises the worth, undoubtedly the most considerable in our language from the Elizabethan age to the present time. Chaucer is anterior; and on other grounds, too, he cannot well be brought into the comparison. But taking the roll of our chief poetical names, besides Shak- speare and Milton, from the age of Elizabeth downwards, and going through it, — Spenser, Dryden, Pope, Gray, Goldsmith, Cowper, Burns, Coleridge, Scott, Campbell, Moore, Byron, Shelley, Keats (I mention those only who are dead), — I think it certain that Wordsworth's name deserves to stand, and will finally stand, above them all. Several of the poets named have gifts and excellences which Wordsworth has not. But taking the perform- ance of each as a whole, I say that Wordsworth seems to me to have left a body of poetical work superior in power, in interest, in the qualities which give enduring freshness, to that which any one of the others has left. But this is not enough to say. I think it certain, further, that if we take the chief poetical names of the Continent since the death of Moliere, and, omitting Goethe, confront the remaining names with that of Wordsworth, the result is the same. Let us take Klop- stock, Lessing, Schiller, Uhland, Riickert, and Heine for Germany; Filicaia, Alfieri, Manzoni, and Leopardi for Italy ; Racine, Boileau, Voltaire, Andre Chenier, Beranger, Lamartine, Musset, M. Victor Hugo (he has been so long celebrated that although he still lives I may be permitted to name him) for France. Several of these, again, have evidently gifts and excellences to which Wordsworth can make no pretension. But in X PREFACE. real poetical achievement it seems to me indubitable that to Wordsworth, here again, belongs the palm. It seems to me that Wordsworth has left behind him a body of poetical work which wears, and will wear, better on the whole than the performance of any one of these personages, so far more brilliant and celebrated, most of them, than the homely poet of Rydal. Words- worth's performance in poetry is on the whole, in power, in interest, in the qualities which give enduring freshness, superior to theirs. This is a high claim to make for Wordsworth. But if it is a just claim, if Wordsworth's place among the poets who have appeared in the last two or three centuries is after Shakspeare, Moliere, Milton, Goethe, indeed, but before all the rest, then in time Wordsworth will have his due. We shall recognise him in his place, as we recognise Shakspeare and Milton; and not only we our- selves shall recognise him, but he will be recognised by Europe also. Meanwhile, those who recognise him already may do well, perhaps, to ask themselves whether there are not in the case of Wordsworth certain special obstacles which hinder or delay his due recognition by others, and whether these obstacles are not in some measure removable. The Excursion and the Prelude, his poems of greatest bulk, are by no means Wordsworth's best work. His best work is in his shorter pieces, and many indeed are there of these which are of first-rate excellence. But in his seven volumes the pieces of high merit are mingled with a mass of pieces very inferior to them; so inferior to them that it seems wonderful how the same poet should have produced both. Shakspeare frequently has lines and passages in a strain quite false, and which are PREFACE. XI entirely unworthy of him. But one can imagine his smiling if one could meet him in the Elysian Fields and tell him so; smiling and replying that he knew it per- fectly well himself, and what did it matter ? But with Wordsworth the case is different. Work altogether infe- rior, work quite uninspired, flat and dull, is produced by him with evident unconsciousness of its defects, and he presents it to us with the same faith and seriousness as his best work. Now a drama or an epic fill the mind, and one does not look beyond them; but in a collection of short pieces the impression made by one piece requires to be continued and sustained by the piece following. In reading Wordsworth the impression made by one of his fine pieces is too often dulled and spoiled by a very infe- rior piece coming after it. Wordsworth composed verses during a space of some sixty years; and it is no exaggeration to say that within one single decade of those years, between 1798 and 1808, almost all his really first-rate work was produced. A mass of inferior work remains, work done before and after this golden prime, imbedding the first-rate work and clogging it, obstructing our approach to it, chilling, not unfrequently, the high-wrought mood with which we leave it. To be recognised far and wide as a great poet, to be possible and receivable as a classic, Wordsworth needs to be relieved of a great deal of the poetical bag- gage which now encumbers him. To administer this relief is indispensable, unless he is to continue to be a poet for the few only, a poet valued far below his real worth by the world. There is another thing. Wordsworth classified his poems not according to any commonly received plan of arrangement, but according to a scheme of mental physi- Xll PREFACE. ology. He has poems of the fancy, poems of the imagi- nation, poems of sentiment and reflexion, and so on. His categories are ingenious but far-fetched, and the result of his employment of them is unsatisfactory. Poems are separated one from another which possess a kinship of subject or of treatment far more vital and deep than the supposed unity of mental origin which was Wordsworth's reason for joining them with others. The tact of the Greeks in matters of this kind was in- fallible. We may rely upon it that we shall not improve upon the classification adopted by the Greeks for kinds of poetry; that their categories of epic, dramatic, lyric, and so forth, have a natural propriety, and should be adhered to. It may sometimes seem doubtful to which of two categories a poem belongs; whether this or that poem is to be called, for instance, narrative or lyric, lyric or elegiac. But there is to be found in every good poem a strain, a predominant note, which determines the poem as belonging to one of these kinds rather than the other; and here is the best proof of the value of the classification, and of the advantge of adhering to it. Wordsworth's poems will never produce their due effect until they are freed from their present artificial arrangement, and grouped more naturally. Disengaged from the quantity of inferior work which now obscures them, the best poems of Wordsworth, I hear many people say, would indeed stand out in great beauty, but they would prove to be very few in number, scarcely more than half-a-dozen. I maintain, on the other hand, that what strikes me with admiration, what establishes in my opinion Wordsworth's superiority, is the great and ample body of powerful work which remains to him, even after all his inferior work has PREFACE. Xlll been cleared away. He gives us so much to rest upon, so much which communicates his spirit and engages ours! This is of very great importance. If it were a compari- son of single pieces, or of three or four pieces, by each poet, I do not say that Wordsworth would stand decis- ively above Gray, or Burns, or Coleridge, or Keats, or Manzoni, or Heine. It is in his ampler body of powerful work that I find his superiority. His good work itself, his work which counts, is not all of it, of course, of equal value. Some kinds of poetry are in themselves lower kinds than others. The ballad kind is a lower kind ; the didactic kind, still more, is a lower kind. Poetry of this latter sort, counts, too, sometimes, by its biographical interest partly, not by its poetical interest pure and simple; but then this can only be when the poet producing it has the power and importance of Wordsworth, a power and importance which he assuredly did not establish by such didactic poetry alone. Altogether, it is, I say, by the great body of powerful and significant work which remains to him, after every reduction and deduction has been made, that Wordsworth's superiority is proved. To exhibit this body of Wordsworth's best work, to clear away obstructions from around it, and to let it speak for itself, is what every lover of Wordsworth should desire. Until this has been done, Wordsworth, whom we, to whom he is dear, all of us know and feel to be so great a poet, has not had a fair chance before the world. When once it has been done, he will make his way best not by our advocacy of him, but by his own worth and power. We may safely leave him to make his way thus, we who beUeve that a superior worth and power in poetry finds in mankind a sense responsive to it and disposed at XIV PREFACE. last to recognise it. Yet at the outset, before he has been duly known and recognised, we may do Wordsworth a service, perhaps, by indicating in what his superior power and worth will be found to consist, and in what it will not. Long ago, in speaking of Homer, I said that the noble and profound application of ideas to life is the most essential part of poetic greatness. I said that a great poet receives his distinctive character of superiority from his application, under the conditions immutably fixed by the laws of poetic beauty and poetic truth, from his ap- plication, I say, to his subject, whatever it may be, of the ideas " On man, on nature, and on human life," which he has acquired for himself. The line quoted is Wordsworth's own; and his superiority arises from his powerful use, in his best pieces, his powerful appUcation to his subject, of ideas " on man, on nature, and on human life." Voltaire, with his signal acuteness, most truly re- marked that "no nation has treated in poetry moral ideas with more energy and depth than the English nation." And he adds : " There, it seems to me, is the great merit of the English poets." Voltaire does not mean, by " treating in poetry moral ideas," the compos- ing moral and didactic poems; — that brings us but a very little way in poetry. He means just the same thing as was meant when I spoke above " of the noble and pro- found application of ideas to life; " and he means the application of these ideas under the conditions fixed for us by the laws of poetic beauty and poetic truth. If it is said that to call these ideas tnoral ideas is to introduce a strong and injurious limitation, I answer that it is to do PREFACE. XV nothing of the kind, because moral ideas are really so main a part of human life. The question, how to live, is itself a moral idea; and it is the question which most interests every man, and with which, in some way or other, he is perpetually occupied. A large sense is of course to be given to the term moral. Whatever bears upon the question, " how to live," comes under it. " Nor love thy life, nor hate; but, what thou liv'st, Live well; how long or short, permit to heaven. " In those fine lines, Milton utters, as every one at once perceives, a moral idea. Yes, but so too, when Keats consoles the forward-bending lover on the Grecian Urn, the lover arrested and presented in immortal relief by the sculptor's hand before he can kiss, with the line, " For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair" — he utters a moral idea. When Shakspeare says, that " We are such stuff As dreams are made of, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep," he utters a moral idea. Voltaire was right in thinking that the energetic and profound treatment of moral ideas, in this large sense, is what distinguishes the English poetry. He sincerely meant praise, not dispraise or hint of limitation; and they err who suppose that poetic limitation is a necessary consequence of the fact, the fact being granted as Voltaire states it. If what distinguishes the greatest poets is their powerful and profound application of ideas to life, which surely no good critic will deny, then to prefix to the term ideas here the term moral makes hardly any difference, because human life itself is in so preponderating a degree moral. XVI PREFACE. It is important, therefore, to hold fast to this: that poetry is at bottom a criticism of life; that the greatness of a poet lies in his powerful and beautiful application of ideas to life, — to the question : How to live. Morals are often treated in a narrow and false fashion, they are bound up with systems of thought and belief which have had their day, they are fallen into the hands of pedants and professional dealers, they grow tiresome to some of us. We find attraction, at times, even in a poetry of revolt against them; in a poetry which might take for its motto Omar Kheyam's words : " Let us make up in the tavern for the time which we have wasted in the mosque." Or we find attractions in a poetry indifferent to them, in a poetry where the contents may be what they will, but where the form is studied and exquisite. We delude ourselves in either case; and the best cure for our delusion is to let our minds rest upon that great and inexhaustible word life, until we learn ta enter into its meaning. A poetry of revolt against moral ideas is a poetry of revolt against life; a poetry of in- difference towards moral ideas is a poetry of indifference towards life. Epictetus had a happy figure for things like the play of the senses, or literary form and finish, or argumentative ingenuity, in comparison with- "the best and master thing " for us, as he called it, the concern, how to live. Some people were afraid of them, he said, or they dis- liked and undervalued them. Such people were wrong; they were unthankful or cowardly. But the things might also be over-prized, and treated as final when they are not. They bear to life the relation which inns bear to home. " As if a man, journeying home, and finding a nice inn on the road, and liking it, were to stay for ever PREFACE. XVii at the inn ! Man, thou ha§t forgotten thine object; thy journey was not to this, but through this. * But this inn is taking.' And how many other inns, too, are taking, and how many fields and meadows ! but as places of passage merely. You have an object, which is this : to get home, to do your duty to your family, friends, and fellow-countrymen, to attain inward freedom, serenity, happiness, contentment. Style takes your fancy, arguing takes your fancy, and you forget your home and want to make your abode with them and to stay with them, on the plea that they are taking. Who denies that they are taking? but as places of passage, as inns. And when I say this, you suppose me to be attacking the care for style, the care for argument. I am not; I attack the resting in them^ the not looking to the end which is beyond them." Now, when we come across a poet like Theophile Gautier, we have a poet who has taken up his abode at an inn, and never got farther. There may be induce- ments to this or that one of us, at this or that moment, to find delight in him, to cleave to him; but after all, we do not change the truth about him, — we only stay ourselves in his inn along with him. And when we come across a poet like Wordsworth, who sings, " Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love and hope, And melancholy fear subdued by faith, Of blessed consolations in distress, Of moral strength and intellectual power, Of joy in widest commonalty spread " — then we have a poet intent on " the best and master thing," and who prosecutes his journey home. We say, for brevity's sake, that he deals with life, because he deals with that in which life really consists. This is what Voltaire means to praise in the English poets, — XVlll PREFACE. this dealing with what is really Hfe. But always it is the mark of the greatest poets that they deal with it; and to say that the Enghsh poets are remarkable for dealing with it, is only another way of saying, what is true, that in poetry the English genius has especially shown its power. Wordsworth deals with it, and his greatness lies in his dealing with it so powerfully. I have named a num- ber of celebrated poets above all of whom he, in my opinion, deserves to be placed. He is to be placed above poets like Voltaire, Dryden, Pope, Lessing, Schiller, because these famous personages, with a thousand gifts and merits, never, or scarcely ever, attain the distinctive accent and utterance of the high and genuine poets — " Quique pii vates et Phoebo digna locuti," at all. Burns, Keats, Heine, not to speak of others in our list, have this accent; — who can doubt it? And at the same time they have treasures of humour, felicity, passion, for which in Wordsworth we shall look in vain. Where, then, is Wordsworth's superiority? It is here; he deals with more of life than they do; he deals with life, as a whole, more powerfully. No Wordsworthian will doubt this. Nay, the fervent Wordsworthian will add, as Mr. Leslie Stephen does, that Wordsworth's poetry is precious because his phi- losophy is sound; that his " ethical system is as distinctive and capable of exposition as Bishop Butler's; " that his poetry is informed by ideas which " fall spontaneously into a scientific system of thought." But we must be on our guard against the Wordsworthians, if we want to secure for Wordsworth his due rank as a poet. The Wordsworthians are apt to praise him for the wrong things, and to lay far too much stress upon what they PREFACE. XIX call his philosophy. His poetry is the reality, his phi- losophy, — so far, at least, as it may put on the form and habit of "a scientific system of thought," and the more that it puts them on, — is the illusion. Perhaps we shall one day learn to make this proposition general, and to say : Poetry is the reahty, philosophy the illusion. But in Wordsworth's case, at any rate, we cannot do him justice until we dismiss his formal philosophy. The Excursion abounds with philosophy, and there- fore the Excursion is to the Wordsworthian what it never can be to the disinterested lover of poetry, — a satisfactory work. "Duty exists," says Wordsworth, in the Excur- sion ; and then he proceeds thus : — . . . . " Immutably survive, For our support, the measures and the forms, Which an abstract Intelligence supplies, Whose kingdom is, where time and space are not." And the Wordsworthian is delighted, and thinks that here is a sweet union of philosophy and poetry. But the disinterested lover of poetry will feel that the lines carry us really not a step farther than the proposition which they would interpret; that they are a tissue of elevated but abstract verbiage, alien to the very nature of poetry. Or let us come direct to the centre of Wordsworth's philosophy, as "an ethical system, as distinctive and capable of systematical exposition as Bishop Butler's : " — . . . . " One adequate support For the calamities of mortal life Exists, one only; — an assured belief That the procession of our fate, howe'er Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being Of infinite benevolence and power; Whose everlasting purposes embrace All accidents, converting them to good." XX PREFACE. That is doctrine such as we hear in church too, religious and philosophic doctrine; and the attached Words- worthian loves passages of such doctrine, and brings them forward in proof of his poet's excellence. But however true the doctrine may be, it has, as here presented, none of the characters oi poetic truth, the kind of truth which we require from a poet, and in which Wordsworth is really strong. Even the " intimations " of the famous Ode, those corner-stones of the supposed philosophic system of Wordsworth, — the idea of the high instincts and affec- tions coming out in childhood, testifying of a divine home recently left, and fading away as our life proceeds, — this idea, of undeniable beauty as a play of fancy, has itself not the character of poetic truth of the best kind; it has no real solidity. The instinct of delight in Nature and her beauty had no doubt extraordinary strength in Words- worth himself as a child. But to say that universally this instinct is mighty in childhood, and tends to die away afterwards, is to say what is extremely doubtful. In many people, perhaps with the majority of educated persons, the love of nature is nearly imperceptible at ten years old, but strong and operative at thirty. In general we may say of these high instincts of early childhood, the base of the alleged systematic philosophy of Wordsworth, what Thucydides says of the early achievements of the Greek race : — " It is impossible to speak with certainty of what is so remote; but from all that we can really investigate, I should say that they were no very great things." Finally the " scientific system of thought " in Words- worth gives us at last such poetry as this, which the devout Wordsworthian accepts : — PREFACE. XXI " 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." Wordsworth calls Voltaire dull, and surely the production of these un-Voltairian lines must have been imposed on him as a judgment ! One can hear them being quoted at a Social Science Congress; one can call up the whole scene. A great room in one of our dismal provincial towns; dusty air and jaded afternoon daylight; benches full of men with bald heads and women in spectacles; an orator lifting up his face from a manuscript written within and without to declaim these lines of Wordsworth; and in the soul of any poor child of nature who may have wandered in thither, an unutterable sense of lamentation, and mourning, and woe ! " But turn we," as Wordsworth says, " from these bold, bad men," the haunters of Social Science Congresses. And let us be on our guard, too, against the exhibitors and extollers of a "scientific system of thought" in Wordsworth's poetry. The poetry will never be seen aright while they thus exhibit it. The cause of its great- ness is simple, and may be told quite simply. Words- worth's poetry is great because of the extraordinary power with which Wordsworth feels the joy offered to us in nature, the joy offered to us in the simple primary affec- tions and duties; and because of the extraordinary power with which, in case after case, he shows us this joy, and renders it so as to make us share it. XXU PREFACE. The source of joy from which he thus draws is the tru- est and most unfailing source of joy accessible to man. It is also accessible universally. Wordsworth brings us word, therefore, according to his own strong and charac- teristic line, he brings us word " Of joy in widest commonalty spread." Here is an immense advantage for a poet. Wordsworth tells of what all seek, and tells of it at its truest and best source, and yet a source where all may go and draw for it. Nevertheless, we are not to suppose that everything is precious which Wordsworth, standing even at this peren- nial and beautiful source, may give us. Wordsworthians are apt to talk as if it must be. They will speak with the same reverence of The Sailor^ s Mother, for example, as of Lucy Gray. They do their master harm by such lack of discrimination. Lucy Gray is a beautiful success; The Sailor's Mother is a failure. To give aright what he wishes to give, to interpret and render successfully, is not always within Wordsworth's own command. It is within no poet's command; here is the part of the Muse, the inspiration, the God, the "not ourselves." In Words- worth's case, the accident, for so it may almost be called, of inspiration, is of peculiar importance. No poet, per- haps, is so evidently filled with a new and sacred energy when the inspiration is upon him; no poet, when it fails him, is so left "weak as is a breaking wave." I remem- ber hearing him say that " Goethe's poetry was not inev- itable enough." The remark is striking and true ; no line in Goethe, as Goethe said himself, but its maker knew well how it came there. Wordsworth is right, Goethe's poetry is not inevitable; not inevitable enough. But 1 PREFACE. XXlll Wordsworth's poetry, when he is at his best, is inevitable, as inevitable as Nature herself. It might seem that Na- ture not only gave him the matter for his poem, but wrote his poem for him. He has no style. He was too conversant with Milton not to catch at times his master's manner, and he has fine Miltonic lines; but he has no assured poetic style of his own, like Milton. When he seeks to have a style he falls into ponderosity and pom- posity. In the Excursion we have his style, as an artistic product of his own creation; and although Jeffrey com- pletely failed to recognise Wordsworth's real greatness, he was yet not wrong in saying of the Excursion^ as a work of poetic style: "This will never do." And yet magical as is that power, which Wordsworth has not, of assured and possessed poetic style, he has something which is an equivalent for it. Every one who has any sense for these things feels the subtle turn, the heightening, which is given to a poet's verse by his genius for style. We can feel it in the "After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well " — of Shakspeare; in the " though fall'n on evil days, On evil days though fall'n, and evil tongues" — of Milton. It is the incomparable charm of Milton's power of poetic style which gives such worth to Paradise Regained, and makes a great poem of a work in which Milton's imagination does not soar high. Wordsworth has in constant possession, and at command, no style of this kind; but he had too poetic a nature, and had read the great poets too well, not to catch, as I have already remarked, something of it occasionally. We find it not XXIV PREFACE. only in his Miltonic lines; we find it in such a phrase as this, where the manner is his own, not Milton's — . . . . " the fierce confederate storm Of sorrow barricadoed evermore Within the walls of cities;" although even here, perhaps, the power of style, which is undeniable, is more properly that of eloquent prose than the subtle heightening and change wrought by genuine poetic style. It is style, again, and the eleva- tion given by style, which chiefly makes the effectiveness of Laodameia. Still the right sort of verse to choose from Wordsworth, if we are to seize his true and most characteristic form of expression, is a line like this from Michael: — " And never lifted up a single stone." There is nothing subtle in it, no heightening, no study of poetic style, strictly so called, at all; yet it is expression of the highest and most truly expressive kind. Wordsworth owed much to Burns, and a style of per- fect plainness, relying for effect solely on the weight and force of that which with entire fidelity it utters. Burns could show him. " The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know, And keenly felt the friendly glow And softer flame; But thoughtless follies laid him low And stain'd his name." Every one will be conscious of a likeness here to Words- worth; and if Wordsworth did great things with this nobly plain manner, we must remember, what indeed he himself would always have been forward to acknowledge, that Burns used it before him. PREFACE. XXV Still Wordsworth's use of it has something unique and unmatchable. Nature herself seems, I say, to take the pen out of his hand, and to write for him with her own bare, sheer, penetrating power. This arises from two causes: from the profound sincereness with which Wordsworth feels his subject, and also from the pro- foundly sincere and natural character of his subject itself. He can and will treat such a subject with nothing but the most plain, first-hand, almost austere naturalness. His expression may often be called bald, as, for instance, in the poem of Resolution and Independence ; but it is bald as the bare mountain tops are bald, with a baldness which is full of grandeur. Wherever we meet with the successful balance, in Wordsworth, of profound truth of subject with profound truth of execution, he is unique. His best poems are those which most perfectly exhibit this balance. I have a warm admiration for Laodameia and for the great Ode ; but if I am to tell the very truth, I find Laodameia not wholly free from something artificial, and the great Ode not wholly free from something declamatory. If I had to pick out poems of a kind most perfectly to show Wordsworth's unique power, I should rather choose poems such as Michael, The Fountain, The Highland Reaper. And poems with the peculiar and unique beauty which distinguishes these, Wordsworth produced in con- siderable number; besides very many other poems of which the worth, although not so rare as the worth of these, is still exceedingly high. On the whole, then, as I said at the beginning, not only is Wordsworth eminent by reason of the goodness of his best work, but he is eminent also by reason of the great body of good work which he has left to us. XXVI PREFACE. With the ancients I will not compare him. In many respects the ancients are far above us, and yet there is something that we demand which they can never give. Leaving the ancients, let us come to the poets and poetry of Christendom. Dante, Shakspeare, Moliere, Milton, Goethe, are altogether larger and more splendid lumi- naries in the poetical heaven than Wordsworth. But I know not where else, among the moderns, we are to find his superiors. To disengage the poems which show his power, and to present them to the English-speaking public and to the world, is the object of this volume. I by no means say that it contains all which in Wordsworth's poems is interesting. Except in the case of Margaret, a story composed separately from the rest of the Excursion, and which belongs to a different part of England, I have not ventured on detaching portions of poems, or on giving any piece otherwise than as Wordsworth himself gave it. But, under the conditions imposed by this reserve, the volume contains, I think, everything, or nearly everything, which may best serve him with the majority of lovers of poetry, nothing which may disserve him. I have spoken lightly of Wordsworthians : and if we are to get Wordsworth recognised by the public and by the world, we must recommend him not in the spirit of a clique, but in the spirit of disinterested lovers of poetry. But I am a Wordsworthian myself. I can read with pleasure and edification Peter Bell, and the whole series oi Ecclesiastical Sonnets, and the address to Mr. Wilkin- son's spade, and even the Thanksgiving Ode ; — every- thing of Wordsworth, I think, except Vaudracour and yulia. It is not for nothing that one has been brought up in the veneration of a man so truly worthy of homage; PREFACE. XXVU that one has seen him and heard him, hved in his neigh- bourhood and been familiar with his country. No Words- worthian has a tenderer affection for this pure and sage master than I, or is less really offended by his defects. But Wordsworth is something more than the pure and sage master of a small band of devoted followers, and we ought not to rest satisfied until he is seen to be what he is. He is one of the very chief glories of English Poetry; and by nothing is England so glorious as by her poetry. Let us lay aside every weight which hinders our getting him recognised as this, and let our one study be to bring to pass, as widely as possible and as truly as possible, his own word concerning his poems : — " They will co-operate with the benign tendencies in human nature and society, and will, in their degree, be efficacious in making men wiser, better, and happier." CONTENTS. PAGB Preface iii POEMS OF BALLAD FORM. We are Seven i Lucy Gray 3 Anecdote for Fathers 6 Alice Fell . 8 The Pet Lamb lo The Childless Father 13 The Reverie of Poor Susan 14 Power of Music 15 Star-Gazers 17 NARRATIVE POEMS. Ruth. 19 Simon ..Lee 28 Fidelity 31 Incident Cti" aracteristic of a Favourite Dog . . • • 33 Hart- Leap Wei:i 35 The Force of Pray zp^ 42 The Affliction of Marg-aret 44 The Complaint of a ForsaJcen Indian Woman .... 47 Song at the Feast of Broughai ^ Castle 50 The Leech-Gatherer, or, Resolui tion and Independence . . 56 The Brothers 61 Michael 77 Margaret 93 > xxix XXX CONTENTS. LYRICAL POEMS. PAGE *' My Heart leaps up " .' iii To a Butterfly in The Sparrow's Nest 112 To a Butterfly 113 The Redbreast and Butterfly 113 " The Cock is crowing " 115 ' To the Daisy 116 To the same 119 To the Small Celandine 119 To the same Flower . 122 "I wandered lonely as a Cloud " 123 The Green Linnet 124 To a Sky-Lark ..." 126 Stray Pleasures 127 - To my Sister 128 ' Lines written in early Spring 130 ' Expostulation and Reply 131 The Tables turned 132 • To a Young Lady 134 To Hartley Coleridge 134 " O Nightingale, thou surely art " 136 " Strange Fits of Passion have I known " .... 136 " Three Years she grew " 138 " She dwelt among the untrodden Ways " j.39 " A Slumber did my Spirit seal " 140 " I travelled among unknown Men " 140 f To the Cuckoo 141 The Cuckoo again 142 To a Sky-Lark 143 " She was a Phantom of Delight " . . . . . . 144 To a Highland Girl ... 145 Stepping Westward . . . . ^ .... 148 The Solitary Reaper 149 At the Grave of Burns . . 150 Thoughts suggested the day folic "'ng i^^ Yarrow Unvisited . 156 . Yarrow Visited 158 CONTENTS. XXXI Yarrow Revisited PAGE l6l ^ A. ■'!!.... 165 To May ^gg The Primrose of the Rock POEMS AKIN TO THE ANTIQUE, AND ODES. Laodameia Dion Character of the Happy Warrior Lines on the expected Invasion . The Pillar of Trajan . September 1819 . . • Ode to Lycoris . . • Ode to Duty Ode on 171 177 182 185 186 i83 191 193 Intimations of Immortality -195 205 SONNETS. I. Composed by the Sea-side, near Calais, August 1802 203 II. Calais, August 1802 . . • • • • -203 III. On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic . . 204 IV. To Toussaint I'Ouverture 2°4 V. September 1802 .20s VI. Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzer- land ' ' ' f, VII. Written in London, September 1802 . . • .206 VIII. " The World is too much with us " .... 206 IX. London, 1802 ^°7 X. " It is not to be thought of" 2°7 XL " When I have borne in Memory " . . • • 208 XII. October 1803 ^° XIII. To the Men of Kent. October 1803 . . • • 209 XIV. In the Pass of Killicranky, an Invasion being ex- pected, October 1803 ^°9 XV. "England! the time is come " . . • . . 210 XVI. November 1806 ^^° XVII. To Thomas Clarkson ^" XVIIL 1811 "" XXXll CONTENTS. PAGE XIX. " Scorn not the Sonnet " 212 * XX. " Nuns fret not " 213 XXI. Catherine Wordsworth 213 XXII. To the Author's Portrait 214 • XXIII. Personal Talk 214 • XXIV. Continued 215 - XXV. Concluded 215 XXVI. To Sleep . . 216 XXVII. Composed upon the Beach, near Calais, 1802 . 216 XXVIII. "Where lies the Land?" 217 * XXIX. Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept, 3, 1803 217 XXX. Scenery between Namur and Li^ge . . . 218 XXXI. Admonition 218 XXXII. " I watch, and long have watched " . . 219 XXXIII. " Sole listener, Duddon!" 219 XXXIV. " Wansfell ! this Household has a favoured Lot " 220 XXXV. " Return, Content! " 220 XXXVI. After-Thought 221 XXXVII. Seclusion 221 XXXVIII. Rush-Bearing 222 XXXIX. Inside of King's College Chapel, Cambridge . 222 XL. Continued 223 XLI. Mary, Queen of Scots, Landing at the Mouth of the Derwent, Workington 223 XLII. " Most sweet is it " 224 XLI II. On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott from Abbotsford for Naples 224 XLIV. To R. B. Haydon, Esq 225 XLV. Mutability 225 XLVI. "The Pibroch's Note discountenanced or mute " 226 XLVII. "A Poet!" 226 XLVIII. The Pine of Monte Mario at Rome . . .227 XLIX. To the Memory of Raisley Calvert . . . 227 L. To Rotha Quillinan 228 LI. To Lady Fitzgerald, in her seventieth Year . . 228 LI I. Composed on a May Morning, 1838 . . . 229 LIII. Highland Hut 229 LIV. ''■There !" said a Stripling 230 LV. To a Painter . 231 LVI. On the same Subject 231 CONTENTS. XXXlll PAGE LVII. In Sight of the Town of Qjckermouth . . . 232 LVIII. Tranquillity 232 LIX. Death 233 LX. The Everlasting Temple 233 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. " If Thou indeed " 234 Influence of Natural Objects 234 " There was a Boy " 236 Yew-Trees 238 Lines composed a few miles above Tintem Abbey . . . 239 Address to my Infant Daughter Dora 244 Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-Tree 247 French Revolution The Simplon Pass 250 Fragment from The Recluse 251 The Old Cumberland Beggar 255 Animal Tranquillity and Decay 261 Nutting 261 To Joanna 263 The Fir-Grove Path 266 A Farewell 270 Stanzas written in Thomson's Castle of Indolence . . . 272 Tribute to the Memory of a Dog 275 The Small Celandine 276 Beggars 277 Sequel to the Foregoing 279 Matthew 280 The two April Mornings 282 The Fountain 284 A Poet's Epitaph 287 Lines written on the expected death of Mr. Fox . . . 289 Elegiac Stanzas, suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle . . 290 Glen-Almain ; or, the Narrow Glen 292 Written on a Blank Leaf of Macpherson's Ossian . . . 293 The Wishing-Gate 296 To the Lady Fleming 299 To the Rev. Dr. Wordsworth 30* XXXIV CONTENTS. PAGE Evening Voluntaries — I. " Not in the lucid intervals of life " 305 II. " The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire "... 306 To Mary Wordsworth 307 To a Child 308 Extempore Effusion upon the Death of James Hogg . . 308 Devotional Incitements 310 Inscription for a Stone in the Grounds of Rydal Mount . . 313 I POEMS OF BALLAD FORM. >>0