OF THL U N 1VLR51TY or ILLINOIS © 2.1 W8© 1860 library UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS Digitized Internet Archive in 2016 r‘ https://archive.org/details/completepoeticalOOword_0 0 1 ^ ll. {) I'J ,11'. I f vy li K ci LIBKMKV UNIVERSITY Oh ILLlNUiS UR6ANA - \ / THE COMPLETE POETICAL AVORKS OF WILLIAM AVORDS WORTH, POET LAUREATE, ETC., ETC. EDITED BY HENRY REED, PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE IN THE UNIVERSITF OF PENNSYLVANIA. PHILADELPHIA: PUBLISHED BY HAYES & ZELL, No. 193, MARKET STREET. 1860 . Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1851, by James Kay, Jun. &s Brother, in the Clerk’s Office of tlie District Court of the United States, in and for the Eastern District ol Pennsylvania. PRINTED Hi' .SMITH & PETEIiP, Franklin HuiIJings, Sixth Street, below Arch, Philadelphia. PREFACE H,- EY THE AMERICAN EDITOR. The circumstances of the preparation of the American Edition of 1837 were stated in the I niface to that Edition — which is placed as the second preface in this volume. A copy of dial Edition was sent to the Poet, and received his hearty sanction and approval. It is due to the readers of the Poems in the American Edition that the authority thus given to it should not be withheld from them. In a letter addressed to the Editor, and dated London, 19th August, 1837, Mr. Wordsworth said, — “I shall now hasten to notice the Edition which you have superintended of my Poems. This I can do with much pleasure, as the Book, which has been shown to several persons of taste, Mr. Rogers in particular, is allowed to be far the handsomest specimen of print in double column which they have seen. Allow me to thank you for the pains you have bestowed upon the w'ork. Do not apprehend that any difference in our several arrangements of the poems can be of much importance ; you appear to understand me far too well for that to be possible.” Since the publication of the former American Edition, there have appeared in England the following publications of the Poems under the Author’s own supervision: the Edition of 1839-40, in six volumes, containing some additional pieces : the volume, forming a seventh, entitled “ Poems of Early and Late Years,” which appeared in 1842 ; the complete Poetical Works (with some additional poems) in one volume, issued in 1845; and the last Edition (containing some few later pieces) which appeared in six volumes in 1849 and 1850 — being completed a very short time before the Poet’s death. In the summer of 1850, “The Prelude” was published posthumously. Speaking of his own Edition in one volume, Wordsworth wrote to the American Editor as follows, in a letter dated, “ Rydal Mount, 31st July, 1845 “I am at present carrying through the press an Edition in double column of my Poems, including the last ; the contents of which will be interspersed in their several places. In the heading of the pages, I have followed the example of your Edition, by extending the classification of Imagination far beyond what it has hitherto been, except in your Edition. The book will be by no means so well-looking as yours ; as the contents will be more crowded.” 1 { /G826 IV PREFACE BY THE AMERICAN EDITOR. Again, in a letter dated September 27th, of the same year — “The new edition of my Poems (double column) which is going through the press, will contain about three hundred verses not found in the previous Edition. I do not remember whether I have mentioned to you, that, fol- lowing your example, I have greatly extended the class entitled “ Poems of the Imagination,” thinking as you must have done that, if Imagination were predominant in the class, it was not indispensable that it should pervade every poem which it contained. Limiting the class as I had done before, seemed to imply, and to the uncandid or observing did so, that the faculty, which is the primum mobile in poetry, had little to do, in the estimation of the author, with pieces not arranged under that head. I therefore feel much obliged to you for suggesting by your practice the plan which I have adopted.” In the present volume the text of the former edition has been for the most part retained ; all the additional poems have been introduced, and the arrangement made to correspond more nearly in the details of it with that adopted by the Author. This volume also contains some pieces, which were omitted, (inadvertently it is believed,) from the latest London Edition. The Alphabetical Index to the Poems, and the Index to the First lanes, will prove of great convenience, as giving, in addition to the Table of Contents, such facilities for reference as are peculiarly needed in a collection containing many short poems. The Table of Contents will be found to have, besides its ordinary use, a biographical interest, in giving the dates of the composition of the poems, as far as stated by the Poet. A brief biographical note is also placed among the prefatory pages In the prefatory matter of this volume, I have introduced the tributes paid to the genius of Wordsworth, by the late Hartley Coleridge, and by the author of “Ion,” together with the still grander one from the pen of the Poet of “The Christian Year,” — a faithful and eloquent exposition of the character and spiritual worth of Wordsworth’s poetry, expressed with such truthfulness and beauty of diction that the words scarce seem to belong to a dead language, when thus made the eloquent utterance of living thought and feeling. The lines on p. xi. beginning “ If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven,” are inserted as used by the Poet himself for a prefatory poem in his late Editions. This Edition is now offered to the public with the assurance that it is the most complete collection of Wordsworth’s poems, which has appeared. With regard to accuracy, the same sedulous effort, which on a former occasion was employed in affectionate and reverential gratitude to the living Poet, has Deen repeated with a yet deeper affection to his memory. HENRY REED. Philadelphia, February 18, 1851. PJIEFACE TO THE AMERICAN EDITION OF 1 837. This Volume is published with a view to present a complete and uniform Edition of the Poetical Works of William Wordsworth. It contains the poems in the latest collected edition and in the additional volume, entitled “Yarrow Revisited and other Poems,” published in 1835. — The text has been adopted with great care from the London editions. 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 ago. When the Publishers were about beginning the preparation of this volume, a difficulty in regard to the arrangement of the poems presented itself, to which it is j)roper here to advert. — Th^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, however, and a 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 reference to the classification, which distinguishes the general collection of his poems. In preparing 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 diflercnt. Such a course would have been in direct violation of the Poet’s expressed intention, and would have betrayed an ignorance or distrust of 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 w^as 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 Immortality. In editing this volume, I have therefore ventured to adopt the only alternative which presented itself — to anticipate Mr. Wordsworth’s unexecuted intention of interspersing the contents 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 his general Preface, and 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 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 vi PREFACE TO THE AMERICAN EDITION OF 1837. that there was no possibility of impairing the individual interest of any of the poems, ft may be added that no one would feel more grieved at any injury done by a false arrange- ment 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 wdth whom I am confident Mr. Wordsworth, from congeniality 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 ift 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 consideration 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. 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 -wlio (in time) knows whither we m.ay 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? 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, while 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. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE. This note is intended to give, for the convenience of the reader, a statement of a few of the facts of Wordsworth’s life, and career of authorship. William Wordsworth was born on the 7th of April, 1770, at Cockermouth, a small town in Cumberland, in the north of England ; and the early part of his life was spent in that region of lake and mountain, which was to be the happy home of his manhood and old age. His school education was received at Hawkshead Grammar School. In 1787 he entered St. John’s College, Cambridge, where he received his Bachelor’s degree; it was during his college life, he made a tour in the Alps, which was the occasion of his “ Descriptive Sketches,” and which forms also the subject of the sixth book of “The Prelude” — a later part of which poem treats of his second visit to the Continent, and his residence in France, during, the first part of the Revolution. In 1798, in company with his sister, Dorothea (to whose influence upon his life and character he has paid fervent tribute in “ The Prelude,” and elsewhere) and with his friend Coleridge, he made a tour in Germany. His visits to the Continent again, in 1820 and in 1837, are known by his “Memorials” of the Tours in those years. In the year 1802, Mr. Wordsworth was married to Miss Mary Hutchinson: she survives him, retaining in a beautiful old age “that Christian calmness and gentleness and love which” (in the words of one who witnessed what he speaks of) “ made her almost like the Poet’s guardian angel for near fifty years.” At the beginning of the century the Poet’s residence w'as at Grasmere, but after some years was removed to the neighbourhood of Ambleside ; and the cottage at Rydal Mount became the home of all his after years on Earth. Wordsworth’s literary life, as an author, extended through a period of about sixty years, — the earliest date affixed to any of his pieces being 1786, and the latest 1846. His first publication was “ An Evening Walk” addressed to his sister: it appeared in 1793, and was soon follow'ed in the same year by the “ Descriptive Sketches :” these were printed in quarto, with the author’s name — “ W. Wordsw'orth, B. A., of St. John’s, Cambridge,” and w'ere published by J. Johnson, St. Paul’s Churchyard, from whose press had issued, only nine years before, Cow^per’s “ Task.” In 1798, a volume of the “ Lyrical Ballads” was published anonymously, and in 1800 was succeeded by a second volume having the author’s name. This collection in 1805 had reached a fourth edition. An American edition of the Lyrical Ballads was published in Philadelphia as early as 1802. The various reception, which was given to those Poems — the thoughtful and genial welcome on the one part, and the scornful condemnation on the other, — and their influence upon poetic thought and feeling, would form the subject of an instructive chapter in the history of English poetry in the first half of the nineteenth century. In 1807 were published tw’o more volumes of Poems, with the motto Posterius graviore sono Obi Musa loquetur Nostra: dabunt cum secures mihi tempora fructus. In 1809 Wordsworth published the prose work, to which reference will be found in several places in this volume : the title of the work is “ Concerning the Relations of Great Britain, Spain and Portugal to each other, and to the common enemy at this crisis; and specifically as affected by the Convention of Cintra : the whole brought to the test of those principles, by which alone the Independence and Freedom of nations can be preserved or recovered.” — This work, it is said, Mr. Canning spoke of as the most eloquent production of the kind since the days of Burke. In 1814, “The Excursion” was given to the world; in 1815 there followed “The White Doe of Rylstone,” and two volumes including the “ Lyrical Ballads,” and other miscellaneous poems. A third volume of miscellaneous poems was made up of BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE. viii the “Thanksgiving Ode,” in 1816, “Peter Bell” and “The Waggoner,” in 1819, and “ The River Duddon,” with other pieces, in 1820. To this volume was appended the prose description of the Lake Country. In 1822 appeared the “ Ecclesiastical Sketches” and the “ Memorials of a Tour in 1820,” In 1820 and 1832 collective editions of the Poems were published, and were followed in 1835 by the volume entitled “ Yarrow Revisited and other Poems.” The subsequent publications and editions are those mentioned in the Preface to this Edition, The list of Wordsworth’s prose writings may be completed by the mention here, of his “ Letter to a Friend of Robert Burns,” published in London, 1816, and his “ Two Letters on the Kendal and Windermere Railway, reprinted from the Morning Post,” London, 1844-5.' The more the whole course of Wordsworth’s life shall become known, the more will it be seen that it was a life devoted, in a deep and abiding sense of duty, to the cultivation of a poet’s endowments and art, for their noblest and most lasting uses — a self-dedication as complete as the world has ever witnessed. It was a life to which was given the earthly reward of length of days and of a large share of happiness. There was in this life, the further reward of an ample fame, — a fame which moved, as it were, on the wings of spiritual gratitude and thoughtful afiection. The contumely, which had been cast upon him from the critic’s chair in former years, was looked back to as a wonder and a wrong in the history of criticism ; his poetry was recognised as one of the great literary influences upon the minds and hearts of his fellow beings ; and the circle of admirers, who had clung to the fortunes of that poetry through evil and good report, was widened over the world. These things the Poet was permitted to see in his mortal life. Of the popular sentiment towards Wordsworth in late years, the feeling displayed on his reception at Oxford in 1839 is but one of many manifestations. The genuine fervour of the feeling inspired the lines composed by Talfourd on that occasion : it sank too as deeply into the earnest spirit of the late Dr. Arnold, who wrote “ I went up to Oxford to the commemo- ration, for the first time in twenty-one years, to see ‘Wordsworth and Bunsen receive their degrees ; and to me, remembering htTw old Coleridge inoculated a little knot of us with the love of Wordsworth, when his name was in general a by- word, it was striking to witness the thunders of applause, repeated over and over again, with which he was greeted in the theatre by Undergraduates and Masters of Arts alike.” Letter, July 6, 1839. (The epithet “old” in this extract, is one of familiar affection for a college-mate — now Sir John Taylor Coleridge, one of the Justices of the Court of Queen’s Bench.) After the death of his friend Southey in 1843, Wordsworth was appointed to succeed him as Poet Laureate — an office, now restored to respect by the successive tenure of Southey, Wordsworth, and Tennyson. The close of Wordsworth’s life was saddened by the death of his only daughter, — Dora, the wife of Edward Quillinan, Esq. Her father’s house had been the home of her life except during a short period, in which she was withdrawn from it by her marriage; she was the author of a “Journal of a few months’ residence in Portugal,” published in 1847. The visit to the South of Europe was for the restoration of her health ; but in vain. Her death took place on the 9th of July, 1847, at the residence of her father. This bereavement — the severest affliction of his life, and in old age — weighed heavily upon his spirits: it is believed that he did not recover from this sorrow during the very few years that he was parted from his daughter. Two sons survive him, the Rev. John Woi'dsworth and William Wordsworth, Esq. Wordsworth died at Rydal Mount, on the 23d of April 1850, about a fortnight after his 80th birth-day. The harmony of his life was completed by the possession of faculties, unimpaired by disease or age. He lived and died in communion with the Church, to which his life as well as his writings had proved a faithful and filial attachment. His body sleeps in Grasmere Churchyard. The duty of preparing a biography of the Poet has been appropriately confided to his nephew, the Rev. Christopher Wordsworth, D.D., Canon of Westminster. Februarv, 1851. H. R. DEDICATION OF KEBLE’s LECTURES ON POETRY : PRAiLECTIONES ACADEMICiE, OXONII HABITS,' ANNIS — MDCCCXXXII MDCCCXLI., A JOANNE KEBLE, A. M. POETICS PUBLICO PRAiLECTORE.” VmO VERE PIIILOSOPIIO, ET VATI SACRO, GULIELMO WOKDSWORTH, CUI JLLUD MUNDS TRIBUIT DEUS OPT. MAX. DT. SIVE HOMINUM AFFECTUS CANEEET, SIVE TERRARUM ET C(ELI PULCIIRITIIDINEM, LEGENTIUM ANIMOS SEMPER AD SANCTIORA ERIGERET, SEMPER A PAUPERDM ET SIMPLICIORUM PARTIBUS STARET, AFtjUE ADEO, LABENTE SAICULO, EXISTERET NON SOLUM DULCISSIM.E POESEOS, VERUM ETIAM DIVIN.E VERITATIS ANTISTES, CNUS MULTORUM, QUI DEVINCTOS SE ESSE SENTIENT ASSIDUO NOBILIUM EJUS CAEMINUM BENEFICIO, HOC QUALECUNQUE GRATI ANIMI TESTIMONIUM D. D. D. EEVEEENTLE, PIETATIS, AMICITIA: ERGO. SONNET BY THE LATE HARTLEY COLERIDGE: TO WORDSWORTH. There have been poets that in verse display 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 Seerl '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. SONNET BY SIR THOMAS NOON TALFOURD: ON THE RECEPTION OF THE POET WORDSWORTH AT OXFORD. 0 NEVER did a mighty truth prevail With such felicities of place and time. As in those shouts sent forth with joy sublime From the full heart of England’s Youth to hail Her once neglected Bard within the pale Of Learning’s fairest Citadel ! That voice. In which the Future thunders, bids rejoice Some who through wintry fortunes did not fail To bless with love as deep as life, the name Thus welcomed; — who, in happy silence share The triumph; while their fondest musings claim Unhoped-for echoes in the joyous air That to their long-loved Poet’s spirit bear A nation’s promise of undying fame. If thou indeed derive thy light from Ileaven, Then, to the measure of that heaven-born light, Shine, Poet, in thy place, and be content : — The stars pre-eminent in magnitude. And they that from the zenith dart their beams, (Visible though they be to half the earth, Though half a sphere be conscious of their brightness) Are yet of no diviner origin, No purer essence, than the one that burns. Like an untended watch-fire, on the ridge Of some dark mountain ; or than those which seem Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter lamps, Among the branches of the leafless trees; All are the undying oflspring of one Sire : Then, to the measure of the light vouchsafed, Shine, Poet! in thy place, and be content. "A ' hi, <96^ ‘ "^<^*-*14 ^'.>V • •. ■ «%J - t:,-1 , » •* , . ,P 5 V - ■^'^■»« ■ :t? - 1 '•v . . .. ^ ■ ..^«((^*'t^ tsii^a^i . . ijt '^* ■ 0^/^ r.;i.^i. ''J : Tq«*wi.*i4» oi 1- j: ^li ■ lyj . - ' • , jfmtff* ' JlfSt?^ tu.>i) ;#'*• ■ ;’H ;'.^ ' ', - / Ufiw»*v «> wKr pqtf f^ft I -a j " ’ ra* ^ k..= - <3 it5jitti>- ■ * *^ T^'**^ '■ • ■ i^**V2os' i**i ., . k'lw - . V- VJI r**jf. ,A7 ■- ~. 'fr^*,i*‘ ■'‘V**’»^‘^ f .i i'n#' >0»f.t ftft ui-JJw*l-' j(M i 'ir' •■* ? * ' At {SM»oii*: .. . - ■•■-■ . '■-' . .J*., . ■ ■■. 434'.. r-t^._ ._ . . ■" ^ i^-Sr ■f CONTENTS 1 / 1 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. \EJttract from the Conclusion of a Poem, composed in anticipation of leaving School, 1786... Page 25 An Evening Walk, 1787-8-9 25 Descriptive Sketches taken during a Pedestrian Tour among the Alps, 1791-2 29 Written in very early Youth 37 Lines written while sailing in a Boat at Evening, 1789 37 Remembrance of Collins, composed upon the Thames near Richmond, 1789 37 Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, 1795 37 Guilt and Sorrow; or. Incidents upon Salisbury Plain, 1793-4 38 The Borderers. A Tragedy, 1795-6 45 Notes to Poems Written in Youth 71 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. My heart leaps up when I behold, 1804 73 To a Butterfly, 1801 73 Foresight, 1802 73 Characteristics of a Child three Years old, 1811 . 73 Address to a Child, during a Boisterous Winter Evening, 1806 74 The Mother’s Return, 1807 74 Alice Fell ; or. Poverty, 1801 75 Lucy Gray; or. Solitude, 1799 75 We are Seven, 1798 76 Anecdote for Fathers, 1798 77 Rural Architecture, 1801 77 The Pet-lamb. A Pastoral, 1800 78 The Idle Shepherd-boys; or, Dungeon-Ghyll Force. A Pastoral, 1800 79 To H. C. Six Years old, 1802 80 Influence of Natural Objects in calling forth and strengthening the imagination in Boyhood and early Youth 80 The longest Day. Addressed to ■, 1817 81 The Sparrow’s Nest, 1801 82 The Norman Boy 82 The Poet’s Dream. Sequel to the Norman Boy. 82 The Westmoreland Girl 84 Notes to Poems Referring to the Period of Child- hood 85 1/ T- POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. The Brothers, 1802 87 Artegal and Elidure, 1815 91 Farewell Lines 94 To a Butterfly, 1801 94 Farewell, 1802 94 Stanzas written in my Pocket-copy of Thomson's Castle of Indolence, 1802 95 Louisa. After accompanying her on a Mountain Excursion, 1805 96 Strange fits of passion have I known, 1799 96 She dwelt among the untrodden ways, 1799 96 I travelled among unknown men, 1799 9t» Ere with cold beads of midnight dew, 1826 96 To ,1824 97 'Tis said, that some have died for love, 1800 97 The Forsaken 97 A Complaint, 1806 98 To ,1824 98 Yes ! thou art fair, yet be not moved 98 How rich that forehead’s calm expanse, 1824 .... 93 What heavenly smiles ! O Lady mine 98 To , 1824 98 Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, on the Eve of a New Year. 1817 99 The Widow on Windermere Side 99 The Last of the Flock, 1798 100 Repentance. A Pastoral Ballad, 1804 101 The Affliction of Margaret , 1804 101 The Cottager to her Infant, 1805 102 The Sailor’s Mother, 1800 102 The Childless J’ather, 1800 102 The Emigrant Mother 1802 103 Vaudracour and Julia, 1805 104 The Armenian Lady’s Love, 1830 107 The Somnambulist, 1833 107 The Idiot Boy, 1798 110 Michael. A Pastoral Poem, 1800 1!5 The Russian Fugitive, 1830 119 Grace Darling, 1842 123 The Complaint of a Forsaken Indian Woman, 1798 124 Maternal Grief. 125 Loving and Liking. Irregular ’Verses, addressed to a Child, 1832 126 The Redbreast. Suggested in a Westmoreland Cottage, 1834 127 Her Eyes are Wild, 1798 127 Notes to Poems Founded on the Affections 129 POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. It was an April morning; fresh and clear, 1800 . . 131 To Joanna, 1800 131 There is an Eminence, — of these our hills, 1800 . 132 A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags, 1800 . 133 To M. H., 1800 133 When, to the attractions of the busy world, 1805. 133 Forth from a jutting ridge, around whose base, 1845 135 2 XIV CONTENTS. POEMS OF THE FANCY. A Morning Exercise, 1828 137 To the Daisy, 1802 137 A whirl-blast from behind the hill, 1799 138 The Green Linnet, 1803 138 The Contrast. The Parrot and the Wren, 1825. 139 To the small Celandine, 1803 139 To the same Flower, 1803 140 The Waterfall and the Eglantine, 1800 140 The Oak and the Broom. A Pastoral, 1800 141 Song for the Spinning Wheel, 1812 142 The Redbreast chasing the Butterfly, 1806 142 The Kitten and Falling Leaves, 1804 143 A Flower Garden, at Coleorton Hall, Leicester- shire, '824 144 To the Daisy, 1805 145 To the same Flower, 1803 145 To a Sky-lark, 1805 145 To a Sexton 1799 146 Who fancied what a pretty sight, 1803 146 Song for the Wandering Jew, 1800 146 The Seven Sisters ; or, the Solitude of Binnorie, 1804 146 The Danish Boy. A Fragment, 1799 147 To a Lady, in answer to a request that I would write her a Poem upon some Drawings of Flowers in the Island of Madeira 148 Glad sight wherever new with old 148 The Pilgrim’s Dream ; or, the Star and the Glow- worm, 1818 149 Hint from the Mountains for certain Political Pre- tenders, 1817 149 Stray Pleasures, 1806 149 On seeing a Needlecase in the Form of a Harp, 1827 150 The Poet and the Caged 'I'urtledove, 1830 150 A Wren’s Nest, 1833 150 Love Lies Bleeding 151 Companion to the foregoing 152 Rural Illusions, 1832 152 Address to my Infant Daughter, on being reminded that she was a Month old, 1804 152 The Waggoner, 1805 153 Notes to Poems of the Fancy 162 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. There was a Boy, 1799 163 To , on her First Ascent to the Summit of Helvellyn, 1810 163 To the Cuckoo, 1804 163 A Night-piece, 1798 164 Water-fowl, 1812 164 Yew-trees, 1803 164 View from the top of Black Comb, 1813 165 Nutting, 1799 165 She was a Phantom of delight, 1804 166 0 Nightingale ! thou surely art, 1806 166 Three years she grew in sun and shower, 1799 . . 166 A slumber did my spirit seal, 1799 167 The Horn of Egremont Castle, 1806 167 Goody Blake and Harry Gill, 1798 168 1 wandered lonely as a cloud, 1804 169 The Reverie of Poor Susan, 1797 169 Power of Music, 1806 170 Star-gazers, 1806 170 j The Haunted Tree. To ,1819 171 Written in March, while resting on the Bridge at the foot of Brother’s Water, 1801 171 Gipsies, 1807 ]7l Beggars, 1802 172 Sequel to the Foregoing, 1817 172 Ruth, 1799 173 Laodamia, 1814 175 The Triad, 1828 177 Lyre ! though such power do in thy magic live . . 179 A Jewish Family, 1828 I8O Weak is the will of man, his judgment blind.... 180 Resolution and Independence, 1807 180 The Thorn, 1798 182 Hart-leap Well, 1800 184 Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, upon the Restoration of Lord Clifford, the Shepherd, 1807 186 Yes, it was the mountain Echo, 1806 . . f 188 To a Sky-lark, 1825 188 It is no Spirit who from Heaven hath flown, 1803 188 French Revolution as it appeared to Enthusiasts at its commencement, 1805 188 Gold and Silver Fishes in a Vase, 1829 189 Liberty (Sequel to the foregoing), 189 The Pass of Kirkstone, 1817 191 Suggested by a Picture of the Bird of Paradise.. 192 Airey-force Valley 192 The Cuckoo-Clock 192 Lines ctjpposed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, on revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour, July 13, 1798. 1798 193 Peter Bell. — A Tale 194 The Egyptian Maid, or Romance of the Water Lily, 1830 206 The Simplon Pass, 1799 211 An Evening Ode, composed upon an Evening of Extraordinary Splendour and Beauty, 1818.. 211 To the Clouds 212 On the Power of Sound 1828 213 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. — Part I. Dedication. To 215 Nuns fret not at their Convent’s narrow room . .. 215 At Applethwaite, near Keswick, 1804 215 Admonition 216 “ Beloved Vale !” I said, “ when I shall con”. . . 216 Pelion and Ossa, flourish side by side 216 There is a little unpretending Rill 216 Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat 216 The fairest, brightest hues of ether fade 216 Upon the sight of a beautiful Picture 217 “ Why, Minstrel, these untnneful murmurings”. 217 Aerial Rock — whose solitary brow 217 To Sleep 217 To Sleep 217 To Sleep 217 The Wild Duck’s Nest 218 Written upon a Blank Leaf in ‘‘The Complete Angler” 218 To the Poet, John Dyer 218 On the Detraction which followed the Publication of a certain Poem 218 To the River Derwent 218 Composed in one of the Valleys of Westmoreland, on Easter Sunday 218 CONTENTS. XV “ Weak is the will of Man, his judgment blind . . Grief, thou hast lost an ever ready friend To S. II Decay of Piety Composed on the eve of the Marriage of a Friend in the Vale of Grasmere, 1812 From the Italian of Miehael Angelo From the Same From the Same. To the Supreme Being Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne Even so for me a Vision sanctified It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go ? With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh. . . The world is too much with us; late and soon... A volant Tribe of Bards on earth are found How sweet it is when mother Fancy rocks Personal Talk Continued Continued Concluded I watch, and long have watched, with calm regret To B. R. Haydon From the dark chambers of dejection freed Fair Prime of life ! were it enough to gild I heard (alas ! ’t was only in a dream) Retirement To the Memory of Raisley Calvert MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. — Part II. Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned. Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell... While not a leaf seems faded; while the fields .. How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright.. Composed during a Storm To a Snow-drop Composed a few days after the foregoing The stars are mansions built by Nature’s hand . . To Lady Beaumont To the Lady Mary Lowther There is a pleasure in poetic pains The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour .. With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb’st the sky! Even as a dragon’s eye that feels the stress Mark the concentred hazels that enclose Captivity. — Mary Queen of Scots Brook! whose society the Poet seeks Composed on the Banks of a Rocky Stream Pure element of waters ! wheresoe’er Malham Cove Gordale The Monument commonly called Long ftleg, and her Daughters Composed after a Journey across the Hambleton Hills, Yorkshire These words were uttered as in pensive mood . . . Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 3, 1802 Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth ! (Ox- ford,) 1820 Shame on this faithless heart ! that could allow. (Oxford,) 1820 Recollection of the Portrait of King Henry Eighth, Trinity Lodge, Cambridge 228 On the Death of His Majesty (George the Third) 228 Fame tells of groves — from England far away — June, 1820 228 A Parsonage in Oxfordshire 228 Composed among the Ruins of a Castle in North Wales 229 To the Lady E. B. and the Hon. Miss P 229 To the Torrent at the Devil’s Bridge, North Wales, 1824 229 Though narrow be that old .Man's cares, and near 229 In the Woods of Rydal 229 When Philoctetes in the Lemnian Isle 229 While they who once were Anna’s playmates, tread 230 To the Cuckoo 230 The Infant M M 230 To Rotha Q 230 To , in her seventieth year 230 A Grave-stone upon the Floor in the Cloisters of Worcester Cathedral 230 A Tradition of Oken Hill in Darley Dale, Derby- shire 231 Filial Piety 231 To B. R. Haydon, on seeing his Picture of Na- poleon Buonaparte on the Island of St. Helena 231 Chatsworth ! thy stately mansion, and the pride . 231 Desponding Father ! mark this altered bough.... 231 Roman Antiquities discovered at Bishopstone, Herefordshire 231 St. Catherine of Ledbury 232 Why art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant 232 Four fiery steeds impatient of the rein 232 To the Author’s Portrait 232 Conclusion. To 232 In my mind’s eye a temple like a cloud 232 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. — Part III. Though the bold wings of Poesy affect 233 A Poet! — He hath put his heart to school 233 “ Wait, prithee, wait !” this answer Lesbia threw 233 The most alluring clouds that mount the sky .... 233 On a Portrait of the Duke of Wellington upon the Field of Waterloo, by Haydon 233 Composed on a May Morning, 1838 233 Lo! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance 233 To a Painter 234 On the same Subject 234 Hark! ’tis the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest ... 234 ’Tis He whose yester-evening’s high disdain .... 234 Oh what a Wreck! how changed in mien and speech! 234 Intent on gathering wool from hedge and brake.. 234 Illustrated Books and Newspapers 235 A Plea for Authors, May, 1638 235 A Poet to his Grandchild, (Sequel to the fore- going) 235 To the Rev. Christopher Wordsworth, D. D., Master of Harrow School 235 To the Planet Venus 235 At Dover 235 Wansfell ! this Household has a favoured lot ... . 236 While beams of orient light shoot wide and high 236 180 219 219 219 219 219 219 220 220 220 220 220 220 221 221 221 221 221 221 221 222 222 222 222 222 223 223 223 223 223 223 224 224 224 224 224 224 225 225 225 225 225 225 226 226 226 226 226 226 227 227 227 227 227 228 228 CONTENTS. On the projected Kendal and Windermere Railway 236 Proud were ye, Mountains, when in times of old 236 At Furness Abhey 236 At Furness Abbey, 1845 237 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803. Departure from the Vale of Grasmere, August, 1803 237 At the Grave of Burns, 1803. Seven Years after his DeaiSt 237 Thoughts suggested the Day following, on the Banks of Nith, near the Poet’s Residence .. 238 To the Sons of Burns after visiting the Grave of their Father 239 Ellen Irwin: or, the Braes of Kirtle 240 To a Highland Girl 240 Glen-Almain; or, the Narrow Glen 241 Stepping Westward 241 The Solitary Reaper 242 Address to Kilchurn Castle, upon Loch Awe. . . . 242 Rob Roy’s Grave 242 Sonnet. Composed at Castle 244 Yarrow Unvisited 244 Sonnet in the Pass of Killicranky 245 The Matron of Jedborough and her Husband.... 245 Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale ! . . . 246 The Blind Highland Boy 246 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1814. The Brownie’s Cell 249 Composed at Cora Linn, in sight of Wallace’s Tower 250 Effusion, in the Pleasure-ground on the banks of the Bran 250 Yarrow Visited, September, 1814 252 POEMS DEDICATED TO NATIONAL INDE- PENDENCE AND LIBERTY. — Part I. Composed by the Sea-side, near Calais, August, 1802 253 It is a reed that’s shaken by the wind 253 v Composed near Calais, on the road leading to Ardres, August 7, 1802 253 I grieved for Buonaparte, with a vain 253 Festivals have I seen that were not names 253 On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic 254 The King of Sweden 254 To Toussaint L’Ouverture 254 September 1, 1802 254 Composed in the Valley near Dover, on the day of landing 254 Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood 254 Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Swit- zerland 255 Written in London, September, 1802 255 Milton ! thou should'st be living at this hour .... 255 Great men have been among us ; hands that penned 255 It is not to be thought of that the Flood 255 When I have borne in memory what has tamed. . 255 One might believe that natural miseries 256 There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear .... 256 These times strike moneyed worldlings with dismay 256>- England ! the time is come when thou should’st wean 256 When looking on the present state of things 256 To the Men of Kent. October, 1803 256 Anticipation. October, 1803 257 Another year ! — another deadly blow ! 25 Ode. Who rises on the banks of Seine 257 POEMS DEDICATED TO NATIONAL INDE- PENDENCE AND LIBERTY. — Part II. On a celebrated Event in Ancient History 258 Upon the same Event 258 To Thomas Clarkson on the Final Passing of the Bill for the Abolition of the Slave Trade 258 A Prophecy. February, 1807 258 Composed by the side of Grasmere Lake 258 Go back to antique ages, if thine eyes 258 Composed while the Author was engaged in Writing a Tract, occasioned by the Conven- tion of Cintra 259 Composed at the same Time and on the same Occasion 259 Hoffer 259 Advance — come forth from thy Tyrolean ground 259 Feelings of the Tyrolese 259 Alas ! what boots the long laborious quest 259 And is it among rude untutored Dales 260 O’er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain... 260 On the Final Submission of the Tyrolese 260 Hail, Zaragoza! If with unwet eye 260 Say, what is Honour? — ’Tis the finest sense.... 260 The martial courage of a day is vain 260 Brave Schill 1 by death delivered, take thy flight. 261 Call not the royal Swede unfortunate 261 Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid .... 261 Is there a Power that can sustain and cheer 261 Ah ! where is Palafox ? Nor tongue nor pen 261 In due observance of an ancient rite 261 Feelings of a Noble Biscayan at one of those Funerals 262 The Oak of Guernica 262 Indignation of a high-minded Spaniard 262 Avaunt, all specious pliancy of mind 262 O’erweening Statesmen have full long lelied .... 262 The French and the Spanish Guerillas 263 Spanish Guerillas 263 The power of Armies is a visible thing 263 Here pause: the poet claims at least this praise.. 263 The French Army in Russia 263 On the same Occasion 264 By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze 264 The Germans on the Heights of Hockheim 264 Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright.. . . . 264 Feelings of a French Royalist, on the Disinter- ment of the Remains of the Duke d’Enghien 264 Occasioned by the Battle of Waterloo 265 Siege of Vienna raised by John Sobieski 265 Occasioned by the Battle of Waterloo 265 Emperors and Kings, how oft have temples rung. 265 Ode, 1814. — When the soft hand of sleep had closed the latch 265 Ode. — The Morning of the Day appointed fora General Thanksgiving. 1816 267 Additional Pieces. Lines on the expected Invasion. 1803 272 On the Same Occasion 272 The Eagle and the Dove 272 CONTENTS. SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY AND ORDER. Composed after reading a Newspaper of the Day. 272 Upon the Late General Fast. March, 1832 272 Said Secrecy to Cowardice and Fraud 273 Blest Statesman He, whose Mind’s unselfish will 273 In allusion to various recent Histories and Notices of the French Revolution 273 Continued 273 Concluded 273 Men of the Western World ! in Fate’s dark book 274 To the Pennsylvanians 274 At Bologna, in Remembrance of the late Insur- rections, 1837 274 Continued 274 Concluded 274 Young England — what is then become of Old .. 275 Feel for the wrongs to universal ken 275 SONNETS UPON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. — 1840. Suggested by the View of Lancaster Castle (on the Road from the South) 275 Tenderly do we feel by Nature’s law 275 The Roman Consul doomed his sons to die 275 Is Death, when evil against good has fought 275 Not to the object specially designed 276 Ye brood of conscience — Spectres ! that frequent 276 Before the world had past her time of youth 276 Fit retribution by the moral code 276 Though to give timely warning and deter 276 Our bodily life, some plead, that life the shrine.. 276 Ah, think how one compelled for life to abide. . . . 276 See the Condemned alone within his cell 277 Conclusion 277 Apology 277 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTI- ,NENT, 1820. Dedication 278 Fish-women. — On Landing at Calais 278 Btiuges 278 Bruges 278 After visiting the Field of Waterloo 278 Between Namur and Liege 279 Aix-la-Chapelle 279 In the Cathedral at Cologne 279 In a Carriage, upon the Banks of the Rhine 279 Hymn, for the Boatmen, as they approach the i Rapids under the Castle of Heidelberg 279 The Source of the Danube 280 IVtemorial, near the Outlet of the Lake of Thun . 280 Composed in One of the Catholic Cantons 280 After-thought 280 On approaching the Staub-bach, Lauterbrunnen . 280 The Fall of the Aar — Handec 281 Scene on the Lake of Brientz 281 Engelberg, the Hill of Angels 281 Our Lady of the Snow 281 Effusion, in Presence of the Painted Tower of Tell, at Altorf 282 The Town of Schwytz 282 On hearing the “ Ranz des Vacnes” on the Top ol the Pass of St. Gothard 282 The Church of San Salvador, seen from the Lake of Lugano 283 Fort Fuentes 283 xxii The Italian Itinerant, and the .Swiss Goatherd... 284 The Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci, in the Convent, Milan 285 The Eclipse of the Sun, 1820 285 The Three Cottage Girls 286 The Column intended by Buonaparte for a Tri- umphal Edifice in Milan, now lying in the Simplon Pass 287 Stanzas, composed in the Simplon Pass 287 Echo, upon the Gemmi 287 Processions. Suggested on a Sabbath Morning in the Vale of Chamouny 287 Elegiac Stanzas 288 Sky-prospect. — From the Plain of France 289 On being Stranded near the Harbour of Boulogne 289 After landing — the Valley of Dover 290 Desultory Stanzas 290 To Enterprise 291 THE RIVER DUDDON. A Series of Sonnets. To the Rev. Dr. Wordsworth, 1820 293 Not envying Latian shades — if yet they throw.. 294 Child of the clouds ! remote from every taint. ... 291 How shall I paint thee? — Be this naked stone .. 294 Take, cradled Nursling of the mountain, take... 294 Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played. 294 Flowers 294 “Change me, some God, into that breathing rose!’’ 295 What aspect bore the Man who roved or fled .... 295 The Stepping-stones 295 The same Subject 295 The Faery Chasm 295 Hints for the Fancy 295 Open Prospect 296 O mountain Stream ! the Shepherd and his Cot.. 296 From this deep chasm, where quivering sunbeams play 296 American Tradition 296 Return 296 Seathwaite Chapel 296 Tributary Stream 297 The Plain of Donnerdale 297 Whence that low voice? — A whisper from the heart 297 Tradition 297 Sheep-washing 297 The Resting-place 297 Methinks ’twere no unprecedented feat 298 Return, Content ! for fondly I pursued 298 Fallen, and diffused into a shapeless heap 298 Journey renewed 298 No record tells of lance opposed to lance 298 Who swerves from innocence, who makes divorce 298 The Kirk of Ulpha to the Pilgrim’s eye 299 Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep 299 Conclusion 299 After-thought 299 Postscript 299 YARROW REVISITED, and other Poems, Com- posed (TWO excepted) during a Tour in Scotland, AND on the English Border, in the Autumn of 1831. The gallant Youth, who may have gained 300 On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott from Ab- botsford, for Naples 30U 2 * C CONTENTS. Xviii A Place of Burial in the South of Scotland 302 I On the Sight of a Manse in the South of Scotland 302 Composed in Roslin Chapel, during a Storm 302 The Trosachs 302 Changes 302 Composed in the Glen of Loch Etive 302 Composed after reading a Newspaper of the Day. 303 Composed at Dunolly Castle in the Bay of Oban 303 In the Sound of Mull 303 Suggested at Tyndrum in a Storm 303 The Earl of Breadalbane’s Ruined Mansion, and Family Burial-place, near Killin 303 “ Rest and be Thankful !” At the Head of Glen- croe 303 Highland Hut 304 The Brownie 304 To the Planet Venus, an Evening Star. Composed at Loch Lomond 304 Bothwell Castle. Passed unseen, on account of stormy Weather 304 Picture of Daniel in the Lions’ Den, at Hamilton Palace 304 The Avon. A Feeder of the Annan 305 Suggested by a View from an Eminence in Ingle- wood Forest 305 Hart’s-horn Tree near Penrith 305 Countess’ Pillar 305 Roman Antiquities. From the Roman Station at Old Penrith 305 Apology, for the foregoing Poems 305 The Highland Broach 306 / POEMS, COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR, IN THE SUMMER OF 1833. Adieu, Rydalian Laurels ! that have grown 307 Why should the Enthusiast, journeying through this Isle 307 They called Thee Merry England, in old time. 307 To the River Greta, near Keswick 307 To the River Derwent 308 In Sight of the Town of Cockermouth 308 Address from the Spirit of Cockermouth Castle . 308 Nun’s Well, Brigham 308 To a Friend. On the Banks of the Derwent .... 308 Mary Queen of Scots. Landing at the Mouth of the Derwent, Workington 309 In the Channel between the Coast of Cumberland and the Isle of Man 309 At Sea off' the Isle of Man 309 Desire we past illusions to recal 309 On entering Douglas Bay, Isle of Man 309 By the Sea-shore, Isle of Man 310 Isle of Man 310 The Retired Marine officer. Isle of Man 310 By a Retired Mariner. (A Friend of the Author) 310 At Bala-Sala, Isle of Man. (Supposed to be written by a Friend) 310 Tynwald Hill 310 Despond who will — 7 heard a voice exclaim 311 In the Frith of Clyde, Ailsa Crag. During an Eclipse of the Sun, July 17 311 On the Frith of Clyde. In a Steam-boat 311 On revisiting Dunolly Castle 311 The Dunolly Eagle 311 Cave of Staffa 312 Cave of Staffa. After the Crowd had departed. . 312 Cave of Staffa 312 Flowers on the Top of the Pillars at the Entrance of the Cave 312 Iona 312 Iona. Upon Landing 313 The Black Stones of Iona 313 Homeward we turn. Isle of Columba’s Cell. . . . 313 Greenock 313 “There!” said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride 313 Fancy and Tradition 313 The River Eden, Cumberland 314 Monument of Mrs. Howard, in Wetheral Church 314 Suggested by the foregoing 314 Nunnery 314 Steamboats, Viaducts, and Railways 314 Lowther 315 To the Earl of Lonsdale 315 To Cordelia M , Hallsteads, Ullswater 315 Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 315 Stanzas suggested in a Steam-boat off Saint Bees’ Heads, on the Coast of Cumberland 315 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY, 1837. To 11. C. Robinson 318 Musings near Aquapendente 318 The Pine of Monte Mario at Rome 321 At Rome 321 At Rome. — Regrets. — In allusion to Niebuhr and other modern Historians 322 Continued 322 Plea for the Historian 322 At Rome 322 Near Rome, in sight of St. Peter’s 322 At Albano 322 Near Anio’s stream, I spied a gentle Dove 323 From the Alban Hills, looking towards Rome . . . 323 Near the Lake of Thrasymene 323 Near the same Lake 323 The Cuckoo at Laverna 323 At the Convent of Camaldoli 324 Continued 324 At the Eremite or Upper Convent of Camaldoli . 325 At Vallombrosa 325 At Florence 325 Before the Picture of the Baptist, by Raphael, in the Gallery at Florence 325 At Florence. — From Michael Angelo 325 At Florence. — From M. Angelo 326 Among the Ruins of a Convent in the Apennines 326 In Lombardy 326 After leaving Italy 326 Continued 326 Composed at Rydal on May Morning, 1838 326 The Pillar of Trajan 327 THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE; or. Tub Fate of the Nortons. Dedication 328 Canto 1 329 Canto II 332 Canto III. 334 Canto IV 337 Canto V 340 Canto VI 342 Canto VII 313 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS— PART I. From THE Introduction of Christianity into Britain, TO THE Consummation of the Papal Dominion. Introduction 348 Conjectures 348 Trepidation of the Druids 348 Druidical Excommunication 348 Uncertainty 349 Persecution 349 Recovery 349 Temptations from Roman Refinements 349 Dissensions 349 Struggle of the Britons against the Barbarians... 349 Saxon Conquest 350 Monastery of Old Bangor 350 Casual Incitement 350 Glad Tidings 350 Paulinus 351 Persuasion 351 Conversion 351 Apology 351 Primitive Saxon Clergy 351 Other Influences 352 Seclusion 352 Continued 352 Reproof 352 Saxon Monasteries, and Lights and Shades of the Religion 352 Missions and Travels 352 Alfred 353 His Descendants 353 Influence Abused 353 Danish Conquests 353 Canute 353 The Norman Conquest 353 The Council of Clermont 354 Crusades 354 Richard 1 354 An Interdict 354 Papal Abuses 354 Scene in Venice 354 Papal Dominion 355 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. — PART II. To THE Close of the troubles in the Reign of Charles I. Cistertian Monastery 355 Deplorable his lot who tills the ground 355 Monks and Schoolmen 355 Other Benefits 355 Continued 356 Crusaders 356 Transubstantiation 356 The Vaudois 356 Praised be the Rivers, from their mountain springs 356 Waldenses 356 Archbishop Chichely to Henry V 357 Wars of York and Lancaster 357 Wiclifle 357 Corruptions of the higher Clergy 357 Abuse of Monastic Power 357 Monastic Voluptuousness 357 Dissolution of the Monasteries 358 The same Subject 358 Continued 358 Saints 358 The Virgin 358 Apology 358 Imaginative Regrets 359 Reflections 359 Translation of the Bible 359 The Point at issue 359 Edward VI 359 Edward signing the Warrant for the Execution of Joan of Kent 359 Revival of Popery 360 Latimer and Ridley 360 Cranmer 360 General View of the Troubles of the Reformation 360 English Reformers in Exile 360 Elizabeth 360 Eminent Reformers 361 The Same 361 Distractions 361 Gunpowder Plot 361 Illustration. The Jung-Frau and the Fall of the Rhine near Schaffhausen 361 Troubles of Charles the First 362 Laud 362 Afflictions of England 362 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS.— PART III. From the Restoration to the Present Times. I saw the figure of a lovely Maid 362 Patriotic Sympathies 362 Charles the Second 362 Latitudinarianism 363 Clerical Integrity 363 Persecution of the Scottish Covenanters 363 Acquittal of the Bishops 363 William the Third 363 Obligations of Civil to Religious Liberty 363 Walton’s Book of Lives 364 Sacheverel 3f;4 Down a Swift Stream, thus far, a bold design 364 Aspects of Christianity in A.merica : I. The Pilgrim Fathers 364 II. Continued 36-1 HI. Concluded. — American Episcopacy ... . 365 Bishops and Priests, blessed are ye, if deep 365 Places of Worship 365 Pastoral Character 365 The Liturgy 365 Baptism 365 Sponsors 366 Catechising 366 Confirmation 366 Confirmation — Continued 366 Sacrament 366 The Marriage Ceremony 366 Thanksgiving after Childbirth 367 Visitation of the Sick 367 The Commination Service 367 Forms of Prayer at Sea 367 Funeral Service 367 Rural Ceremony 367 Regrets 363 Mutability 363 Old Abbeys 368 Emigrant French Clergy 368 XX CONTENTS. Congratulation 368 New Churches 368 Churches to be Erected 369 Continued 369 New Church-yard 369 Cathedrals, etc 369 Inside of King’s College Chapel, Cambridge .... 369 The Same 369 Continued 370 Ejaculation 370 Conclusion 370 Additional Ecclesiastical Sonnets. Coldly we spake. The Saxons overpowered .... 370 How soon — Alas! did man created pure 370 From false assumption rose, and fondly hailed ... 371 As faith thus sanctified the warrior's crest 371 Where long and deeply hath been fixed the root . 371 Notes to Poems of the Imagination 373 Supplementary Note, with Extracts from the Au- thor’s prose work on the Convention of Cintra. 392 \J' rOEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. Expostulation and Reply, 1798 393 The Tables Turned. An Evening Scene on the same Subject, 1798 393 Written in Germany, on one of the coldest Days of the Century, 1799 393 A Night Thought 394 Upon seeing a coloured Drawing of the Bird of Paradise in an Album, 1835 394 Character of the Happy Warrior, 1806 394 A Poet’s Epitaph, 1799 395 To the Spade of a Friend, 1804 396 '' ^ =-To my Sister, 1798 396 To a Young Lady, who had been reproached for taking long walks in the Country, 1803 397 Lines written in Early Spring, 1798 397 Simon Lee, the old Huntsman, 1798 397 Incident at Bruges, 1820 398 The Wishing Gate, 1828 399 Incident characteristic of a favourite Dog, 1805 . . 399 Tribute to the Memory of the same Dog, 1805... 400 Matthew. — If Nature, for a favourite child, 1799 400 The Two April Mornings, 1799 401 The Fountain. A Conversation, 1799 401 A Character, 1800 402 This Lawn, a carpet all alive, 1829 402 So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive 403 Written on a blank leaf of Macpherson’s Ossian, 1824 403 'Vernal Ode, 1817 404 Ode to Lycoris 405 To the Same, 1817 405 Ode, composed on May Morning, 1826 406 To May, 1826 — 1834 407 Devotional Incitements, 1832 407 The Primrose of the Rock, 1831 408 Thought on the Seasons, 1829 409 Fidelity, 1805 409 The Gleaner. Suggested by a Picture, 1828 410 The Labourer’s Noon-day Hymn, 1834 410 To the Lady Fleming, on seeing the Foundation preparing for the Erection of Rydal Chapel, Westmoreland, 1823.... On the same Occasion, 1823 412 The Force of Prayer; or, the Founding of Bolton Priory. A Tradition, 1808 412 A Fact, and an Imagination; or, Canute and Alfred, on the Sea-shore, 1816 413 A little onward lend thy guiding hand, 1816 413 The Sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields, 1819 414 Upon the same Occasion, 1819 414 The Wishing Gate Destroyed 415 Dion, 1816 415 Presentiments, 1830 417 Lines written in the Album of the Countess of Lonsdale. Nov. 5, 1834 418 Poor Robin 419 To a Redbreast — (in sickness) by S. H 419 Floating Island, by D. W 419 Inscription on the Banks of a Rocky Stream .... 419 To , upon the Birth of her First-born Child, March 1833 429 The Warning. A Sequel to the foregoing, 1833 . 420 If this great world of joy and pain. 1833 422 Humanity, 1829 422 Lines suggested by a Portrait from the pencil of F. Stone, 1834 423 The foregoing Subject resumed, 1834 424 Memory, 1823 425 Ode to Duty, 1805 425 EVENING VOLUNTARIES. Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose, 1832..- 426 Not in the lucid intervals of life \V!t 426 By the Side of Rydal Mere, 1834 426 Soft as a cloud is yon blue Ridge — the Mere, 1834 427 The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill, 1834 427 The Sun that seemed so mildly to retire. (On a high part of the Coast of Cumberland, Easter Sunday, April 7, 1833 ; the Author’s Sixty- third Birth-day) 427 By the Sea-side, 1833 428 The sun has long been set, 1804 428 “ Throned in the Sun’s descending car” 428 Composed by the Sea-shore 429 The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love 429 To the Moon. Composed by the Sea-side, — on the Coast of Cumberland, 1835 429 To the Moon. Rydal, 1835.. 430 How beautiful the Queen of Night, on high 430 To Lucca Giordano, 1846 430 Who but is pleased to watch the Moon on high, 1846 430 Where lies the truth? has man, in Wisdom’s creed, 1846 431 Notes to Poems of Sentiment and Reflection 432 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Epistle to Sir George Howland Beaumont, Bart. From the South-West Coast of Cumberland. 1811 434 Upon perusing the foregoing Epistle thirty Years after its Composition 436 Prelude, prefixed to the Volume entitled “ Poems chiefly of Early and Late Years.” 1842.... 437 To a Chiui. Writteir. ia her Album 437 CONTENTS. xxi Ode on the Installation of Prince Albert as Chan- cellor of the University of Cambridge, 1847. 437 Translation of Part of the First Book of THE .®NEID 439 SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER, MODERN- ISED. The Prioress’ Tale 441 The Cuckoo and the Nightingale 443 Troilus and Cresida 446 INSCRIPTIONS. In the Grounds of Coleorton, the Seat of Sir George Beaumont, Bart., Leicestershire, 1808 449 In a Garden of the Same 449 Written at the Request of Sir George Beaumont, Bart., and in his Name, for an Urn, placed by him at the Termination of a newly-planted Avenue 449 For a Seat in the Groves of Coleorton, 1808 449 Written with a Pencil upon a Stone in the Wall of the House on the Island at Grasmere 450 Written with a Slate Pencil on a Stone, on the Side of the Mountain of Black Comb, 1813. . 450 Written with a Slate Pencil upon a Stone, near a deserted Quarry upon one of the Islands at Rydal, 1800 450 Inscriptions supposed to be found in and near a Hermit’s Cell, 1818. 1 . Hopes what are they? — Beads of morning.. 451 2. Pause, Traveller ! whosoe’er thou be 451 3. Hast thou seen with flash incessant 451 4. Near the Spring of the Hermitage 451 5 . Not seldom, clad in radiant vest 452 For the Spot where the Hermitage stood on St. Herbert’s Island, Derwent-water, 1800 452 In these fair vales hath many a Tree, (Rydal Mount) 1830 452 The Massy Ways, carried across these heights, 1826 452 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF OLD AGE. The Old Cumberland Beggar, 1798 453 The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale, 1803 455 The Small Celandine, 1804 456 The Two Thieves ; or, the Last Stage of Avarice, 1800 456 Animal Tranquillity and Decay, 1798 456 I know an Aged man constrained to dwell, 1846 . 457 Sonnet. — To an Octogenarian, 1846 457 EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. Epitaphs Translated from Chiabrera. — Perhaps some needful service of the State 458 O Thou who movest onward with a mind 458 There never breathed a man who, when his life 458 Destined to war from very infancy 459 Not without heavy grief of heart did He 459 Pause, courteous Spirit! — Balbi supplicates .. 459 Weep not, beloved Friends ! nor let the air 459 True is it that Ambrosio Salinero 459 O flower of all that springs from gentle blood. . 460 | Six months to six years added he remained 460 Cenotaph 460 Epitaph in the Chapel-yard of Langdale, West- moreland 460 Address to the Scholars of the Village School of 460 By the Side of the Grave some years after 461 Lines composed at Grasmere, during a Walk one Evening, after a stormy Day, the Autiior having just read in a Newspaper that the Dissolution of Mr. Fo.x was hourly expected, 1806 461 Elegiac Verses, in Memory of my Brother, John Wordsworth, Commander of the E. 1. Com- pany’s Ship the Earl of Abergavenny, in which he perished by Calamitous Shipwreck, Feb. 6, 1805 462 Lines written in a Copy of “The Excursion,’’ upon hearing of the Death of the late Vicar of Kendal 463 Elegiac Stanzas, suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm, painted by Sir George Beaumont, 1805 463 To the Daisy, 1805 463 Once I could hail (howe’er serene the sky), 1826. 464 Elegiac Stanzas. Addressed to Sir G. H. B., upon the Death of his Sister-in-Law 465 Invocation to the Earth. February, 1816 465 By a Blest Husband guided, Mary came 466 Elegiac Musings in the Grounds of Coleorton Hall, the Seat of the late Sir G. H. Beaumont, Bart., 1830 466 Written after the Death of Charles Lamb, 1835.. 467 Extempore Effusion upon the Death of James Hogg, 1835 468 Inscription for a Monument [to Southey,] in Crosthwaite Church, in the Vale of Keswick 469 Sonnet on the Death of his Grandchild, 1846 .... 469 ODE. Intimations of Immortality from Re- collections OF Early Childhood, 1803 — 6. 470 Notes 472 THE PRELUDE; or, Growth of a Poet’s mind. An Autobiographical Poem. Advertisement 474 Book I : Introduction. — Childhood and School-Time... 476 Book II : School-Time. — {Continued.) 482 Book III : Residence at Cambridge 486 Book IV: Summer Vacation 492 Book V : Books 496 Book VI: Cambridge and the Alps 502 Book VII : Residence in London 509 Book VIII: Retrospect. — Love of Nature leading to Love of Man 516 ;gYii CONTENTS. Book IX: Residence in France Book X: Residence in France. — {Continued) Book XI : France. — Concluded) Book XII: Imagination and Taste, How Impaired and Re- stored Book XIII: Imagination and Taste, How Impaired and Re- stored. — {Concluded) Book XIV: Conclusion THE EXCURSION. Dedication Preface to the Edition of 1814 Book I : The Wanderer Book II : The Solitary Book HI : Despondency Book IV: Despondency Corrected Book V : The Pastor 593 Book VI: The Church-yard among the Mountains....... 603 Book VII: The Church-yard among the Mountains. — {Continued) gj4 Book VIII: The Parsonage ggl Book IX: Discourse of the Wanderer, and an Evening Visit to the Lake g3o Notes to the Excursion ggg APPENDIX, PREFACES, ETC., ETC. Preface to the Edition of 1815 g4j Dedication, prefixed to the Edition of 1815 648 Essay, Supplementary to the Preface g49 Preface to the Second Edition of several of the foregoing Poems, published with an additional Volume under the Title of “ Lyrical Ballads,” 660 Note on Poetic Diction gyo Memoir of the Rev. Robert Walker 572 Description of the Country of the Lakes 679 Essay upon Epitaphs 700 Postscript, etc., 1835 707 Index to the Poems Index to the First Lines 522 528 533 538 541 544 550 551 553 562 571 580 TABLE OF GENERAL TITLES POEMS WKITTEN IN YOUTH Page 25 An Evening Walk 25 Descriptive Sketches 29 The Borderers 45 POEMS KEFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD 73 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS 87 POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES 131 POEMS OF THE FANCY 137 The Waggoner 153 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION 163 Peter Bell 194 Miscellaneous Sonnets 215 Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1803 287 Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1814 249 Poems Dedicated to National Independence and Liberty 253 Sonnets Dedicated to Liberty and Order , 272 Sonnets upon the Punishment of Death 275 Memorials of a Tour on the Continent, 1820 278 The River Duddon 293 Yarrow Revisited, etc., etc 300 Poems of a Tour in the Summer of 1833 307 Memorials of a Tour in Italy, 1837 318 The White Doe of Rylstone 328 Ecclesiastical Sonnets 348 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION 393 Evening voluntaries 420 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 434 SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER MODERNISED 441 INSCRIPTIONS 449 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF OLD AGE 453 EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES 458 Ode. Intimations of Immortality 470 THE PRELUDE 474 THE EXCURSION 650 APPENDIX, ETC., ETC 641 LNDEx 717 ^ -■ 'vrv r Ijfl • ■ '~ A • ■* ', fhr -' , '■ * A-:* ^ ■V • . >^ . ♦- . fc*i «• ; ..?V. ... .V....;.. ff 4 ;? VSl . >■’.-'. ■ . . -. s-i -r; . ."T^ f«?A^ riM ?%-: ^^4*. «i. if *•' V 4 ''‘ * * *? ■ ^_, , . - ■?: . iV - ^ >V wa./£^ *. o -V - 4 *.--v‘* 1 Aw.i' ■ ^'- * «■.< *'i>^- ; t V ► i V . . .. .>: -■ . • ■<.&.• v-' ^ I ' 1 * '»• ni* V.J'-' *,V^’ ■;*'•' L^'-* r^' -fl . ..r «.. .i ■’'*1 #r. J i 1^. . . , .s. 5 f • » •’*"• * «:* ■* f A - ^ I f '^WUh 4> *'FVr ^ * f^IRfcv^ POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH EXTRACT FROM THE CONCLUSION OF A POEM, COMPOSED UPON LEAVING SCHOOL. De.\k 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 — 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. Far 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 ; D Where, deep embosomed, shy* Winander peeps ’Mid clustering isles, and holly-sprinkled steeps; Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite’s shore. 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? To show what pleasures yet to me remain. Say, will my Friend, with unreluctant ear. The history of a poet’s evening hear? 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 k;ngth upon the green ; And round the humming elm, a glimmering scene ! * These lines are only applicable to the middle part of that lake. 1 In the beginning of winter, these mountains are frequented by woodcocks, which in dark nights retire into the woods. 3 2G 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 templing 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,+ As by enchantment, an obscure retreat Opened at once, and stayed my devious feet. While thick above the rill the branches close, In rocky basin its w’ild 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 bridge}; Half gray, half shagged with ivy to its ridge ; Whence hangs, in tlie 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 ’iMid 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 cliff, 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, t Ghyll is also, I believe, a term confined to this country Glen, ghyll, and dingle, have the same meaning. } The reader who has made the tour of this country will recognise, in this description, the features which characterise the 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 skiffs, at anchor where with umbrage wide Yon chestnuts half the latticed hoat-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 spai kling 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 broon^ ; While the sharp slope the slackened team confounds, Downward the ponderous timber-wain resoundsH ; 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 ; $“ Vivid rings of green.” — Greenwood’s Poem on Shooting. 11 “ Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings.” — Be.vttie. IT “ Dolcemenie feroee.” — Tasso. — In this description of the cock, I remembered a spirited one of the same animal in I'Agiv culture, ou Les Georgiquos Francoises, of M Roasuet POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 27 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 ho 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 hive 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 cliff’s 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 aegis 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 Essays. Anon, in order mounts a gorgeous sliow 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 glean 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-*'aving 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 lake 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 affection 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 crush your flowery walk ; Or, from 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, t See a description of an appearance of this kind in Clarke’s Survey of the Lakes, accompanied by vouchers of its veracity, that may amuse the reader. 28 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Or, starling up with noise and rude delight, 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 ; 1 hear, while in the forest depth, he sees The Moon’s fixed gaze between the opening trees. In broken sounds her 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, that 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 glow-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 ; ’i\Iid groves of clouds that crest the mountain’s brow. And round the West’s proud lodge their shadows throw. Like Una shining on her gloomy way. The half-seen form of Twilight roams astray ; Shedding, through paly loopholes mild and small, Gleams that upon the lake’s still bosom 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 enclianted 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, n6 more. Lost in the thickened darkness, glimmers hoar; And, towering from the sullen dark-brown mere, Like a black wall, the 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, they fade away : Yet still the lender, vacant gloom remains ; Still the cold cheek its shuddering tear retains. The bird, who ceased, with fading light, to threaf 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 Aether’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, where 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 hamlets 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 W'eary 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 ; POEMS WKITTEN IN YOUTH. 20 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 w'oods, of lonely hound. DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES, TAKEN DUrfiNG A PEDESTRIAN TOUR AMONG THE ALPS. TO THE REV. ROBERT JONES, FELLOW OF ST. JOlI.v’s COLLEGE, 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. IIovv 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 w’liich 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 Orison Gipsy — Sckellcnen-thal — Lake of Uri — Stormu 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 icilh Views of the higher Alps — Golden Age of the Alps — Life and Views continued — Ranz des Vaches, famous Swiss Ah 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. 30 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Yet not unrecompensed the man shall roam, Wno 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 t “1, alternating with ready ease. Feeds the clear current of his sympathies. For him sod seats the cottage door adorn ; Arid 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 I Upward he looks — “ and calls it luxury ; Kind Nature’s charities his steps attend; In every babbling brook he finds a friend ; While chastening thoughts 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 Memnnn’s lyre ;* Blesses the Moon that comes with kindly ray. To light him shaken by his rugged way ; Witli 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. Vfhile unsuspeiided 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. * Ttie lyre of Meinnon is reported to have emitted melan- choly or cheerfol tones, as it was touched by the suit’s evening or morning rays. That thundering tube the aged angler hears. And swells the groaning torrent with his tears; From Bruno’s forest screams the affrighted jay. And slow the insulted eagle wheels away. The cross, by angels on the aerial rock Planted!, a flight of laughing demons mock. The “ parting Genius” sighs with hollow breath Along the mystic streams of Life and Death.! Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds Portentous through 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 dfeeps. —To towns, whose shades of no rude sound complaij. 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 sai, 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 car ; Soft 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 .Minding to crosLses seen on the tops of the spiry rocks of Cliartreuse, which have every appearance of being inacces sible. { Names of Rivers at the Chartreuse. § Name of one of the valleys of the Chartreuse POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 31 Whose flaccid sails in forms fantastic droop, Brightening the gloom where tliick 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 we.stern hills, to fold Its green-tinged margin in a blaze of gold ; From thickly-glittering 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-off 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 an 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 afiir rich orange lustres glow Round undistinguished clouds, and rocks, and snow ; Or, led where 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. * The nver along whoso banks 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 suffering 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 cliffs, their deafening load Tumbles, — the wildering Thunder slips abroad ; On the high suminits 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,! 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,j; 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 her weary eyes. She hears, upon the mountain forest’s brow. The death-dog, howling loud and long below; On viewless fingers counts the vallej^-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 gujf Ascending, nearer howls the famished wolf. While through the stillness scatters wild dismay Her babe’s small cry, that leads him to his p*ey. Now, passing Urseren’s open vale serene. Her quiet streams, and hills of downy green, t Most of tlie bridges among the Alps are of wood, and co vered ; these bridges have a heavy appearance, and rather injure the effect of the scenery in some placc.s. t“ Red came the river down, and loud and oft The angry Spirit of the water shrieked.” Home’s Douglas. 32 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 crosses! 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-huts^ delighted sleep Along the brightened gloom reposing deep : While pastoral pipes and streams the 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 tlirough 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 deaths of travellers by the fall of snow and other accidents are very common along this dreadful road. 1 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 skiff, Tliridding 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 scat beneath their casement shade The pilgrim’s wistful eye hath never stayed. — TJiere, 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 ski! Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale ; There, list at midnight till is heard no more, Below, the echo of Jiis parting oar. ’Mid stormy vapours ever driving by. Where ospreys, cormorants, and herons cry. Hovering o’er rugged wastes too bleak to rear Tliat 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, Sliy as the jealous chamois. Freedom flies. And often grasps her sw'ord, 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 stonn ; 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 coming night ; But what a sudden 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 tliat 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, W’hile burn in his full eyes the glorious tears rOEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 33 And who that walks where men of ancient days Have wrouglit with godlike arm the deeds of praise, Peels not the spirit of the place control, Exalt, and agitate, his labouring soul 1 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 cliff 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 him the day-star glitters small and bright. Shorn of its beams, insufferably white, And he can look beyond the sun, and view Those fast->-3ceding 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 thiough echoing pines the headlong Aarl * 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. E Or rather stay to taste the mild delights Of pensive Underwalden’sf pastoral heights? — Is there who ’mid these awful wilds has seen The native Genii walk the mountain g’reen 1 Or heard, while other worlds their charms reveal. Soft music from the aerial summit steal ? While o’er the desert, answering every close. Rich steam 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 su^h 1| ; 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 cliffs 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 scanfy 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 ; JTlie people of this Canton are supposed to be of a more melancboly disposition than the other inhabitants of the Alps this, if true, may proceed from their living more secluded. ^This pictitre is from the middle region of the Alps. 11 Sugh, a Scotch word expressive of the sound of the w ina through the trees. 34 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Tlien Summer leng-thened out his season bland, And with rock-honey flowed tlie 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 food the treacherous cliffs to dare. Then the milk-thistle bade those herds demand Three times a day the pail and welcome hand. But human vices have provoked the rod Of angry Nature to avenge her God. Tims 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 through 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, WHiile 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 his 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 stops 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 shooting 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 ; 1 Huge Pikes of Darkness named, of Fear and Stormsi Lift, all serene, their still, illumined forms, j 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 employs 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 NEeffcIs, near Giants, where three hundred and thirty men defeated an army of be- tween fifteen and twenty thousand Austrians. Scattered ovei the valley are to be found eleven stones, with this inscription, 1388, the year the battle was fought, marking out, as I was told upon tlie spot, the several places where the Austrians attemp* ing to make a stand were repulsed anew. t .As Schreck-IIorn, the pike of terror; Wetter-IIom. the piles of stonns, “ By Derwent’s side my father dwelt — a man Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred; And I believe that, soon as I began 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. XXIV A little croft we owned — a olot of corn, A garden stored with peas, and mn.i, and thyme. And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday morn Plucked while the church bells rang their earliest cliime. Can I forget our freaks at shearing time ! My hen’s rich nest through long grass scarce e.spied ; Tlie cowslip’s gathering in June’s dewy prime; The swans that with white chests upreared in pride Rushing and racing came to meet me at the water-side \ XXV. The staff I well remember which upbore The bending body of my active sire ; His seat beneath the honied 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 ; Our watchful house-ilog, that would tease and tire The stranger till its barking fit I checked ; The red-breast, known for years, which at my casement pecked. XXVI. The suns of twenty summers danced along, — Too 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, lioping for a day When fortune miglit put on a kinder look ; But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they ; He from his old hereditary nook Must part; the summons came; — our final leave we took. POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 41 XXVII. 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 ! XXVIII. There was a youth whom 1 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. XXIX. Two years were passed since to a distant town He had repaired to ply a gainful trade: What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown I What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed I 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. XXX. We lived in peace and comfort; and were blest With daily bread, by constant toil supplied. Three lovely babes had laid upon my breast ; And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed. And knew not why. My happy father died. When threatened war reduced the children’s meal : Thrice happy ! that for him the grave could hide The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel, And tears that flowed for ills which patience might not heal. XXXI. ’Twas 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 clear 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. XXXII. There were we long neglected, and we bore Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weighed ; Green fields before us, and our native shore. We oreathed a pestilential air, that made F Ravage for which no knell was heard. We prayed For our departure; wished and wished — nor knew, ’MiePthat long sickness and those hopes delayed. That happier days we never more must view. The parting signal streamed — at last the land withdrew. XXXIII. 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 glooir} sleep. Untaught that soon such anguisli must ensue, Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap. That we the mercy of the waves should ru': We reached the western world, a poor devoted crew. XXXIV. The pains and plagues that on our heads came dow’i Disease and famine, agony and fear. In wood or wilderness, in camp or town. It would unman the firmest heart to hear. All perished — all in one remorseless year. Husband and children I 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.” XXXV. Here paused she of all present thought forlorn. Nor voice, nor sound, that moment’s pain expressed Yet nature, with excess of grief o’erborne. From her full eyes their w'atery load released. He too was mute ; and, ere her weeping ceased. He rose, and to the ruin’s portal went. And saw the dawn opening the silveiy east With rays of promise, north and soutliward sent; And soon with crimson fire kindled the firmament. XXXVI. “ O come,” he cried, “ come, after w'eary night Of such rough storm, this happy change to view.” So forth she came, and eastward looked ; the sight Over her brow, like dawn of gladness tlirew; Upon her cheek, to which its youthful hue Seemed to return, dried the last lingering tear. And from her grateful heart a fresh one drew : The whilst her comrade to her pensive cheer Tempered fit words of hope; and the lark warbled near. XXXVII. They looked, and saw a lengthening road, and wain That rang down a bare slope not far remote : The barrows glistered bright with drops of rain. Whistled the wagoner with merry note, The cock far off sounded his clarion tliroat; But town, or farm, or hamlet, none they viewed. Only were told there stood a lonely cot A long mile thence. While thither they pursued Their way, the Woman thus her mournful tale renewed 4 * 42 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. XXXVII. “Peaceful as this immeasurable plain Is now, by 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. How quiet ’round me ship and ocean were! As quiet all within me. I was blest, And looked, and fed upon the silent air Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. XXXIX. Ah ! how unlike those late terrific sleeps, And groans tliat rage of racking famine spoke; The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps, The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke, Tlie shriek tliat 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! XL. Some mighty gulf of separation past, I seemed transported to another world ; A thouglit 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 come. XLI. And ofl I thought (my fancy w'as 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 all but heaven disowned. And end my days upon the peaceful 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. XLII. No help I sought, in sorrow turned adrift. Was hopeless, as if cast on some bare rock ; Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift. Nor raised my hand at any door to knock. I lay where, w’ith his drowsy mates, the cock From the cross-timber of an outhouse 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. XLIII. So passed a second day ; and, when the third Was come, I tried in vain the crowd’s resort. — In deep despair, by frightful wishes stirred, f*6ar 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 recal. XLIV. Borne to a 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 cold formality. Fretting the fever round the languid heart. And groans which, as they said, might make a dead man start. XLV. ' These things just served to stir the slumbering sense, Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. W’ith 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 faggot blazed: The travellers saw me weep, my fate inquired. And gave me food — and rest, more welcome, more desired. XLVI. Rough potters seemed they, trading soberly With panniered asses driven from door to door; But life of happier sort set forth to me. 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, while jocund June Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon. XLVII. 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 tip-toe 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. XLVIII. W’hat could I do, unaided and unblest? 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. Nor was I then for toil or service fit ; My deep-drawn sighs no effiirt could confine; In open air forgetful would I sit Whole hours, with idle arms in moping sorrow knit. POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 43 XLIX. The roads I paced, I loitered through the fields ; Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused. Trusted my life to what chance 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. L. Through tears the rising sun I oft have viewed. Through tears have seen liim towards that world descend Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude : Three years a wanderer now my course 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. LI. True sympathy the sailor’s looks expressed, Ilis looks — for pondering he was mute the while. Of social order’s care for wretchedness. Of time’s sure help to calm and reconcile, Joy’s second spring and hope’s long-treasured smile, ’Twas not for him to speak — a man so tried. Vet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style Proverbial words of comfort he applied. And not in vain, while they went pacing side by side. Ln. Ere long, from heaps of turf, before their sight. Together smoking in the sun’s slant beam. Rise various wreaths that into one unite Which high and higher mounts with silver gleam; Fair spectacle, — but instantly a scream Thence bursting shrill did all remark prevent; They paused, and heard a hoarser voice blaspheme. And female cries. Their course they thither bent. And met a man who foamed with anger vehement. LIII. A woman stood with quivering lips and pale. And, pointing to a little child that lay Stretched on the ground, began a piteous tale; How in a simple freak of thoughtless play He had provoked his father, who straightway. As if each blow were deadlier than the last. Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with dismay The soldier’s widow heard and stood aghast; And stern looks on the man her grey-haired comrade cast. LIV. His voice with indignation rising high Such further deed in manhood’s name forbade; Tbo peasant, wild in passion, made reply With bitter insult and revilings sad ; Asked him in scorn what business there he had ; What kina of plunder he was hunting now; The gallows would one day of him be glad ; — Though inward anguish damped the sailor’s blow. Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would allow. LV. Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretched With face to earth ; and, as the boy turned round His battered head, a groan the sailor fetched As if he saw — there and upon that ground — Strange repetition of the deadly wound He had himself inflicted. Through his brain At once the griding iron passage found ; Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain. Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear rest^-ain. LVI. Within himself he said — What hearts have w« ! The blessing this a father gives his child! Yet happy thou, poor boy I compared with me, Suffering not doing ill — fate far more mild. The stranger’s looks and tears of wrath beguiled The father, and relenting thoughts awoke ; He kissed his son — so all was reconciled. Then, with a voice which inward trouble broke Ere to his lips it came, the sailor them bespoke. Lvir. “Bad is the world, and hard is the world’s law Even for the man who wears the warmest fleece ; Much need have ye that time more closely draw The bond of nature, all unkindness cease. And that among so few there still be peace : Else can ye hope but with such numerous foes YMur pains shall ever with your years increase 1” — While from his heart the appropriate lesson flows, A correspondent calm stole gently o’er his woes. LVIII. Forthwith the pair passed on; and down they look Into a narrow valley’s pleasant scene Where wreaths of vapour tracked a winding brook. That babbled on through groves and meadows green; A low-roofed house peeped out the trees between ; The dripping groves resound with cheerful lays. And melancholy lowings intervene Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze. Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the sun’s rays. LIX. They saw and heard, and winding with the road Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale ; i Comfort by prouder mansions unbestowed Their weary frames, she hoped, would soon regale. Erelong they reached that cottage in the dale It was a rustic inn ; — the board was spread. The milk-maid followed with her brimming pail, And lustily the master carved the bread. Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in comfort fed. 44 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. LX. Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part; Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees. She rose and bade farewell! and, while her heart Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow ease. She left him there ; for, clustering round his knees, With his oak staff the cottage children played; And soon she reached a spot o’erhung with trees And banks of ragged earth ; beneath the shade Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed. LX I. A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood ; Chequering the canvas roof the sunbeams shone. She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood As the wain fronted her, — wherein lay one, A pale-faced woman, in disease far gone. The carman wet her lips as well behoved ; Bed under her lean body there was none. Though even to die near one she most had loved She could not of herself those wasted limbs have moved. Lxn. The soldier's widow learned with honest pain And homefelt force of sympathy sincere. Why thus that worn-out wretch must there sustain The jolting road and morning air severe. The wain pursued its way; and following near In pure compassion she her steps retraced Far as the cottage. “ A sad sight is here,” She cried aloud ; and forth ran out in haste The friends whom she had left but a few minutes p LXIII. W’hile to the door witli eager speed they ran. From her bare straw the woman half upraised Her bony visage — gaunt and deadly wan; No pity asking, on the group she gazed With a dim eye, distracted and amazed ; Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan. Fervently cried the housewife — “God be praised, I have a house that I can call my own ; Nor shall she perish there, untended and alone !” LXIV. So in they bear her to the chimney seat. And busily, though yet witli fear, untie Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet And chafe her temples, careful hands apply. Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh She strove, and not in vain, her head to rear; Then said — “I thank you all; if I must die. The God in heaven my prayers for yon will hear; Till now I did not think my end had been so near. LXV. “Barred every comfort labour could procure. Suffering what no endurance could assuage, I was compelled to seek my father’s door. Though loth to be a burthen on his age. But sickness stopped me in an early stage Of my sad journey; and within the wain They placed me — there to end life’s pilgrimage. Unless beneath your roof I may remain : For I shall never see my father’s door again. LXVI. ® “ My life. Heaven know's, hath long been burthensome ; But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek May my end be! Soon will this voice be dumb: Should child of mine e’er w’ander hither, speak Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek. — Torn from our hut, that stood beside the sea Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome creek. My husband served in sad captivity On shipboard, bound till peace or death should set him free. , LXVII. “A sailor’s w’ife I knew a widow’s cares. Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed ; Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily prayers : Our heavenly Father granted each day’s bread ; Till one was found by stroke of violence dead. Whose body near our cottage chanced to lie ; A dire suspicion drove us from our shed ; In vain to find a friendly face we try. Nor could we live together those poor boys and I ; LXIX. Alas ! the thing she told with labouring breath The sailor knew too well. That wickedness His hand had wrought ; and when, in the hour of death, lie saw his wife’s lips move his name to bless With her last words, unable to suppress His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive; And, weeping loud in this extreme distress. He cried — “Do pity me! That thou shouldst live I neither ask nor wish — forgive me, but forgive!” j LXX. To tell the change that voice within her wrought j Nature by sign or sound made no essay ; I A sudden joy surprised expiring thought, i And every mortal pang dissolved away. Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay ; Yet still while over her the husband bent, A look was in her face which seemed to say, “ Be blest ; by sight of thee from heaven was sent Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of content.” LXVIII. “ For evil tongues made oath how on that day My husband lurked about the neighbourhood ; Now he had fled, and whither none could say. And he had done the deed in the dark wood — Near his own home! — but he was mild and good; Never on earth was gentler creature seen ; He’d not have robbed the raven of its food. My husband’s loving kindness stood between Me and all worldly harms and wrongs however keen.” POEMS WKITTEN IN TOUT II. 45 LXXI. She slept in peace, — his pulses throbbed and stopped, Breathless he g-azed upon her face, — then took Her hand in his, and raised it, but both dropped. When on his own he cast a rueful look. His ears were never silent; sleep forsook His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead; All night from time to time under him shook The floor as he lay shuddering on his bed ; And oft he groaned aloud, “ O God, that I were dead !” LXXIl. The soldier’s widow lingered in the cot; And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care Through which his wife, to that kind shelter brought. Died in his arms ; and with those thanks a prayer” He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair. The corse interred, not one hour he remained Beneath their roof, but to the open air A burthen, now with fortitude sustained. He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned. LXXIII. Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared For act and suffering, to the city straight He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared ; “And from your doom,” he added, “now I wait. Nor let it linger long, the murderer’s fate.” Not ineffectual was that piteous claim : “O welcome sentence which will end though late,” He said, “the pangs that to my conscience came Out of that deed. My trust. Saviour! is in thy name!” LXXIV. His fate was pitied. Him in iron case (Reader, forgive the intolerable thought) They hung not : — no one on his form or face Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought; No kindred sufferer, to his death-place "brought By lawless curiosity or chance. When into storm the evening sky is wrought, Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance, And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance. THE BORDERERS, ^ Eraccbjj. (Composed 1795 - 6 .)* Readers already acquainted with my Poems will recognise, in the following composition, some eight or ten lines, which I have not scrupled to retain in the places where they originally stood. It is proper however to add, that they would not have been used else- where, if I had foreseen the time when 1 might be induced to publish this Tragedy. February 28, 1842. ACT I. Scene, road in a Wood. Wallace and Lacy. Lacy. The troop will be impatient; let us hie Back to our post, and strip the Scottish foray Of their rich spoil, ere they recross the border. — Pity that our young chief will have no part In this good service. Wa/. Rather let us grieve That, in the undertaking which has caused His absence, he hath sought, whate’er his aim. Companionship with one of crooked ways, From whose perverted soul can come no good To our confiding, open-hearted, leader. Lacy. True; and, remembering how the band hav* proved That Oswald finds small favour in our sight. Well may we wonder he has gained such power Over our much-loved captain. Wa^. I have heard Of some dark deed to which in early life His passion drove him — then a voyager Upon the midland Sea. You knew his bearing In Palestine ] Lacy. Where he despised alike Mohammedan and Christian. But enough ; Let us begone — the band may else be foiled. [Exeunt Enter Marmaduke and Wilfred. Wil. Be cautious, my dear master! Mar, j perceive That fear is like a cloak which old men huddle About their love, as if to keep it warm. Wil. Nay, but I grieve that we should part. Thi. stranger. For such he is Mar. Your busy fancies, Wilfred, Might tempt me to a smile ; but what of him ? Wil. You know that you have saved his life. I know i- dramatis persons. Marmaduke. Oswald. Wallace. Lacy. I-ENNOK. Of the band of Borderers. Herbert. WlLFRED.ServanltoMARMADDKE, Host. Forester. Eldred, a Peasant. Peasant, Pilgrims, &c. Idonea. Female Beggar. Eleanor, Wife to Eldred. Scene, Borders of England and Scotland. Time, the Reign of Henry III. * See Note 3. Wil. And that he hates you ! — Pardon me, perhaps That word was hasty. Mar. Fy ! no more of it. Wil. Dear master ! gratitude ’s a heavy burden To a proud soul — Nobody loves this Oswald- Yourself, you do not love him. Mar. j f]Q more, I honour him. Strong feelings to his heart Are natural ; and from no one can be learnt More of man’s thoughts and ways than his experience Has given him power to teach: and then for courage And enterprise — what perils hath he shunned ’ 4G WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. What obstacles hath he failed to overcome? Answer these questions, from our common knowledge, And be at rest. Wil. Oh, Sir ! Mar. Peace, my good Wilfred ; Repair to Liddesdale, and tell the band I shall be with them in two days, at farthest. Wil. May He whose eye is over all protect you ! \_Exil. Enter Oswald, (a bunch of plants in his hand.) Osw. This wood is rich in plants and curious simples. Mar. {looking at them.) The wild rose, and the poppy, and the nightshade : Which is your favourite, Oswald? Osw. That which, while it is Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal — {^Looking forward. Not yet in sight ! — We ’ll saunter here awhile ; They cannot mount the hill, by us unseen. Mar. {a letter in his hand.) It is no common thing when one like you Performs these delicate services, and therefore I feel myself much bounden to you, Oswald ; ■Tis a strange letter this! — You saw her write it? Osw. And saw the tears with which she blotted it. Mar. And nothing less would sati.sfy Imn ? Osw. No less ; For that another in his child’s affection Should hold a place, as if ’t were robbery. He seemed to quarrel with the very thought. Besides, I know not what strange prejudice Is rooted in his mind ; this band of ours. Which you’ve collected for the noblest ends. Along the confines of the Esk and Tweed To guard the innocent — he calls us “Outlaws;” And, for yourself, in plain terms he asserts This garb was taken up that indolence Might want no cover, and rapacity Be better fed. Mar. Ne’er may I own the heart That cannot feel for one, helpless as he is. Osw. Thou know’st me for a man not easily moved. Yet was I grievously provoked to think Of what I witnessed. Mar. This day will suffice To end her wrongs. Osw. But if the blind man’s tale Should yet be true ? Mar. Would it were possible ! Did not the soldier tell thee that himself. And others who survived the wreck, beheld Tlie Baron Herbert perish in the waves Upon the coast of Cyprus? Osw. Yes, even so, And I had heard the like before; in sooth. The tale of this his quondam Barony Is cunningly devised ; and, on the back O*” his forlorn appearance, could not fail To make the proud and vain his tributaries. And stir the pulse of lazy charity. The seignories of Herbert are in Devon ; We, neighbours of the Esk and Tweed: ’tis much The Arch-impostor Mar. Treat him gently, Oswald; Though I have never seen his face, methinks. There cannot come a day when I shall cease To love him. I remember, when a boy Of scarcely seven years’ growth, beneath the Elm That casts its shade over our village school, ’T was my delight to sit and hear Idonea Repeat her father’s terrible adventures. Till all the band of play-mates wept together; And that was the beginning of my love. And, through all converse of our later years. An image of this old man still was present^ When I had been most happy. Pardon me If this be idly spoken. Osw. See, they come. Two travellers I Mar. {points.) The woman is Idonea. Osw. And leading Herbert. Mar. We must let them pass ■ This thicket will conceal us. [They step aside. Enter Idonea, leading Herbert blind. Idon. Dear fiither, you sigh deeply; ever since We left the willow shade by the brook-side. Your natural breathing has been troubled. Her. Nay, You are too fearful ; yet must I confess, Our march of yesterday had better suited A firmer step than mine. Idon. That dismal Moor — In spite of all the larks that cheered our path, I never can forgive it: but how steadily You paced along, when the bewildering moonlight Mocked me with many a strange fantastic shape !■ - I thought the convent never would appear; It seemed to move away from us : and yet. That you are thus the fault is mine ; for the air Was soft and warm, no dew lay on the grass. And midway on the waste ere night had fallen I spied a covert walled and roofed with sods — A miniature; belike some shepherd-boy. Who might have found a nothing-doing hour Heavier than work, raised it; within that hut We might have made a kindly bed of heatb. And thankfully there rested side by side Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited strength, Have hailed the morning sun. But cheerily, father,- That staff of yours, I could aldost have heart To fling ’t away from you : you make no use Of me, or of my strength ; — come, let me feel That you do press upon me. There — indeed You are quite exhausted. Let us rest awhile On this green bank. [He sits down. POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 47 Her. {after some lime.) Idonea, you are silent, And I divine the cause. I Jon. Do not reproach me: I pondered patiently your wish and will When I g-ave way to your request ; and now, When I behold the ruins of that face. Those eyeballs jlark — dark beyond hope of light. And think that they were blasted for my sake. The name of Marmaduke is blown away : Father, I would not change that sacred feeling For all this world can give. Her. Nay, be composed : Few minutes gone a faintness overspread My frame, and 1 bethought me of two things I ne’er had heart to separate — my grave. And thee, my child ! Mon. Believe me, honoured sire ! ’Tis weariness that breeds these gloomy fancies. And you mistake the cause: you hear the woods Resound with music, could you see the sun. And look upon the pleasant face of Nature Her. I comprehend thee — I should be as cheerful As if we two were twins ; two songsters bred In the same nest, my spring-time one with thine. My fancies, fancies if they be, are such As come, dear child! from a far deeper source Than bodily weariness. While here we sit I feel my strength returning. — The bequest Of tliy kind patroness, which to receive We have thus far adventured, will suffice To save thee from the extreme of penury; But when thy father must lie down and die. How will thou stand alone 1 Mon. Is he not strong I Is he not valiant 1 Her. Am I then so soon Forgotten! have my warnings passed so quickly Out of thy mind 1 My dear, my only child ; Thou vvouldst be leaning on a broken reed — This Marmaduke Mon. O could you hear his voice : Alas! you do not know him. He is one (I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him with you) All gentleness and love. His face bespeaks A deep and simple meekness: and that soul. Which with the motion of a virtuous act Flashes a look of terror upon guilt. Is, after conflict, quiet as the ocean. By a miraculous finger, stilled at once. Her. Unhappy w'oman ! Mon. Nay, it was my duty Thus much to speak; but think not I forget — Dear father! how couM I forget and live — You and the story of that doleful night Wlien, Antioch blazing to her topmost towers. You rushed into the murderous flames, returned Blind as the grave, but, as you oft have told me, Clasping your infant daugliter to your heart. Her. Thy mother too !— scarce had I gained the door, I caught her voice; she threw lierself upon me, ' I felt thy infant brother in her arms; She saw my blasted face — a tide of soldiers That instant rushed between us, and I heard I Her last death-shriek, distinct among a thousand. Mon. Nay, father, stop not ; let me hear it all. ! Her. Dear daughter ! precious relic of that time — For my old age, it doth remain with thee To make it what thou wilt. 7’hou hast been told. That when, on our return from Palestine, I found how my domains had been usurped, I took thee in my arms, and we began Our wanderings together. Providence At length conducted ns to Rossland, — there. Our melancholy story moved a stranger To take thee to her home — and for myself, Soon after, the good Abbot of St. Cuthbert’s Supplied my helplessness with food and raiment, And, as thou know’st, gave me that humble cot Where now we dwell. — For many years 1 bore 1 Thy absence, till old age and fresh infirmities Exacted thy return, and our reunion. I did not think that, during that long absence. My child, forgetful of the name of Herbert, Had given her love to a vvild freebooter. Who here, upon the borders of the Tweed, Doth prey alike on two distracted countries. Traitor to both. Mon. Oh, could you hear his voice ! I will not call on Heaven to vouch for me. But let this kiss speak what is in my heart. Enter a Peasant. Pea. Good morrow, strangers! If you want a guide. Let me have leave to serve you ! ' Mon. My companion Hath need of rest ; the sight of hut or hostel Would be most welcome. Pea. Yon white hawthorn gained. You will look down into a dell, and there Will see an ash from which a sign-board hangs; The house is hidden by the shade. Old man. You seem worn out with travel — shall I support you? Her. I thank you; but, a resting-place so near, ’T were wrong to trouble you. Pea. God speed you both. [Exit Peasant. Her. Idonea, we must part. Be not alarmed — ’T is but for a few days — a thought has struck me. Mon. That I should leave you at this house, and thence Proceed alone. It shall be so; for strength Would fail you ere our journey’s end be reached. [Exit Herbert, supported by Idonea. Re-enter Marmadure and Oswald. Mar. This instant will we stop him Osw. Be not hasty. For, sometimes, in despite of my conviction, 48 WOllDSWOKTirS POETICAL AYORKS. lie tempted me to think the story true; ’T is plain he loves the maid, and what he said That savoured of aversion to thy name Appeared tlie jremiine colour of his soul — Anxiety lest mischief should befal her After his death. J\Iar. I have been much deceived. Osw. But sure he loves the maiden, and never love ('ould find delight to nurse itself so strangely, Thus to torment her with inventions — death — There must be truth in this. Mur. Truth in his story ! He must have felt it then, known what it was. And in such wise to rack her gentle heart Had been a tenfold cruelty. Osw. Strange pleasures Do we poor mortals cater for ourselves! To see him thus provoke her tenderness With tales of weakness and infirmity ! I’d wager on his life for twenty years. Mar. We will not waste an hour in such a cause. Osw. Why, this is noble! shake lier off at once. Mar. Her virtues are his instruments. — A man Who has so practised on the world’s cold sense. May well deceive his child — what! leave her thus, A prey to a deceiver? — no — no — no — ’T is but a word and then Osw. Something is here More tiian we see, or whence this strong aversion? IMarmaduke ! I suspect unworthy tales Have readied his ear — you have had enemies. Mar. Enemies ! — of his own coinage. Osw. That may be. But wherefore slight protection such as you Have power to yield ? perhaps he looks elsewhere. — 1 am perplexed. Mar. What hast thou lieard or seen ? Osw. No — no — the thing stands clear of mystery ; (As you have said) he coins himself the slander With wliich he taints her ear; — for a plain reason; He dreads the presence of a virtuous man Like you ; he knows your eye would search his heart. Your justice stamp upon his evil deeds The punishment they merit. All is plain: It cannot be Mar. What cannot be ? Osw. Yet that a father Should in his love admit no rivalship. And torture thus the heart of his own child Mur. Nay, you abuse my friendship ! Dsw. Heaven forbid ! — There was a circumstance, trifling indeed — It struck me at the time — yet I believe , I never should have thought of it again But for the scene which we by chance have witnessed. Mar. What is your meaning? Osw. Two days gone I saw. Though at a distance and he was disguised. Hovering round Herbert’s door, a man whose figure Resembled much that cold voluptuary. The villain, Clifford. ^ He hates you, and he knows Where he can stab you deepest. Mar. Clifford never Would stoop to skulk about a cottage door — It could not be. Osiv. And yet I now remember. That, when your praise was warm upon my tongue. And the blind man was told how you had rescued A maiden from the ruffian violence Of this same Clifford, he became impatient And would not hear me. Mar. No — it cannot be — I dare not trust myself with such a thought — Yet whence this strange aversion? You are a man Not used to rash conjectures Osw. If you deem it A thing worth further notice, we must act With caution, sift the matter artfully. [Exeunt Marmaduke aaid Oswald. Scene, the door of the Hostel. Herbert, Idonea, and Host. Her. (sealed.) As I am dear to you, remember, child 1 This last request. ldo7i. You know me, sire; farewell! Her. And are you going then? Come, come, Idonea, We must not part, — I have measured many a league Wlien these old limbs had need of rest, — and now I will not play the sluggard. Idon. Nay, sit down. [Turning to Host. Good host, such tendance as you would expect From your own children, if yourself were sick. Let this old man find at your hands; poor Leader, [Looking at the dog. We soon shall meet again. If thou neglect This charge of thine, then ill befal thee ! — Look, Tlie little fool is loth to stay behind. Sir Host! by all the love you bear to courtesy. Take care of him, and feed the truant well. Host. Fear not, I will obey you ; — but one so young. And one so fair, it goes against my heart That you should travel unattended, lady ! — I have a palfrey and a groom : the lad Shall squire you, (would it not be better, sir?) And for less fee than I would let him run For any lady I have seen this twelvemonth. Idon. You know, sir, I have been too long your guard Not to have learnt to laugh at little fears. Why, if a wolf should leap from out a thicket, A look of mine would send him scouring back. Unless I differ from the thing I am When yon are by my side. Her. Idonea, wolves Are not the enemies that move my fears. POEMS WKITTEN IN YOUTH. 49 Idon. No more, I pray, of this. Three days at farthest Will bring me back — protect him. Saints — farewell! \_Exil Idonea. Host. ’T is never drought with us — St. Cuthbert and his pilgrims. Thanks to them, are to us a stream of comfort: Pity the maiden did not wait a while ; She could not, sir, have failed of company. Her. Now she is gone, I fain would call her back. Host, (calling.) Holla ! Her. No, no, the business must be done. — What means this riotous noise 1 Host. The villagers Are flocking in — a wedding festival — That’s all — God save you, sir. Enter Oswald. Osw. Ha I as I live. The Baron Herbert. Host. Mercy, the Baron Herbert! Osw. So far into your journey ! on my life. You are a lusty Traveller. But how fare you J Her. Well as the wreck I am permits. And you, sir? Osw. I do not see Idonea. Her. Dutiful girl. She is gone before, to spare my weariness. But what has brought you hither? Osw. A slight affair. That will be soon despatched. Her. Did Marmaduke Receive that letter? Osto. Be at peace. — The tie Is broken, you will hear no more of him. Her. This is true comfort, thanks a thousand times! — That noise ! — would I had gone with her as far As the Lord Clifford’s castle: I have heard That, in his milder moods, he has expressed Compassion for me. His influence is great With Henry, our good king; — the Baron might Have heard my suit, and urged my plea at court. No matter — he ’s a dangerous man. — That noise ! — ’T is too disorderly for sleep or rest. Idonea would have fears for me, — the convent Will give me quiet lodging. You have a boy, good host, And he must lead me back. Osw. You are most lucky ; I have been waiting in the wood hard by For a companion — here he comes ; our Journey Enter Marmaduke. Lies on your way; accept us as your guides. Her. Alas! I creep so slowly. Osw. Never fear; We ’ll not complain of that. Her. My limbs are stiff And need repose. Could you but wait an hour? Osw. Most willingly ! — Come, let me lead you in. G And, while you take your rest, think not of us; We’ll stroll into the wood ; lean on my arm. [Conducts Herbert into the house. Exit RIaumaduke. Enter Villagers. Osw. (to himself coming out of the Hostel.) I have prepared a most apt instrument — The vagrant must, no doubt, be loitering somewhere About this ground ; she hath a tongue well skilled. By mingling natural matter of her own With all the daring fictions I have taught her, To win belief, such as my plot requires. [Exit Oswald. Enter more Villagers, a Musician among them. Host, (to them.) Into the court, my friend, and perch yourself Aloft upon the elm-tree. Pretty maids. Garlands and flowers, and cakes and merry thoughts. Are here, to send the sun into the west More speedily than you belike would wish. Scene changes to the Wood adjoining the Hostel — M.armaduke and Oswald entering. Mar. I would fain hope that we deceive ourselves: When first I saw him sitting there, alone. It struck upon my heart I knew not how. Osw. To-day will clear up all. — You marked a cottage. That ragged dwelling close beneath a rock By the brook-side : it is the abode of one, A maiden innocent till ensnared by Clifford, Who soon grew weary of her; but, alas ! What she had seen and suffered turned her brain. Cast off by her betrayer, she dwells alone. Nor moves her hands to any needful work : She eats her food which every day the peasants Bring to her hut; and so the wretch has lived Ten years; and no one ever heard her voice; But every night at the first stroke of twelve She quits her house, and, in the neighbouring churchyard Upon the self-same spot, in rain or storm. She paces out the hour ’twixt twelve and one She paces round and round an infant’s grave. And in the churchyard sod her feet have worn A hollow ring; they say it is knee-deep Ah! what is here? [A female Beggar rises up, rubbing her eyes as if in sleep — a child in her arms. Oh ! gentlemen, I thank you ; I’ve had the saddest dream that ever troubled The heart of living creature. — My poor babe Was crying, as I thought, crying for bread When I had none to give him ; whereupon I put a slip of foxglove in his hand. Which pleased him so, that he was hushed at once: b 50 WOIlDSWORTirS POETICAL WORKS. When, into one of tliose same spotted bells A bee came darting-, which the child with joy Imprisoned there, and held it to his car. And suddenly grew black, as he would die. Mar. We iiave no time for this, my babbling gossip; Here 's what will comfort you. [Gives her money. Beg. The Saints reward you For this good deed ! — Well, sirs, this passed away; And afterwards I fancied, a strange dog. Trotting alone along the beaten road. Came to my child as by my side he slept. And, fondling, licked his face, then on a sudden Snapped fierce to make a morsel of his head : But here he is, [kissing the child] it must have been a dream. Osw. When next inclined to sleep, take my advice. And put your head, good woman, under cover. Beg. Oh, sir, yon would not talk thus, if you knew What life is this of ours, how sleep will master Tlie weary-worn. — You gentle folk have got Warm chambers to your wish. I ’d rather be A stone than what I am. — But two nights gone, The darkness overtook me — wind and rain Boat hard upon my head — and yet I saw A glow-worm, through tlie covert of the furze, Shine calmly as if nothing ailed the sky: At which I half accused the God in Heaven. — ^’ou must forgive me. Oslo. Ay, and if you think The fairies are to blame, and you should chide Your favourite saint — no matter — this good day Has made amends. Beg. Thanks to you both ; but, O sir ! How would you like to travel on wliole hours As I have done, my eyes upon tlie ground. Expecting still, I knew not how, to find A piece of money glittering through the dust. Mar. This woman is a prater. Pray, good lady ! Do you tell fortunes! Beg. O, sir, you are like the rest. This little-one — it cuts me to the heart — Well ! they might turn a beggar from their doors, But there are mothers who can see the babe Here at my breast, and ask me where 1 bought it: This they can do, and look upon my face — But you, sir, should be kinder. Mar. Come hither, fathers, And learn what nature is from tliis poor wretch ! Beg. Ay, sir, there’s nobody that feels for us. Why now — but yesterday I overtook A blind old greybeard and accosted him, r th’ name of all the saints, and by the Mass He should have used me better ! — Charity ! If yon can melt a rock, he is your man ; But ril be even w-ith him — here again Have I been waiting for him. Osw. Well, but softly, Wlio is it that hath wronged you! Beg. Mark you me ; I’ll point him out; — a maiden is his guide. Lovely as Spring’s first rose ; a little dog. Tied by a woollen cord, moves on before j With look as sad as he were dumb ; the cur, I owe him no ill will, but in good sooth He does his master credit. Mar. As I live, ’T is Herbert and no other! Beg. ’T is a feast to see him, Lank as a ghost and tall, his shoulders bent. And long beard white with age — yet evermore. As if he were the only saint on earth. He turns his face to heaven. Osw. But why sc violent Against this venerable man! Beg. I ’ll tell you : He has the very hardest heart on earth ; , I had as lief turn to the Friar’s school And knock for entrance, in mid holiday. Mar. But to your story. Beg. I was saying. Sir — Well ! — he has often spurned me like a toad. But yesterday was worse than all ; — at last I overtook him, sirs, my babe and I, And begged a little aid for charity: But he was snappish as a cottage cur. Well then, says I — I’ll out with it; at which I cast a look upon the girl, and felt As if my heart would burst; and so I left him. Osw. I think, good woman, you are the very person Whom, but a few days past, I saw in Eskdale, At Herbert’s door. Beg. Ay ; and if truth were known I have good business there. Osw. I met you at the threshold, And he seemed angry. Beg. Angry! well he might; And long as I can stir I’ll dog him. — Yesterday, To serve me so, and knowing that he owes The best of all he has to me and mine, i But ’t is all over now. — That good old lady Has left a power of riches ; and I say it. If there’s a lawyer in the land, the knave Shall give me half. Osw. What ’s this ! — I fear, good woman, You have been insolent. Beg. And there ’s the Baron, I spied him skulking in his peasant’s dress. Osw. How say you! in disguise! — Mar. But what ’s your business j With Herbert or his daughter ! I Beg. Daughter! truly — { But how ’s the day ! — I fear, my little boy, ' We ’ve overslept ourselves. — Sirs, have you seen him ! [ Offers to go. Mar. I must have more of this; — you shall not stir An inch, till I am answered. Know you aught That doth concern this Herbert! POEMS WKITTEN IN YOUTH. 51 Beg. You are provoked, And will misuse me, sir! Mar. No trifling, woman ! — Osw. You are as safe as in a sanctuary ; Speak. Mar. Speak! Beg. He is a most hard-hearted man. 3Iar. Your life is at my mercy. Beg. Do not harm me. And I will tell you all ! — You know not, sir. What strong temptations press upon the poor. Osw. Speak out. Beg. O, sir, I ’ve been a wicked woman. Osw. Nay, but speak out ! Beg. He flattered me, and said What harvest it would bring us both ; and so, I parted with the child. Mar. Parted with whomi Beg. Idonea, as he calls her ; but the girl Is mine. Mar. Yours, woman ! are you Herbert’s wife 1 Beg. Wife, sir! his wife — not I; my husband, sir. Was of Kirkoswald — many a snowy winter We ’ve weathered out together. My poor Gilfred ! He has been two years in his grave. Mar. Enough. Osw. We’ve solved the Middle — Miscreant! Mar. Do you. Good dame, repair to Liddesdale, and wait For my return ; be sure you shall have justice. Osw. A lucky woman! — go, you have done good service. [AsMe. Mar. {to himself.) Eternal praises on the power that saved her ! — Osw. {gives her money.) Here’s for your little boy — and when you christen him I ’ll be his godfather. Beg. O, sir, you are merry with me. In grange or farm this Hundred scarcely owns A dog that does not know me. — These good folks. For love of God, I must not pass their doors ; But I ’ll be back with my best speed : for you — God bless and thank you both, my gentle masters. [Exit Beggar. Mar. {to himself.) The cruel viper ! — Poor devoted maid. Now I do love thee. Oslo. I am thunderstruck. Mar. Where is she — holla ! [Calling to the Beggar, who returns; he looks at her steadfastly. You are Idonea’s mother? — Nay, be not terrified — it does rne good To look upon you. Osw. {interrupting.) In a peasant’s dress You saw, who was it? Beg. Nay, I dare not speak ; He is a man, if it should come to his ears I never shall be heard of more. Osw. Lord Cliflord? Beg. What can I do? believe me, gentle sirs, I love her, though I dare not call her daughter. Osw. Lord Cliflord — did you see him talk with Herbert? Beg. Yes, to my sorrow — under the great oak At Herbert’s door — and when he stood beside The blind man — at the silent girl he looked With such a look — it makes me tremble, sir. To think of it. Osw. Enough ! you may depart. Mar. {to himself.) Father! — to God himself we cannot give A holier name ; and, under such a mask. To lead a spirit spotless as the blessed. To that abhorred den of brutish vice ! — Oswald, the firm foundation of my life Is going from under me; these strange discoveries — Looked at from every point of fear or hope. Duty, or love — involve, I feel, my ruin. ACT II. Scene, A chamber in the Hostel — Oswald alone, rising from a table on which he had been writing. Osw. They chose him for their chief! — what covert part He, in the preference, modest youth, might take, I neither know nor care. The insult bred More of contempt than hatred ; both are flown ; That either e’er existed is my shame : ’T was a dull spark — a most unnatural fire That died the moment the air breathed upon it. — These fools of feeling are mere birds of winter That haunt some barren island of tlie north, Where, if a famishing man stretch forth his hand. They think it is to feed them. I have left, him To solitary meditation ; — now For a few swelling phrases, and a flash Of truth, enough to dazzle and to blind. And he is mine for ever — here he comes. Enter Marmaduke. Mar. These ten years she has moved her lips all day And never speaks ! Oslo. Who is it ? Mar. I have seen her. Osw. Oh ! the poor tenant of that ragged homestead, Her whom the monster, Clifford, drove to madness. Mar. I met a peasant near the spot; he told me. These ten years she had sate all day alone Within those empty walls. Osw. I too have seen her; Chancing to pass this way some six months gone. At midnight, I betook me to the churchyard : 52 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. The moon shone clear, the air was still, so still The trees were silent as the graves beneath them. Long did I watch, and saw her pacing round Upon the self-same spot, still round and round. Her lips for ever moving. Afar. At her door Rooted I stood ; for, looking at the woman, I thought I saw the skeleton of Idonea. Osw. But the pretended father Afar. Earthly law Measures not crimes like his. Osw. He rank not, happily. With those who take the spirit of their rule From that soft class of devotees who feel Reverence for life so deeply, that they spare The verminous brood, and cherish what they spare While feeding on their bodies. Would that Idonea Were present, to the end that we might hear What she can urge in his defence ; she loves him. A/ar. Yes, loves him; ’t is a truth that multiplies Ilis guilt a thousand-fold. Osw. ’T is most perplexing: What must be done! Afar. We will conduct her hither; These walls shall witness it — from first to last He shall reveal himself. Osw. Happy are we. Who live in these disputed tracts, that own No law but what each man makes for himself; Here justice has indeed a field of triumph. A/ar. Let us begone and bring her hither; — here The truth shall be laid open, his guilt proved Before her face. The rest be left to me. Osw. You will be firm : but though we well may trust The issue to the justice of the cause. Caution must not be flung aside ; remember, Yours is no common life. Self-stationed here, Llpon these savage confines, we have seen you Stand like an isthmus ’twixt two stormy seas That oft have checked their fury at your bidding. ’Mid the deep holds of Solway’s mossy waste, Your single virtue has transformed a band Of fierce barbarians into ministers Of peace and order. Aged men with tears Have blessed their steps, the fatherless retire For shelter to their banners. But it is, As you must needs have deeply felt, it is In darkness and in tempest that we seek The majesty of Him who rules the world. Benevolence, that has not heart to use The wholesome ministry of pain and evil. Becomes at last weak and contemptible. Y'our generous qualities have won due praise. But vigorous spirits look for something more Than youth’s spontaneous products; and to-day Ifou will not disappoint them; and hereafter Afar. You are wasting words; hear me then, once for all : You are a man — and therefore, if compassion, I Which to our kind is natural as life. Be known unto you, you will love this woman. Even as I do; but I should loathe the light. If I could think one weak or partial feeling Osw. You will forgive me Afar. If I ever knew My heart, could penetrate its inmost core, ’T is at this moment. — Oswald, 1 have loved To be the friend and father of the oppressed, A comforter of sorrow ; — there is sometliing Which looks like a transition in my soul. And yet it is not. — Let us lead him hither. Osw. Stoop for a moment ; ’t is an act of justice ; And where’s the triumph if the delegate Must fall in the execution of his office? The deed is done — if you will have it so — Hero where we stand — that tribe of vulgai; wretches (You saw them gathering for the festival) Rush in — the villains seize us Afar. Seize ! Csw. Yes, they — Men who are little given to sift and weigh — Would wreak on us the passion of the moment. Afar. The cloud will soon disperse — farewell — but stay. Thou wilt relate the story. Osw. Am I neither To bear a part in this man’s punishment, Nor be its witness ? Afar. I had many hopes That were most dear to me, and some will bear To be transferred to thee. Osw. When I’m dishonoured ! Afar. I would preserve thee. How may this be done ? Osw. By showing that you look beyond the instant. A few leagues hence we shall have open ground, And nowhere upon earth is place so fit To look upon the deed. Before we enter The barren moor, hangs from a beetling rock The shattered castle in which Clifford oft Has held infernal orgies — with the gloom. And very superstition of the place. Seasoning his wickedness. The debauchee Would there perhaps have gathered the first fruits Of this mock father’s guilt. Enter Host, conducting Herbert. flost. The Baron Herbert Attends your pleasure. Osw. (to Host.) We are ready — {to Herbert.) Sir ! I hope you are refreshed. — I have just written A notice for your daughter, that she may know What is become of you. — Y’ou ’ll sit down and sign it; ’T will glad her heart to see her father’s signature. [Gives the letter he had written. Her. Thanks for your care. [Sits down and writes. Exit Host. POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 5.S Oslo, (aside to Marmaduke.) Perhaps it would be Meanwhile the storm fell lieavy on the woods; Our little fire sent forth a cheering warmth That you too should subscribe your name. And we were comforted, and talked of comfort; [Mar.maduke overlooks Herbert — then writes— But ’t was an angry niglit, and o’er our heads examines the letter eagerly. The thunder rolled in peals that would have made Mar. I cannot leave this paper. A sleeping man uneasy in his bed. [He puts it up, agitated. O lady, you have need to love your fatlier. Osw. (aside.) Dastard ! Come. His voice - methinks I hoar it now, his voice [Marmaduke goes towards Herbert and supports When, after a broad flash that filled the cave, Ara— M armaduke tremblingly beckons Oswald He said to me, that he had seen his child, to take his place. A face (no cherub’s face more beautiful) Mar. (as he quits Herbert.) There is a palsy in Revealed by lustre brought with it from heaven; his limbs — he shakes. And it was you, dear lady [Exeunt Oswald anrHlERBERT— M armaduke Idon. God be praised, following. That I have been his comforter till now ! And will be so througli every change of fortune And every sacrifice his peace requires. — Scene changes to a Wood— a Group 0/ Pilgrims Let us be gone with speed, that he may hear and Idonea with them. First Pil. A grove of darker and more lofty shade I never saw. Sec. PiL The music of the birds Drops deadened from a roof so thick with leaves. Old Pil. This news ! It made my heart leap up with joy- Idon. I scarcely can believe it. Old Pil. Myself, I heard The Sheriff read, in open court, a letter Which purported it was the royal pleasure The Baron Herbert, who, as was supposed, Had taken refuge in this neighbourhood, Should be forthwitli restored. The hearing, lady. Filled my dim eyes with tears. — When I returned From Palestine, and brought with me a heart. Though rich in heavenly, poor in earthly, comfort, I met your father, then a wandering outcast: He had a guide, a shepherd’s boy; but grieved He was that one so young should pass his youth In such sad service; and he parted with him. We joined our tales of wretchedness together. And begged our daily bread from door to door. I talk familiarly to you, sweet lady! For once you loved me. Idon. You shall back with me And see your friend again. The good old man Will be rejoiced to greet you. Old Pil. It seems but yesterday That a fierce storm o’ertook us, worn with travel. In a deep wood remote from any town. A cave that opened to the road presented A friendly shelter, and we entered in. Idon. And I was with you ? These joyful tidings from no lips but mine. [Exeunt Idonea and Pilgrims. Old Pil. Scene, the Area of a half -ruined Castle — on one side the entrance to a dungeon — Oswald and M.vema- DUKE pacing backwards and forwards. Mar. ’T is a wild night. Osw. I’d give my cloak and bonnet For sight of a warm fire. Mar. The wind blows keen ; I My hands are numb. Osw. Ha! ha! ’t is nipping cold. I [Blowing his fingers. I long for news of our brave comrades; Lacy Would drive those Scottish rovers to their dens If once they blew a horn this side the Tweed. ! 31ar. I think I see a second range of tow'ers; This castle has another area — come, Let us examine it. I Osw. ’T is a bitter night; I hope Idonea is well housed. Tiiat horseman. Who at full speed swept by us where the wood ; Roared in the tempest, was within an ace Of sending to his grave our precious charge: That would have been a vile mischance, j It w'ould. I Osw. Justice had been most cruelly defrauded, j Mar. Most cruelly. ! Osw. As up the steep we clomb, I saw a distant fire in the north-east; I took it for the blaze of Cheviot Beacon : With proper speed our quarters may be gained To-morrow evening. But you were then a tottering little-one— We sate us down. The sky grew dark and darker: I struck my flint, and built up a small fire With rotten boughs and leaves, such as the winds Of many autumns in the cave had piled. If indeed ’t was you — ; [LooAs restlessly towards the mouth of the dan ^eon. W'hen, upon the plank, I had led him ’cross the torrent, his voice blessed me: You could not hear, for the foam beat tiie rocks With deafening noise, — the benediction fell Back on himself; but changed into a curse. 54 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Osw. As well indeed it might. Mar. And this you deem The fittest place ? Osw. {aside.) He is growing pitiful. Mar. (lisleiiing.) What an odd moaning that is ! — Osw. Mighty odd Tlie w ind should pipe a little, while we stand Cooling our heels in tliis way ! — I ’ll begin And count the stars. Mar. {still listening.) That dog of his, you are sure, Could not come after us — he must have perished; The torrent would have dashed an oak to splinters. You said you did not like his looks — that he Would trouble us; if he were here again, I swear the sight of him would quail me more Than twenty armies. Osw. How ! Mar. The old blind man. When you had told him the mischance, was troubled Even to the shedding of some natural tears Into the torrent over which he hung. Listening in vain. Osw. He has a tender heart! [Oswald offers to go down into the dungeon. Mar. How now, what mean youl Osw. Truly, I was going To waken our stray Baron. Were there not A farm or dwelling-house within five leagues. We should deserve to wear a cap and bells, I’hroe good round years, for playing the fool here In such a night as this. Mar. Stop, stop. Osw. Perhaps, You’d better like we should descend together. And lie down by his side — what say you to itl Three of us — we should keep each other warm: 1 ’ll answer for it that our four-legged friend Shall not disturb us ; further I’ll not engage; Come, come, for manhood’s sake ! Mar. These drowsy shiverings. This mortal stupor which is creeping over me. What do they mean I were this my single body Opposed to armies, not a nerve would tremble: Why do I tremble now 1 — Is not the depth Of this man’s crimes beyond the reach of thought? [ And yet, in plumbing the abyss for judgment. Something I strike upon which turns my mind Back on herself, I think, again — my breast Concentrates all the terrors of the Universe : 1 look at him and tremble like a child. Osto. Is it possible 1 ]\lar. One thing you noticed not: Just as we left the glen a clap of thunder Burst on the mountains with hell-rousing force. 4’his is a time, said he, when guilt may shudder; But there ’s a Providence for them who walk in helplessness, when innocence is with them. t At this audacious blasphemy, I thought j The spirit of vengeance seemed to ride the air. j Osw. Why are you not the man you were that moment ? [He draws Marmaduke to the dungeon. Mar. You say he was asleep, — look at this arm. And tell me if ’t is fit for such a work. Oswald, Osw’ald ! [Leans tipon Osavald. Osw. This is some sudden seizure ! 31ar. A most strange faintness, — will you hunt me out A draught of water? Osw. Nay, to see you thus Moves me beyond my bearing. — I will try To gain the torrent’s brink. [Exit Oswald. Mar. {after a pause.) It seems an age Since that man left me. — No, I am not lost. Her. {at the mouth of the dungeon.) Give me your hand; where are you. Friends? and tell me How goes the night. Mar. ’T is hard to measure time. In such a weary night, and such a place. Her. I do not hear the voice of my friend Oswald. 3Iar. A minute past, he went to fetch a draught Of water from the torrent. ’T is, you ’ll say, A cheerless beverage. Her. How good it was in you To stay behind ! — Hearing at first no answer, I was alarmed. Mar. No wonder; this is a place That well may put some fears into your heart. Her. Why so? a roofle.ss rock had been a comfort. Storm-beaten and bewildered as we were ; And in a night like this, to lend your cloaks To make a bed for me ! — My girl will weep W’hen she is told of it. Mar. This daughter of yours Is very dear to you. Her. Oil ! but you are young ; Over your head twice twenty years must roll. With all their natural weight of sorrow and pain, Ere can be known to you how much a father May love his child. Alar. Thank you, old man, for this! [Aside. Her. Fallen am I, and worn out, a useless man ; Kindly have you protected me to-night, I And no return have I to make but prayers; May you in age be blessed with such a daughter ! — When from the Holy Land I had returned Sightless and from my heritage was driven, A wretched outcast — but this strain of thought Would lead me to talk fondly. Mar. Do not fear ; Your words are precious to my ears; go on. Her. You will forgive me, but my heart runs over. When my old Leader slipped into the flood And perished, what a piercing outcry you Sent after him. I have loved you ever since. You start — where are we? Mar. O, there is no danger; The cold blast struck me. POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 55 Her. ’T was a foolish question. Mar. But when you were an outcast! — Heaven is just ; Your piety would not miss its due reward; The little orphan then would be your succour, And do good service, though she knew it not. Her. I turned me from the dwellings of my fathers. Where none but those who trampled on my rights Seemed to remember me. To tlie wide world I bore her, in my arms; her looks won pity ; She was my raven in the wilderness. And brought me food. Have I not cause to love her 1 Mar. Yes. Her. More than ever parent loved a child ! Mar. Yes, yes. Her. I will not murmur, merciful God ! I will not murmur; blasted as I have been. Thou hast left me ears to liear my daughter’s voice. And arms to fold her to my heart. Submissively Thee I adore, and find my rest in faith. Enter Oswald. Osw. Herbert! — confusion! (aside.) Here it is, my friend, ■ [Presetits the Horn. A charming beverage for you to carouse. This bitter night. Her. Ha ! Oswald ! ten bright crosses 1 would have given, not many minutes gone. To have heard your voice. Osw. Your couch, I fear, good Baron, Has been but comfortless ; and yet that place. When the tempestuous wind first drove us hither, Felt warm as a wren’s nest. You’d better turn And under covert rest till break of day. Or till the storm abate. (To Mar.maduke aside.) He has restored you. No doubt you have been nobly entertained ! But soft ! — how came he forth 1 The night-mare con- science Has driven him out of harbour! Mar. I believe You have guessed right. Her. The trees renew their murmur : Come, let us house together. [Oswald conducts him to the dungeon. Osw. (returns.) Had I not Esteemed you worthy to conduct the affair To its most fit conclusion, do you think I would so long have struggled with my nature. And smothered all that ’s man in me ! — away ! — [Looking towards the dungeon. This man’s the property of him who best Can feel his crimes. I have resigned a privilege; It now becomes my duty to resume it. Mar. Touch not a finger Osw. What then must be done! Mar. Which way soe’er I turn, I am perplexed. Osw. Now, on my life, I grieve for you. The misery Of doubt is insupportable. Pity, the facts Did not admit of stronger evidence; Twelve honest men, plain men, would set us right ; Their verdict would abolish these weak scruples. Mar. Weak ! I atn weak — there does my torment lie, Feeding itself. Osw. Verily, when he said How his old heart would leap to hear her steps. You thought his voice the echo of Idonea’s. Mar. And never heard a sound so terrible. Osw. Perchance you think so now! Mar. I cannot do it; Twice did I spring to grasp his withered throat. When such a sudden weakness fell upon me, I could have dropped asleep upon his breast. Osw. Justice — is there not thunder in the word! Shall it be law to stab the petty robber Who aims but at our purse; and shall this Parricide — Worse is he far, far worse (if foul dishonour Be worse than death) to that confiding creature Whom he to more than filial love and duty Hath falsely trained — shall he fulfil his purpose ! But you are fallen. ! Mar. Fallen should I be indeed — Murder — perhaps asleep, blind, old, alone. Betrayed, in darkness! Here to strike the blow — Away! away! [Flings away his sword. Osw. Nay, I have done with you : We’ll lead him to the convent. He shall live. And she shall love him. With unquestioned title He shall be seated in his barony. And we too chant the praise of his good deeds. I now perceive we do mistake our masters. And most despise the men who best can teach us; Henceforth it shall be said that bad men only Are brave : Clifford is brave ; and that old man Is brave. [Taking Marmaduke's sword and giving it to him. To Clillbrd’s arms he would have led His victim — haply to this desolate house. Mar. (advancing to the dungeon.) It must be ended ! — Osw. Softly ; do not rouse him ; He will deny it to the last. He lies Within the vault, a spear’s length to the left. [Mar.maduke descends to the dungeon. (Alone.) Tlie villains rose in mutiny to destroy me; I could have quelled the cowards, but this stripling Must needs step in, and save my life. 'I’he look With which he gave the boon — I see it now ! The same that tempted me to loathe tlie gift, — For this old venerable grey-beard — faith ’T is his own fault if he hath got a face W^hich doth play tricks with them that look on it ; ’T was this that put it in my thoughts — that counte- i nance — His staff — his figure — murder ! — what, of whom '! We kill a worn-out horse, and who hut women Sigh at the deed ! Hew down a withered tree. And none look grave but dotards. He may live 56 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. To thank me for tliis service. Rainbow arches, Highways of dreaming passion have too long, Young as he is, diverted wish and hope From the unpretending ground we mortals tread; — Then shatter the deliisioti, break it up And set him free. Wliat follows? I have learned That things will work to ends the slaves o’ the world Do never dream of. I have been what he — This boy — when he comes forth with bloody hands — Might envy, and am now, — but he shall know What I am now — [G'oes a7id listens at the dungeon. Praying or parleying ! — tut ! Is he not eyeless? He has been half-dead These fifteen years Enter female Beggar luith two or three of her com- panions. {Turning abruptly.') Ila ! speak — what thing art thou ? {Recognises her.) Heavens ! my good friend ! [To her. Beg. Forgive me, gracious Sir ! — Osw. {to her companions.) Begone, ye slaves, or I will raise a whirlwind And send ye dancing to tl)e clouds, like leaves. [They retire affrightetl. Beg. Indeed we meant no harm ; we lodge sometimes In this deserted castle — 1 repent me. [Oswald goes to the dungeon — listens — returns to the Beggar. Osw. Woman, thou hast a helpless infant — keep Thy secret for its sake, or verily That wretched life of thine shall be the forfeit. Beg. I do repent me, Sir; I fear the curse Of that blind man. ’T was not your money, sir Osw. Begone ! Beg. {going.) There is some wicked deed in hand : [.Aside. Would I could find the old man and his daughter. [Exit Beggar. Marmaduke re-enters from the dungeon. Osw. It is all over then; your foolish fears Are hushed to sleep, by your own act and deed, Made quiet as he is. Mar. Why came you down? And when I felt your hand upon my arm And spake to you, why did you give no answer? Feared you to waken him? he mast have been In a deep sleep. I whispered to him thrice. There are the strangest echoes in that place ! Osw. Tut ! let them gabble till the day of doom. Mar. Scarcely, by groping, had 1 reached the spot. When round my W’rist I felt a cord drawn tight. As if the blind man's dog were pulling at it. Osw. But after that? Mar. The features of Idonea Lurked in his face O.sw. Psha! Never to these eyes Will retribution show itself again With aspect so inviting. Why forbid me , To share your triumph? i Mar. Yes, her very look. Smiling in sleep Osw. A pretty feat of Fancy ! Mar. Though but a glimpse, it sent me to my prayers. Osto. Is he alive? 31ar. What mean you ? who alive? O.sw. Herbert ! since you will have it, Baron Herbert; He who will gain his Seignory when Idonea Hath become ClilFord’s harlot — is he living? I 3Iur. The old man in that dungeon is alive. I Osw. Henceforth, then, will I never in camp or field Obey you more. Your weakness, to the Band, Shall be proclaimed : brave men, tliey all shall hear it. You a protector of humanity ! Avenger you of outraged innocence ! Mar. ’T was dark — dark as the grave ; yet did I see. Saw him — his face turned tow’ard me; and 1 tell thee Idonca’s filial countenance was there To bafile me — it put me to my prayers. Upw'ards I cast my eyes, and, through a crevice, I Beheld a star twinkling above my head. And, by the living God, I could not do it. [Sinks exhausted. Oslo, {to himself.) Now may I perish if this turn do more Than make me change my course. (To Marmaduke.) Dear Marmaduke, My words were rashly spoken ; I recal them : I feel my error; shedding blood Is a most serious thing. 31ar. Not I alone, Thou too art deep in guilt. Osw. We have indeed Been most presumptuous. There is guilt m this. Else could so strong a mind have ever known These trepidations? Plain it is that Heaven Has marked out this foul wretch as one whose crimes Must never come before a mortal judgment-seat. Or be chastised by mortal instruments. Mar. A thought that’s worth a thousand worlds ! [Goes toward the dungeon. Osw. I grieve That, in my zeal, I have caused you so much pain. Mar. Think not of that ! ’t is over — we are safe. Osw. {as if to himself, yet speaking aloud.) 'I'he truth is hideous, but how stifle it? [Turning to Marmaduke. Give me your sword — nay, here are stones and frag- ments. The least of which would beat out a man’s brains; Or you might drive your head against that wall. No ! this is not the place to hear the tale : It should be told you pinioned in your bed. Or on some vast and solitary plain Blown to you from a trumpet. Mar. Why talk thus? Whate’er the monster brooding in your breast POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 57 I care not: fear I have none, and cannot fear [7'Ae sound of a horn is heard. That horn again — ’T is some one of our troop ; What do they herel Listen ! Osic. What ! dogged like thieves ! Enter Wallace and Lacy, Sic. Lacy. You are found at last, thanks to the vagrant troop For not misleading us. Osw. {looking at Wallace.) That subtle grey- beard — I ’d rather see my father’s ghost. Lacy, {to Marmaduke.) My Captain, We come by order of the band. Belike You have not heard that Henry has at last Dissolved the Barons’ League, and sent abroad His Sherifts with fit force to reinstate The genuine owners of such lands and baronies As, in these long commotions liave been seized. His power is this way tending. It befits us To stand upon our guard, and with our swords Defend the innocent. .Mar. Lacy ! we look But at the surfaces of things ; we hear Of towns in flames, fields ravaged, young and old Driven out in troops to want and nakedness; Then grasp our swords and rush upon a cure That flatters us, because it asks not thought: The deeper malady is better hid ; The world is poisoned at the heart. Lacy. What mean you '! Wal. {whose eye has been fixed suspiciously upon Oswald.) Ay, what is it you mean? Mur. Harkee, my friends ; — [Appearing gay. Were there a man who, being weak and helpless And most forlorn, should bribe a mother, pressed By penury to yield him up her daughter, A little infant, and instruct the babe. Prattling upon his knee, to call him father Lacy. Why, if his heart be tender, that offence I could forgive him. Mar. {going on ) And .should he make the child An instrument of falsehood, should he teach her To stretch her arms, and dim the gladsome light Of infant playfulness with piteous looks Of misery that was not Lacy. Troth, ’t is hard — But in a world like ours Mar. {changing his tone.) This self-same man — Even while he printed kisses on the cheek Of this poor babe, and taught its innocent tongue To lisp the name of father — could he look To the unnatural harvest of that time When ho should ffivo her up, a woman grown. To him who bid the highest in the market Of foul pollution Lacy. The whole visible world Contains not such a monster ! Mar. For this purpose Should he resolve to taint her soul by means Which bathe the limbs in sweat to think of them; Sliould he, by tales whicii would draw tears from iron. Work on her nature, and so turn compassion And gratitude to ministers of vice. And make the spotless spirit of filial love Prime mover in a plot to damn iiis victim Both soul and body Wal. ’T is too horrible ; Oswald, what say you to it? Lacy. Hew him down. And fling him to the ravens. .Mar. But his aspect It is so meek, his countenance so venerable. Wal. {with an appearance of mistrust.) But how, what say you, Oswald? Lacy, {at the same moment.) Stab him, were it i Before the altar. 3Iar. What, if he were sick. Tottering upon the very verge of life. And old, and blind Lacy. Blind; say you ? Osw. {coming forward.) Are we men. Or own we baby spirits? Genuine courage Is not an accidental (]uality, A thing dependent for its casual birth On opposition and impediment. Wi.sdom, if Justice speak the word, beats down The giant’s strength ; and, at the voice of Justice, Spares not the worm. The giant and the worm — She weighs them in one scale. The wiles of woman. And cratl of age, seducing reason, first Made weakness a protection, and obscured The moral shapes of things. His tender cries And helpless innocence — do they protect The infant lamb? and shall the infirmities. Which have enabled this enormous culprit To perpetrate his crimes, serve as a sanctuary To cover him from punishment? Shame! — Justice, Admitting no resistance, bonds alike The feeble and the strong. She needs not here Her bonds and chains, which make the mighty feeble. — We recognise in this old man a victim Prepared already for the sacrifice. Lacy. By heaven, his W'ords are reason ! Osw. Yes, my friends, His countenance is meek and venerable; And, by the Mass, to see him at his prayers ! — I am of flesh and blood, and may I perish When my heart does not ache to think of it I — Poor victim ! not a virtue under heaven But what was made an engine to ensnare thee; But yet I trust, Idonea, thou art safe. Lacy. Idonea ! Wal. How! what? your Idonea? [To Marmadckk. II C8 WORDSWOETH’S POETICAL WORKS. Mar. Mine ; Blit now no longer mine. You know Lord Clifford ; He is the man to whom the maiden — pure As beautiful, and gentle and benign, And in her ample heart loving even me — Was to be yielded up. Lacy. Now, by the head Of my own child, this man must die; my hand, A worthier wanting, shall itself entwine In his grey hairs ! — Mar. {to Lacy.) I love the father in thee. You know me, friends ; I have a heart to feel. And I have felt, more than perhaps becomes me Or duty sanctions. Lacy. We will have ample justice. Who are we, friends? Do we not live on ground Where souls are self-defended, free to grow Like mountain oaks rocked by tlie stormy wind. Mark the Almighty Wisdom, which decreed This monstrous crime to be laid open — here Where reason has an eye that she can use. And men alone are umpires. To the camp lie shall be led, and there, the country round All gathered to the spot, in open day Shall nature be avenged. O.sw. ’T is nobly thought ; His death will be a monument for ages. Mar. (to Lacy.) I tliank you for that hint. He shall be brought Before tlie camp, and would tliat best and wisest Of every country might be present. There, His crime shall be proclaimed ; and for the rest It shall be done as wisdom shall decide : Meanwhile, do you two hasten back and see That all is well prepared. Wul. We will obey you. (A^ide.) But softly ! we must look a little nearer. Mar. Tell where you found us. At some future time I will explain the cause. [Exeunt. ACT III. Scene, the door of the Hostel, a group of Pilgrims as before; Idonea and the Host among them. Host. Lady, you’ll find your father at the convent As I have told you : He left us yesterday With two companions ; one of them, as seemed. His most familiar friend. (Going.) There was a letter Of which I heard them speak, but that I fancy Has been forgotten. Idon. (to Host.) Farewell ! Host. Gentle pilgrims, St. Cuthbert speed you on your holy errand. [Exeunt Idonea and Pilgrims. Scene, a desolate Moor. Oswald (alone.) Osw. Carry him to the camp! Yes, to the camp. O, Wisdom ! a most wise resolve ! and then. That half a word should blow it to the winds ! This last device must end my work. — Methinks It were a pleasant pastime to construct A scale and table of belief — as thus — Two columns, one for passion, one for proof; Each rises as the other falls : and first. Passion a unit and against us — proof — Nay, we must travel in another path. Or we ’re stuck fast for ever ; — passion then. Shall be a unit for us; proof — no, passion! We’ll not insult thy majesty by time. Person, and place — the where, the when, j,he how, And all particulars that dull brains require To constitute the spiritless shape of Fact, They bow to, calling the idol. Demonstration. A whipping to the moralists who preach That misery is a sacred thing : for me, I know no cheaper engine to degrade a man. Nor any half so sure. This stripling’s mind Is shaken till the dregs float on the surface ; And, in the storm and anguish of the heart. He talks of a transition in his soul And dreams that he is happy. We dissect The senseless body, and why not the mind ? — These are strange sights — the mind of man upturned, Is in all natures a strange spectacle ; In some a hideous one — hem ! shall I stop? No. — Thoughts and feelings will sink deep, but then They have no substance. Pass but a few minutes. And something .shall be done wliich memory May touch, whene’er her vassals are at work. Enter Marmaduke, from behind. Osw. (turning to meet him.) But listen, for my peace Afar. Why, I believe you. Osw. But hear the proofs Afar. Ay, prove that when two peas Lie snugly in a pod, the pod must then Be larger than the peas — prove this — ’twere matter Worthy the hearing. Fool was I to dream It ever could be otherwise ! Osw. Last night When I returned with water from the brook, I overheard the villains — every word Like red-hot iron burnt into my heart. Said one, “It is agreed on. The blind man Shall feign a sudden illness, and the girl. Who on her journey must proceed alone, Under pretence of violence, be seized. She is,” continued the detested slave, “ She is right willing — strange if she were not ! — They say. Lord Clifford is a savage man ; But, faith, to see him in his silken tunic, Fitting his low voice to the minstrel’s harp. POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 59 There ’s witchery in ’t. I never knew a maid That could withstand it. True,” continued he, “ When we arranged the affair, she wept a little (Not the less welcome to my lord for that) And said, ‘ My father he will have it so.’ ” Mar. I am your hearer. Osw. This I caught, and more That may not be retold to any ear. The obstinate bolt of a small iron door Detained them near the gateway of the castle. By a dim lantern’s light I saw that wreaths Of flowers were in their hands, as if designed For festive decoration ; and they said. With brutal laughter and most foul allusion. That they should share the banquet with their lord And his new favourite. Mar. Misery ! — Osw. I knew How you would be disturbed by this dire news. And therefore chose this solitary moor. Here to impart the tale, of which, last night, I strove to ease my mind, when our two comrades. Commissioned by the band, burst in upon us. Mar. Last night, when moved to lift the avenging steel, I did believe all things were shadows — yea, Living or dead all things were bodiless. Or but the mutual mockeries of body. Till that same star summoned me back again. Now I could laugh till my ribs ached. O, fool ! To let a creed, built in the heart of things. Dissolve before a twinkling atom ! — Oswald, I could fetch lessons out of wiser schools Than you have entered, were it worth the pains. Young as T am I might go forth a teaclier. And you should see how deeply I could reason Of love in all its shapes, beginnings, ends; Of moral qualities in their diverse aspects; Of actions, and their laws and tendencies. Osw. You take it as it merits Mar. One a king. General or cham, sultan or emperor. Strews twenty acres of good meadow-ground W’ith carcases, in lineament and shape And substance, nothing differing from his own. But that they cannot stand ,ip of themselves; Another sits i’th’ sun, and by the hour Floats kingcups in the brook — a hero one We call, and scorn the other as Time’s spendthrift; But have they not a world of common ground To occupy — both fools, or wise alike. Each in his way 1 Osw. Troth, I begin to think so. Mar. Now for the corner-stone of my philosophy : I would not give a denier for the man Who, on such provocation as this earth Yield.s, could not chuck his babe beneath the chin. And send it with a flllip to its grave. Osw. Nay, you leave me behind. Mar. That such a one, So pious in demeanour ! in his look So saintly and so pure ! Hark’ee, my friend, I’ll plant myself before Lord Clifford’s castle, A surly mastiff kennels at the gate. And he shall howl and I will laugh, a medley Most tunable. Osw. In faith, a pleasant scheme; But take your sword along with you, for that Might in such neighbourhood find seemly use. — But first, how wash our hands of this old man 1 3Iar. Oh yes, tliat mole, that viper in the path; Plague on my memory, him I had forgotten. Osw. You know we left him sitting — see him yonder. Mar. Ha ! ha ! — Osw. As ’twill be but a moment’s work, I will stroll on; you follow when ’tis done. [Exeunt. Scene changes to another part of the Moor at a short distance — Herbert is discovered seated on a stone. Her. A sound of laughter, too! — ’tis well — I feared. The stranger had some pitiable sorrow Pressing upon his solitary heart. Hush ! — ’tis the feeble and earth-loving wind That creeps along the bells of the crisp heather. Alas ! ’t is cold — I shiver in the sunshine — What can this meani There is a psalm that speaks Of God’s parental mercies — with Idonea I used to sing it. — Listen — what foot is there 1 Enter Marmaduke. 3Iar. {aside — looking at Herbert.) And I have loved this man ! and she hath loved him ! And I loved her, and she loves the Lord Clifford I And there it ends; — if this be not enough To make mankind merry for evermore. Then plain it is as day, that eyes were made For a wise purpose — verily to weep with ! [Looking round. A pretty prospect this, a masterpiece Of Nature, finished with most curious skill ! (To Herbert.) Good Baron, have you ever practised tillage 1 Pray tell me what this land is worth by the acre 1 Her. How glad I am to hear your voice ! I know not Wherein I have offended you ; — last night I found in you the kindest of protectors; This morning, when I spoke of weariness. You from my shoulder took my scrip and threw it About your own ; but for these two hours past Once only have you spoken, when the lark Whirred from among the fern beneath our feet, And I, no coward in my better days. Was almost terrified. Mar. That ’s excellent I — I So, you bethought you of the many ways GO WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. In which a man may come to his end, whose crimes Have roused all nature up ag-ainst him — pshaw ! — Her. For mercy’s sake is nobody in sight] No traveller, peasant, herdsman ] Mar. Not a soul : Here is a tree, ragged, and bent, and bare. That turns its goat’s-beard flakes of pea-green moss From the stern breatliing of the rough sea-wind ; This have we, but no other company : Commend me to the place. If a man should die And leave his body here, it were all one As he were twenty fatlioms underground. Her. Where is our common friend 1 31ur. A ghost, methinks — The spirit of a murdered man, for instance — Might have fine room to ramble about here, A grand domain to squeak and gibber in. Her. Lost man ! if thou hast any close-pent guilt Pressing upon thy heart, and this tlie hour Of visitation Mar. A bold word from you ! Her. Restore him. Heaven ! Mar. The desperate wretch ! — A flower. Fairest of all flowers, was she once, but now Tliey have snapped her from the stem — Poh ! let her lie Bcsoiled witli mire, and let the houseless snail Feed on her leaves. You knew her well — ay, there. Old man ! you were a very lynx, you knew The worm was in her Her. Mercy ! Sir, what mean you] Mar. You have a daughter ! Her. O, that she were here ! — She hath an eye that sinks into all hearts. And if I have in aught offended you. Soon would her gentle voice make peace between us. Mar. (aside.) I do believe he weeps — I could weep too — There is a vein of her voice that runs through his: Even such a man my fancy boded forth From the first moment that I loved tlie maid ; And for his sake I loved her more : these tears — I did not think that aught was left in me Of what I liave been — yes, I thank thee, Heaven ! One happy thought has passed across my mind. — It may not be — I am cut off from man ; No more shall I be man — no more shall I Have human feelings! — (To Herbert.) — Now for a little more About your daughter! Her. Troops of armed men. Met in the roads, would bless us ; little children. Rushing along in the full tide of play. Stood silent as we passed them ! I have heard The boisterous carman, in tlie miry road. Check his loud whip and hail us with mild voice. And speak with milder voice to his poor beasts. Mar. And whither were you going] Learn, young man. To fear the virtuous and reverence misery, I Whether too much for patience, or, like mine. Softened till it becomes a gift of mercy. Mar. Now, this is as it should be! j Her. I am weak ! — My daughter does not know how weak I am ; And, as tliou see’st, under the arch of heaven Here do I stand, alone, to helplessness. By the good God, our common Father, doomed! — But I had once a spirit and an arm Mar. Now, for a word about your Barony : I fancy when you left the Holy Land, And came to — what’s your title — eh ] your claims Were undisputed ! Her. Like a mendicant. Whom no one comes to meet, I stood alone; — I murmured — but, remembering Him who feeds The pelican and ostrich of the desert, , From my own threshold I looked up to Heaven And did not want glimmerings of quiet hope. So, from the court I passed, and down the brook. Led by its murmur, to the ancient oak I came; and when I felt its cooling shade, I sate me down, and cannot but believe — While in my lap I held my little babe And clasped her to my heart, my heart that ached More with delight than grief — I heard a voice Such as by Cherith on Elijah called ; It said, “I will be with thee.” A little boy, A shepherd-lad, ere yet my trance was gone. Hailed us as if he had been sent from heaven. And said with tears, that he would be our guide: I had a better guide — that innocent babe — Her, who hath .saved me, to this hour, from harm. From cold, from hunger, penury, and death; To whom I owe the best of all the good I have, or wish for, upon earth — and more And higher far than lies within earth’s bounds : Therefore I bless her : when I think of man, I bless her with sad spirit, — when of God, 1 bless her in the fulness of my joy ! Mar. The name of daughter in his mouth, he prays ! With nerves so steady, that the very flies Sit unmolested on his staff — Innocent! — If he were innocent — then he would tremble And be disturbed, as I am. (Turning aside.) I have read In story, what men now alive have witnessed. How, when the people’s mind was wracked with doubt, Appeal was made to the great Judge: the accused With naked feet walked over burning ploughshares. Here is a man by nature’s hand prepared For a like trial, but more merciful. Why else have I been led to this bleak waste] Bare is it, without house or track, and destitute Of obvious shelter, as a shipless sea. Here will I leave him — here — All-seeing God! Such as he is, and sore perplexed as I am ; I will commit him to this final Ordeal! — He heard a voice — a shepherd-lad came to him POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 61 And was his guide; if once, why not again, And in tliis desert] If never — then the whole Of what he says, and looks, and does, and is. Makes up one damning falsehood. Leave him here To cold and hunger ! — Pain is of the heart. And what are a few throes of bodily suffering If they can w’aken one pang of remorse 1 [Goes vp to Herbert. Old man ! my wrath is as a flame burnt out, It cannot be rekindled. Thou art here Led by my band to save thee from perdition ; Thou wilt have time to breathe and tbink Her. O, mercy ! Mar. I know the need that all men have of mercy. And therefore leave thee to a righteous judgment. Her. My child, my blessed child ! Mar. No more of that ; Thou wilt have many guides if thou art innocent; Yea, from the utmost corners of the earth. That woman will come o’er this waste to save thee. [He pauses and looks at Herbert’s staffs. Ha ! what is herel and carved by her own hand ! [Rear/s upon the staff. “I am eyes to the blind, saith the Lord. He that puts his trust in me shall not fliil !” Yes, be it so; — ^ repent and be forgiven — God and that staff are now thy only guides. [He leaves Herbert on the Moor. ScEXE, an eminence, a Beacon on the summit. Lacy, Wallace, Lennox, &c. &c. Several of the Band, (confusedly.) But patience! One of the Band. Curses on that traitor, Oswald I — Our Captain made a prey to foul device ! — Len. (to Wal.) His tool, the wandering beggar, made last night A plain confession, such as leaves no doubt. Knowing what otherwise we know too well. That she revealed the truth. Stand by me now; For rather would I have a nest of vipers Between my breast-plate and my skin, than make Oswald my special enemy. If you Deny me your support. Lacy. We have been fooled — But for the motive? Wal. Natures such as his Spin motives out of their own bowels, Lacy ! 1 learned this when 1 was a Confessor. 1 know him well ; there needs no other motive Than that most strange incontinence in crime Whicli haunts this Oswald. Power is life to him And breath and being ; where he cannot govern. He will destroy. Lacy. To have been trapped like moles! — Ves, you are right, we need not hunt for motives: There isjio crime from w'hich this man would shrink; He recks not human law ; and I have noticed That often when the name of God is uttered, A sudden blankness overspreads his face. Len. Yet, reasoner as he is, his pride has built Some uncouth superstition of its own. Wal. I have seen traces of it. Len. Once he headed A band of Pirates in the Norway seas ; And when the King of Denmark summoned him To the oath of fealty, I well remember, ’T was a strange answer that he made ; he .«aid, “I hold of Spirits, and the Sun in heaven.” Lacy. He is no madman. Wal. A most subtle doctor Were that man, w'ho could draw the line that parts Pride and her daughter. Cruelty, from Madness, That should be scourged, not pitied. Restless minds. Such minds as find amid their fellow men No heart that loves them, none that they can love. Will turn perforce and seek for sympathy In dim relation to imagined beings. I One of the Band. What if he mean to offer up our Captain An e.xpiation and a sacrifice To those infernal fiends ! Hal. Now, if the event Should prove as Lennox has fbretold, then swear. My friends, his heart shall have as many wounds As there are daggers here. Lacy. What need of swearing! One of the Band. Let us away ! Another. Away ! A third. Hark ! how the horns Of those Scotch Rovers echo through the vale. Lacy. Stay you behind ; and when the sun is down. Light up this beacon. One of the Band. You shall be obeyed. [They go out together. Scene, the Wood on the edge of the Moor. Marmaduke (alone.) Mar. Deep, deep and vast, vast beyond human thought. Yet calm. — I could believe, that there was here The only quiet heart on earth. In terror. Remembered terror, there is peace and rest. Enter Oswald. Osw. Ha ! my dear Captain. Mar. A later meeting, Oswald, Would have been better timed. Osw. Alone, I see; You have done your duty. I had hopes, which now 1 feel that you will justify. Mar. I had fears. Prom which I have freed myself — but ’tis my wish To be alone, and therefore we must part. f. 62 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Osw. Nay, then — I am mistaken. There’s a weak- ness About you still; you talk of solitude — I am your friend. 31ar. What need of this assurance At any time! and why given now 1 Osw. Because You are now in truth my master ; you have taught me What there is not another living man Had strength to teach; — and therefore gratitude Is bold, and would relieve itself by praise. 3Iar. Wherefore press this on mel Osw. Because I feel That you have shown, and by a signal instance. How they who would be just must seek the rule By diving for it into their own bosoms. To-day you have thrown off a tyranny Tliat lives but in the torpid acquiescence Of our emasculated souls, the tyranny Of the world’s masters, with the musty rules By which they uphold their craft from age to age : You have obeyed the only law that sense Submits to recognise ; the immediate law. From the clear light of circumstances, flashed Upon an independent intellect. Henceforth new prospects open on your path ; Your faculties should grow with the demand ; I still will be your friend, will cleave to you Through good and evil, obloquy and scorn, Oft as they dare to follow on your steps. Mar. I would be left alone. Osw. {exultingly.) I know your motives ! I am not of the world’s presumptuous judges. Who damn where they can neither see nor feel. With a hard-hearted ignorance; your struggles I witnessed, and now hail your victory. 3Iar. Spare me awhile that greeting Osw. L may be, That some there are, squeamish half-thinking cowards. Who will turn pale upon you, call you murderer. And you will walk in solitude among them. A mighty evil for a strong-built mind ! — Join twenty tapers of unequal height And light them joined, and you will see the less How ’rwill burn down the taller; and they all Shall prey upon the tallest. Solitude ! — The eagle lives in solitude ! Mar. Even so. The sparrow so on the house-top, and I, The weakest of God’s creatures, stand resolved To abide the issue of my act, alone. Osw. Now would youl and for ever 1 — My young friend. As time advances either we become The prey or masters of our own past deeds. Fellowship we must have, willing or no; And if good Angels fail, slack in their duty. Substitutes, turn our faces where we may. Are still forthcoming ; some which, though they bear 111 names, can render no ill services. In recompense for what themselves required. So meet extremes in this mysterious world. And opposites thus melt into each other. Mar. Time, since man first drew breath, has never I moved , With such a weight upon his wings as now ; But they will soon be lightened. Osw. Ay, look up- Cast round your mind’s eye, and you will learn Fortitude is the child of Enterprise : Great actions move our admiration, chiefly Because they carry in themselves an earnest That we can suffer greatly. Mar. Very true. Osw. Action is transitory — a step, a blow. The motion of a muscle — this way or that — ’T is done, and in the after-vacancy We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed : Suffering’ is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity. Mar. Truth — and I feel it. What ! if you had bid Eternal farewell to unmingled joy And the light dancing of the thoughtless heart ; It is the toy of fools, and little fit For such a world as this. The wise abjure All thoughts whose idle composition lives In the entire forgetfulness of pain. — I see I have disturbed you. Mar. Ey no means. Osw. Compassion! — pity! — pride can do without them ; And what if you should never know them more ! — He is a puny soul who, feeling pain. Finds ease because another feels it too. If e’er I open out this heart of mine It shall be for a nobler end — to teach And not to purchase puling sympathy. — Nay, you are pale. Mar. It may be so. Osw. Remorse — It cannot live with thought; think on, think on. And it will die. What ! in this universe. Where the least things control the greatest, where The faintest breath that breathes can move a world ; What ! feel remorse, where, if a cat had sneezed, A leaf had fallen, the thing had never been Whose very shadow gnaws us to the vitals. Mar. Now, whither are you wandering 1 That a man So used to suit his language to the time. Should thus so widely differ from himself— It is most strange. Osjo. Murder — what’s in the word ! — I have no cases by me ready made I To fit all deeds. Carry him to the camp ! — I A shallow project; — you of late have seen More deeply, taught us that the institutes I Of nature, by a cunning usurpation POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 63 Banished from human intercour.se, exist Only in our relations to the brutes That make the fields their dwelling. If a snake Crawl from beneath our feet we do not ask A license to destroy him : our good governors Hedge in the life of every pest and plague That bears the shape of man; and for what purpose, But to protect themselves from extirpation 1 — 3'his flimsy barrier you have overleaped. Mar. My office is fulfilled — the man is now Delivered to the Judge of all things. Osw. Dead ! Mar. I have borne my burthen to its destined end. Osw. This instant we’ll return to our companions — O, how I long to see their faces again ! Enter Idonea, with Pilgrims who continue their journey. Idon. {after some time.) What, Marmaduke! now thou art mine for ever. And Oswald, too! (To Marmaduke.) On will we to my father With the glad tidings which this day hath brought; We’ll go together, and such proof received Of his own rights restored, his gratitude To God above will make him feel for ours. Osw. I interrupt you Idon. Think not so. Mar. Idonea, That I should ever live to see this moment ! Idon. Forgive me. — Oswald knows it all — he knows Each word of that unhapjjy letter fell As a blood drop from my heart. Osw. ’T was even so. Mar. I have much to say, but for whose ear? — not thine. Idon. Ill can I bear that look — Plead for me, Oswald ! You are my father’s friend. {To Marmaduke.) Alas, you know not. And never can you know, how much he loved me. Twice had he been to me a father, twice Had given me breath, and was I not to be His daughter, once his daughter? could I withstand His pleading face, and feel his clasping arms. And hear his prayer that I would not forsake him In his old age [Hides her face. Mar. Patience — Heaven grant me patience ! — She weeps, she weeps — my brain shall burn for hours Ere J can shed a tear. Idon. I was a woman ; And, balancing the hopes that are the dearest To womankind with duty to my father, I yielded up those precious hopes, which nought On earth could else have wrested from me; — if erring, O, let me be forgiven ! Mar. I do forgive thee. Idon. But take me to your arms — this breast, alas! It throbs, and you liave a heart that does not feel it. I Mar. {exultingly.) She is innocent. [7/e embraces her. Osw. {aside.) Were I a moralist, I I should make wondrous revolution here ; It were a quaint experiment to show The beauty of truth — [Addressing them- I see I interrupt you ; I shall have business with you, Marmaduke; Follow me to the hostel. [Exit Oswald. Idon. Marmaduke, This is a happy day. My father soon Shall sun himself before his native doors; The lame, the hungry, will be welcome there. No more shall he complain of wasted strength. Of thoughts that fail, and a decaying heart; His good works will be balm and life to him. Mar. This is most strange ! — I know not what it was. But there was something w'hich most plainly said. That thou wert innocent. Idon. How innocent! — O, heavens! you’ve been deceived. Mar. Thou art a woman. To bring perdition on the universe. Idon. Already I ’ve been punished to the height Of my offence. [Smiling affectionately. I see you love me still. The labours of my hand are still your joy; Bethink you of the hour when on your shoulder I hung this belt. [Pointing to the belt on which was suspended Herbert's scrip. Mar. Mercy of Heaven ! [S/nA.s. Idon. What ails you ! [Distractedly. Mar. The scrip that held liis food, and I forgot To give it back again ! Idon. What mean your words? Mar. I know not what I said — all may be well. Idon. That smile liath life in it ! Alar. This road is perilous ; I will attend you to a hut that stands Near the wood’s edge — rest there to-night, I pray you : For me, I liave business, as you heard, with Oswald, 1 But will return to you by break of day. [Exeunt. ACT IV. Scene, A desolate prospect — a ridge of rocks — a Chapel on the summit of one — Afoon behind the rocks — night stormy — irregular sound of a bell — Herbert enters exhausted. Her. That chapel-bell in mercy seemed to guide mo, But now it mocks my steps : its fitful stroke Can scarcely be the work of human hands. Hear me, ye men, upon the cliffs, if such There be who pray nightly before the Altar. O, that I had but strength to reach the place ! My child — my child — dark — dark — I faint — this wind— These stifling blasts — God help me ! 64 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Enter Eldred. Eld. Better this bare rock, Though it were tottering over a man’s head, Than a tiglit case of dungeon walls for shelter From such rough dealing. [A moaning voice is heard. Ha ! what sound is thatl Trees creaking in the wind (but none are here) Send forth such noises — and that weary bell ! Surely some evil spirit abroad to-niglit Is ringing it — ’t would stop a saint in prayer. And that — what is itl never was sound so like A human groan. Ila! what is here] Poor man — Murdered! alas! speak — speak, I am your friend: No answer — husli — lost wretch, he lifts his hand And lays it to his heart — (A'aec/s to him.) I pray you speak ! What has befallen you] Her. {feebly.) A stranger has done this, And in the arms of a stranger 1 must die. Eld. Nay, think not so: come, let me raise you up: [Aaises him. This is a dismal place — well — that is well — I was too fearful — take me for your guide And your support — my hut is not far off. {Draws him gently off the stage. Scene, a room in the 7/ostei— M armaduke and Oswald. Mar. But for Idonea ! — I have cause to think That she is innocent. Osy,. Leave that thought awhile. As one of those beliefs whicli in their hearts Lovers lock up as pearls, though oft no better Than feathers clinging to tlieir points of passion. This day’s event has laid on me the duty Of opening out my story ; you must hear it. And without further preface. — In my youth, Except for that abatement wliich is paid By envy as a tribute to desert, I was the pleasure of all hearts, the darling Of every tongue — as you are now. You’ve heard That I embarked for Syria. On our voyage Was hatched among the crew a foul conspiracy Against my honour, in the which our captain VVas, I believed, prime agent. The wind fell; We lay becalmed week after week, until The water of the vessel was exhausted ; I felt a double fever in my veins. Yet rage suppressed itself; — to a deep stillness Did my pride tame my pride; — for many days. On a dead sea under a burning sky, I brooded o’er my injuries, deserted By man and nature; — if a breeze had blown. It might have found its way into my heart. And I had been — no matter — do you mark me] Mar. Quick — to the point — if any untold crime Doth haunt your memory. Osw. Patience, hear me further! — One day in silence did we drift at noon By a bare rock, narrow, and white, and bare; No food was there, no drink, no grass, no shade, No tree, nor jutting eminence, nor form Inanimate large as the body of man. Nor any living thing whose lot of life Miglit stretch beyond the measure of one moon. To dig for water on the spot, the captain Landed with a small troop, myself being one: There I reproached him with his treachery. Imperious at all limes, his temper rose; lie struck me; and that instant had I killed him. And put an end to his insolence, but my comrades Rushed in between us; then did I insist ' (.All hated him, and I was stung to madness) That we should leave him there, alive ! — we did so. Mar. And he was famished ] Osw. Naked was the spot; Methinks I see it now — how in the sun Its stony surface glittered like a shield ; And in that miserable place we left him. Alone but for a swarm of minute creatures Not one of which could help him while alive. Or mourn him dead. Mar. A man by men cast off. Left without burial ! nay, not dead nor dying. But standing, walking, stretching forth his arms. In all things like ourselves, but in the agony With which he called for mercy; and — even so — He was forsaken] Ostc. There is a power in sounds : The cries he uttered might have stopped the boat That bore us through the water ][jfir. You returned Upon that dismal hearing — did you not] Osw. Some scoffed at him with hellish mockery. And laughed so loud it seemed that the smooth sea Did from some distant region echo us. Mar. We all are of one blood, our veins are filled At the same poisonous fountain ! 0.1W. ’T was an island Only by sufferance of the winds and waves. Which with their foam could cover it at will. I know not how he perished; but the calm. The same dead calm continued many days. Mar. But his own crime had brought on him this doom. His wickedness prepared it; these expedients Are terrible, yet ours is not the fault. Osw. The man was famished, and was innocent ! Mar. Impossible! Osw. The man had never wronged me. Mar. Banish the tliought, crush it, and be at peace. His guilt was marked — these things could never be Were there not eyes that see, and for good ends, Where ours are ba filed. POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 65 Osw. I had been deceived. Mar. And from that hour the miserable man No more was heard ofl Osw. I had been betrayed. Mar. And he found no deliverance! Osw. The crew Gave me a hearty welcome ; they had laid The plot to rid themselves, at any cost, Of a tyrannic master whom they loathed. So we pursued our voyage : when we landed. The tale was spread abroad ; my power at once Shrunk from me ; plans and schemes, and lofty hopes — All vanished. I gave way — do you attend! 31ar. The crew deceived you ! Osw. Nay, command yourself. Mar. It is a dismal night — how the wind howls! Osw. I hid my head within a convent, there Lay passive as a dormouse in mid winter. That was no life for me — I was o’erthrown. But not destroyed. Mar. The proofs — you ought to have seen The guilt — have touched it — felt it at your heart — As I have done. Osw. A fresh tide of crusaders Drove by the place of my retreat : three nights Did constant meditation dry my blood; Three sleepless nights I passed in sounding on. Through words and tilings, a dim and perilous way; And wheresoe’er I turned me, I beheld A slavery compared to which the dungeon And clanking chains are perfect liberty. You understand me — I was comforted; I saw that every possible shape of action Might lead to good — I saw it and burst forth Thirsting for some of those exploits that fill The earth for sure redemption of lost peace. [Marking Marmadxjke’s countenance. Nay, you have had the worst. Ferocity Subsided in a moment, like a wind That drops down dead out of a sky it vexed. And yet I had within me evermore A salient spring of energy ; I mounted From action up to action with a mind That never rested — without meat or drink Have I lived many days — my sleep was bound To purposes of reason — not a dream But had a continuity and substance That waking life had never power to give. Mar. O wretched human-kind ! — Until the mystery Of all this world is solved, well may we envy The worm, that, underneath a stone whose weight Would crush the lion’s paw with mortal anguish. Doth lodge, and feed, and coil, and sleep, in safety. Fell not the wrath of Heaven upon those traitors] Osw. Give not to them a thought. From Palestine We marched to Syria: oft I left the camp. When all that multitude of hearts was still. And followed on, through woods of gloomy cedar, Into deep chasms troubled by roaring streams ; I Or from the top of Lebanon surveyed The moonlight desert, and the moonlight sea: In these, my lonely wanderings, I perceived What mighty objects do impress their forms To elevate our intellectual being ; And felt, if aught on earth deserves a curse, ’Tis that worst principle of ill which dooms A thing so great to perish self-consumed. — So much for my remorse ! Mar. Unhappy man ! Osw. When from these forms I turned to contem- plate The world’s opinions and her usages, I seemed a being who had passed alone Into a region of futurity. Whose natural element was freedom Mar. Stop — I may not, cannot, follow thee. Osw. You must. I have been nourished by the sickly food ' Of popular applause. I now perceived That we are praised, only as men in us Do recognise some image of themselves, An abject counterpart of what they are, Or the empty thing tliat they would wish to be. I felt that merit has no surer test Than obloquy ; that, if we wish to serve The world in substance, not deceive by show. We must become obnoxious to its hate. Or fear disguised in simulated scorn. Mar. I pity, can forgive, you ; but those wretches— That monstrous perfidy ! Osw. Keep down your wrath. False Shame discarded, spurious Fame despised. Twin sisters both of Ignorance, I found Life stretched before me smooth as some broad way Cleared for a monarch’s progress. Priests might spin Their veil, but not for me — ’t was in fit place Among its kindred cobwebs. I had been. And in that dream had left my native land. One of Love’s simple bondsmen — the soft chain Was oft’ for ever ; and the men, from whom This liberation came, you would destroy : Join me in thanks for their blind services. Mar. ’T is a strange aching that, when we would curse And cannot, — You have betrayed me — I have done — I am content — I know that lie is guiltless — That both are guiltless, without spot or stain, I Mutually consecrated. Poor old man ! [ And I had heart for this, because thou lovedst Her who from very infancy had been Light to thy path, warmth to thy blood ! — Together [Turning to Oswald. We propped his steps, he leaned upon us both. Osw. Ay, we are coupled by a chain of adamant; j Let us be fellow-labourers, then, to enlarge I Man’s intellectual empire. We subsist I In slavery ; all is slavery ; we receive 6» 66 WORDSWOKTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Laws, but we ask not whence those laws have come ; We need an inward sting to goad us on. Mar. Have you betrayed me 1 Speak to that. Osw. The mask, Which for a season I have stooped to wear, Must be cast off. — Know then that I was urged, (For other impulse let it pass) was driven To seek for sympathy, because I saw In you a mirror of my youthful self; I would have made us equal once again. But that was a vain hope. You have struck home, With a few drops of blood cut short the business; Therein for ever you must yield to me. But what is done will save you from the blank Of living without knowledge that you live : Now you are suffering — for the future day, ’Tis his who will command it — Think of my story — Herbert is innocent. Mar. (^in a faint voice, and douhlinghj.) You do but echo My own wild words? Osw. Young man, the seed must lie Hid in the earth, or there can be no harvest ; ’T is nature’s law. What I have done in darkness I will avow before the face of day. Herbert is innocent. Mar. What fiend could prompt This action ? Innocent ! — O, breaking heart ! — Alive or dead. I’ll find him. [Exit. Osw. Alive — perdition! [Exit. Scene, the inside of a poor Cottage. Eleanor and Idonea seated. Idon. The storm beats hard— Mercy for poor or rich. Whose heads are shelterless in such a night ! A Voice without. Holla! to bed, good folks, within! Elea. O save us ! Idon. What can this mean? Elea. Alas, for my poor husband ! — We ’ll have a counting of our flocks to-morrow ; The wolf keeps festival these stormy nights : Be calm, sweet lady, they are wassailers [ The voices die away in the distance. Returning from their feast — my heart beats so — A noise at midnight does so frighten me. Idon. Hush! [Listening. Elea. They are gone. On such a night, my husband. Dragged from his bed, was cast into a dungeon, Where, hid from me, he counted many years, A criminal in no one’s eyes but theirs — Not even in theirs — whose brutal violence So dealt with him. Idon. I have a noble friend First among youths of knightly breeding, one Who lives but to protect the weak or injured. There again ! [Listening. Elea. ’T is my husband’s foot. Good Eldred Has a kind heart; but his imprisonment Has made him fearful, and he’ll never be The man he was. Idon. I will retire ; — good night ! [S/te goes within. Enter Eldred, (hides a bundle.') Eld. Not yet in bed, Eleanor! — there are stains in that frock which must be washed out. Elea. What has befallen you ? Eld. I am belated, and you must know the cause — (speaking low) that is the blood of an unhappy man. Elea. Oh ! we are undone for ever. Eld. Heaven forbid that I should lift my hand against any man. Eleanor, I have shed tears to-night, and it comforts me to think of it. , Elea. Where, where is he? Eld. I have done him no harm, but it will be forgiven me ; it would not have been so once. Elea. You have not buried any thing? You are no richer than when you left me ? Eld. Be at peace ; I am innocent. Elea. Then God be thanked — [A short pause; she falls upon his neck. Eld. To-night I met with an old man lying stretched upon the ground — a sad spectacle : I raised him up with a hope that we might shelter and restore him. Elea, (as if ready to run.) Where is he? You were not able to bring him all the way with you ; let us re- turn, I can help you. [Eldred shakes his head. Eld. He did not seem to wish for life: as I was struggling on, by the light of the moon I saw the stains of blood upon my clothes — he waved his hand as if it were all useless: and I let him sink again to the ground Elea. O, that I had been by your side ! Eld. I tell you his hands and his body were cold — how could I disturb his last moments? he strove to turn from me as if he wished to settle jnto sleep. Elea. But, for the stains of blood - Eld. He must have fallen, I fancy, for his head was cut; but I think his malady was cold and hunger. Elea. O, Eldred, I shall never be able to look up at this roof in storm or fair but I shall tremble. Eld. Is it not enough that my ill stars have kept me abroad to-night till this hour? I come home, and this is my comfort ! Elea. But did he say nothing which might have set you at ease ? Eld. I thought he grasped my hand while he was muttering something about his child — his daughter — (starting as if he heard a noise.) What is that ? Elea. Eldred, you are a father. Eld. God knows what was in my heart, and will not curse my son for my sake. Elea. But you prayed by him ? you waited the hour of his release ? Eld. The night was wasting fast ; I have no friend ; I am spited by the world— his wound terrified me— if I POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 67 had brought him along with me, and he had died in my arms! 1 am sure I heard something breathing — and this chair ! Elea. O, Eldred, you will die alone. You will have nobody to close your eyes — no hand to grasp your dying hand — I shall be in my grave. A curse will attend us all. Eld. Have you forgot your own troubles when I was in the dungeon 1 Elea. And you left him alive 1 Eld. Alive ! — the damps of death were upon him — he could not have survived an hour. Elea. In the cold, cold night. Eld. {in a savage tone.) Ay, and his head was bare ; I suppose you would have had me lend my bonnet to cover it. — You will never rest till I am brought to a felon’s end. Elea. Is there nothing to be done? cannot we go to the Convent? Eld. Ay, and say at once that I murdered him ? Elea. Eldred, I know that ours is the only house upon the waste ; let us take heart ; this man may be rich ; and could he be saved by our means, his gratitude may reward us. Eld. ’T is all in vain. Elea. But let us make the attempt. This old man may have a wife, and he may have children — let us re- turn to the spot; we may restore him, and his eyes may yet open upon those that love him. Eld. He will never open them more ; even when he spoke to me, he kept them firmly sealed as if he had been blind. Idnn. {rushing out.) It is, it is rny father — Eld. VVe are betrayed, {looking at Idonea.) Elea. His daughter ! — God have mercy I {turning to Ido.vea.) Jdon. {sinking down.) Oh ! lift me up and carry me to the place. You arc safe; the whole world shall not harm you. Elea. This lady is his daughter. Eld. {moved.) I ’ll lead you to the spot. Idon. {springing up.) Alive! — you heard him breathe? quick, quick — [Exeunt. ACT V. Scene, A wood on the edge of the Waste. Enter Oswald and a Forester. For. He leaned upon the bridge that spans the glen. And down into the bottom cast his eye. That fastened there, as it would check the current. Osw. He listened too; did you not say he listened? For. As if there came such moaning from the flood As is heard often after stormy nights. Osw. But did he utter nothing? For. See him there ! Marmaduke appearing. Mar. Buzz, buzz, ye black and winged freebooters: That is no substance which ye settle on ! For. His senses play him false; and see, his arms Outspread, as if to save hitnself from falling ! — Some terrible phantom 1 believe is now Passing before him, such as God will not Permit to visit any but a man VVho has been guilty of some horrid crime. [Marmaduke disappears. Osw. The game is up ! — For. If it be needful. Sir, I will assist you to lay hands upon him. Osw. No, no, my friend, you may pursue your busi- ness — 1 ’T is a poor wretch of an unsettled mind, i Who has a trick of straying from his keepers ; We must be gentle: leave him to my care. [Exit Forester. If his own eyes play false with him, these freaks Of fancy shall be quickly tamed by mine; The goal is reached. My master shall become A shadow of myself — made by myself. Scene, the edge of the Moor. I Marmaduke and Eldred enter from opposite sides. Mar. {raising his eyes and perceiving Eldred.) In any corner of this savage waste. Have you, good peasant, seen a blind old man ? Eld. I heard Mar. You heard him, where? when heard him ? Eld. As you know. The first hours of last night were rough with storm: I had been out in search of a stray heifer ; I Returning late, I heard a moaning sound ; Then, thinking that my fancy had deceived me, j I hurried on, when straight a second moan, A human voice distinct, struck on my ear. So guided, distant a few steps, I found An aged man, and such as you describe. Mar. You heard! — he called you to him? Of all men j The best and kindest ! — but where is he ? guide me, That I may see him. Eld. On a ridge of rocks A lonesome chapel stands, deserted now: I The bell is left, which no one dares remove; And, when the stormy wind blows o'er the peak. It rings, as if a human hand were there To pull the cord. I guess he must have heard it; And it had led him towards the precipice. To climb up to the spot whence the sound came; But he had failed through weakness. From his hand His staff had dropped, and close upon the brink Of a small pool of water he was laid, 68 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. As if he had stooped to drink, and so remained Without the strength to rise. Mar. Well, well, he lives, And all is safe: what said he] Eld. But few words: He only spake to me of a dear daughter. Who, so he feared, would never see him more; And of a stranger to him, one by whom He had been sore misused ; but he forgave The wrong and the wrong-doer. You are troubled — Perhaps you are his son 1 Mar, Tlie All-seeing knows, I did not think he had a living child. — But whither did you carry him] Eld. He was torn, Ilis head was bruised, and there was blood about him Mar. That was no work of mine. Eld. Nor was it mine. Mar. But had he strength to walk 1 I could have borne him A thousand miles. Eld. I am in poverty. And know how busy are the tongues of men ; IMy heart was willing. Sir, but I am one Whose good deeds will not stand by their own light; And, though it smote me more than words can tell, I left him. Mar. I believe that there are phantoms. That in the shape of man do cross our path On evil instigation, to make sport Of our distress — and thou art one of them! But things substantial have so pressed on me Eld. My wife and children came into my mind. Mar. O, monster ! monster ! there are three of us. And we shall howl together. After a pause, and in a feeble voice. I am deserted At my worst need, my crimes have in a net {Poinlinsr to Eldued.) Entangled this poor man. — Where was it 1 where ? \Bragging him along. Eld. ’T is needless; spare your violence. His daughter Mar. Ay, in the word a thousand scorpions lodge : This old man had a daughter. Eld. To the spot I hurried back with her. — O save me, Sir, From such a journey ! there was a black tree, A single tree ; she thought it was her father. — O, Sir, I would not see that hour again For twenty lives. The daylight dawned, and now — Nay; hear my tale, ’tis fit that you should hear it — As we approached, a solitary crow Rose from the spot ; — the daughter clapped her hands. And then I heard a shriek so terrible [Marmaduke shrinks back. The startled bird quivered upon the wing. Mar. Dead, dead ! — Eld. (after a pause.) A dismal matter. Sir, for me, ! And seems the like for you : if ’t is your wish, I ’ll lead you to his daughter ; but ’t were best That she should be prepared ; I ’ll go before. 3/«r, There will be need of preparation. [Eldred goes off. Elea, (enters.) Master! Your limbs sink under you, shall I support you 1 Mar. (taking her arm.) Woman, I’ve lent my body to the service Which now thou takest upon thee. God forbid That thou shouldst ever meet a like occasion With such a purpose in thine heart as mine was. Elea. O, why have I to do with things like these? [Exeunt. Scene changes to the door oy Eldred’s cottage — Idonea seated — enter Eldred. Eld. Your father, lady, from a wilful hand Has met unkindness; so indeed he told me. And you remember such was my report : From what has just befallen me I have cause To fear the very worst. Idon. My father is dead ; Why dost thou come to me witli words like these ? Eld. A wicked man should answer for his crimes. Idim. Thou seest me what I am. Eld. It was most heinous. And doth call out for vengeance. Idon. Do not add, I prithee, to the harm thou’st done already. Eld. Hereafter you will thank me for this service. Hard by, a man I met, who, from plain proofs Of interfering Heaven, I have no doubt. Laid hands upon your father. Fit it were You should prepare to meet him. Idon. I have nothing To do with others; help me to my father — [She turns and .sees Marmaduke leaning on Eleanor — throws herself upon his neck, and after .some lime, In joy I met thee, but a few hours past; And thus we meet again ; one human stay Is left me still in thee. Nay, shake not so. Mar. In such a wilderness — to see no thing. No, not the pitying moon ! Idon. And perish so. Mar. Without a dog to moan for him. Idon. Think not of it. But enter there and see him how he sleeps. Tranquil as he had died in his own bed. Mar. Tranquil — why not? Idon. O, peace ! Mar. He is at peace; His body is at rest ; there was a plot, A hideous plot, against the soul of man : It took effect — and yet I baffled it. In .some degree. Idon. Between us stood, I thought. POEMS WKITTEN IN YOUTH. 69 A cup of consolation, filled from Heaven For both our needs ; must I, and in thy presence, Alone partake of it? — Beloved Marmaduke! Mar. Give me a reason why the wisest thing That the earth owns shall never choose to die, But some one must be near to count his groans. The wounded deer retires to solitude. And dies in solitude : all things but man. All die in solitude. \^Moving towards the collage door. Mysterious God, If she had never lived I had not done it? — Idon. Alas, the thought of such a cruel death Has overwhelmed him. — I must follow. Eld. Lady ! You will do well; {she goes) unjust suspicion may Cleave to this stranger : if, upon his entering. The dead man heave a groan, or from his side Uplift his hand — that would be evidence. Elea. Shame ! Eldred, shame ! Mar. {holh reluming.) The dead have but one face, {lo himself.) And such a man — so meek and unoffending — Helpless and harmless as a babe : a man. By obvious signal to the world’s protection. Solemnly dedicated — to decoy him ! — Idon. O, had you seen him living ! — Mar. I (so filled With horror is this world) am unto thee The thing most precious, that it now contains : Therefore through me alone must be revealed By whom thy parent was destroyed, Idonea ! I have the proofs ! — Idon. O, miserable father! Thou didst command me to bless all mankind ; Nor to this moment have I ever wished Evil to any living thing ; but hear me. Hear me, ye Heavens! — {kneeling.) — may vengeance haunt the fiend For this most cruel murder: let him live And move in terror of the elements; The thunder send him on his knees to prayer In the open streets, and let him think he sees. If e’er he entereth the house of God, The roof, self-moved, unsettling o’er his head ; And let him, when he would lie down at night. Point to his wife the blood-drops on his pillow ! Mar. My voice was silent, but my heart hath joined thee. Idon. {leaning on Marmaduke.) Left to the mercy of that savage man ! How could he call upon his child ! — O friend ! [Turns to Marmaduke. My faithful, true, and only comforter. Mar. Ay, come to me and weep. {He kisses her.) {To Eldred.) Yes, varlet, look. The devils at such sights do clap their hands. [Eldred relircs alarmed. Idon. Thy vest is torn, thy cheek is deadly pale; Hast thou pursued the monster ? | I Mar. I have found him. — Oh ! would that thou hadst perished in the flames ! Idon. Here art thou, then can I be desolate? — 3Iar. There was a time, when this protecting hand Availed against the mighty; never more Shall blessings wait upon a deed of mine. Idon. Wild words for me to hear, for me, an orphan. Committed to thy guardianship by Heaven ; And, if thou hast forgiven me, let me hope. In this deep sorrow, trust, that lam thine For closer care ; — here, is no malady. [Taking his arm. Mar. There, is a malady — {Striking his heart and forehead.) And here, and here, A mortal malady. — I am accurst: All nature curses me, and in my heart Thy curse is fixed ; the truth must be laid bare. It must be told, and borne. 1 am the man, (Abused, betrayed, but how it matters not) Presumptuous above all that ever breathed, Who, casting as I thought a guilty person Upon Heaven’s righteous judgment, did become An instrument of fiends. Through me, througli me Thy father perished. Idon. Perished — by what mischance? Mar. Beloved ! — if I dared, so would I call thee — Conflict must cease, and, in thy frozen heart. The extremes of suffering meet in absolute peace. [He gives her a letter. Idon. {reads.) ‘Be not surprised if you hear that some signal judgment has befallen the man who calls himself your father; he is now with me, as his signa- ture will show : abstain from conjecture till you see me. ‘Herbert. ‘ Marmaduke.’ The writing Oswald’s ; the signature my father’s ; {Looks steadily at the paper.) And here is yours, — or do my eyes deceive me ? You have then seen my father? Mar. He has leaned Upon this arm. Idon. You led him towards the convent? Mar. That convent was Stone-Arthur Castle. Thither We were his guides. I on that night resolved That he should wait thy coming till the day Of resurrection. Idon. Miserable woman. Too quickly moved, too easily giving way, I put denial on thy suit, and hence. With the disastrous issue of last night. Thy perturbation, and these frantic words. Be calm, I pray thee ! Mar. Oswald Idon. Name him not. Enter female Beggar. Beg. And he is dead ! — that moor — how shall 1 cross it? I By night, by day, never shall I be able 70 WOEDSAVORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. To travel half a mile alone. — Good lady ! Forgive me ! — Saints forgive mo. Had I thought It would have come to this ! — j^on. What brings you hither 1 speak ! Beg. (j)ointing to Marmaduke). This innocent gen- tleman. Sweet heavens! I told him Such tales of your dead father I — God is my judge, I thought there was no harm ; but that bad man, lie bribed me with his gold, and looked so fierce. Mercy ! I said 1 know not what — O, pity me — I said, sweet lady, you were not his daughter— Pity me, I am haunted; — thrice this day My conscience made me wish to be struck blind ; And then I would have prayed, and had no voice. Idon. {to M.vrmaduke.) Was it my father? — no, no, no, for he Was meek, and patient, feeble, old and blind. Helpless, and loved me dearer than his life. But hear me. For one question, I have a heart That will sustain me. Did you murder him? Mar. No, not by stroke of arm. But learn the process ; Proof after proof was pressed upon me ; guilt Made evident, as seemed, by blacker guilt. Whose impious folds enwrapped even thee ; and truth And innocence, embodied in his looks. His words and tones and gestures, did but serve With me to aggravate his crimes, and heaped Ruin upon the cause for which they pleaded. Then pity crossed the path of my resolve: Confounded, I looked up to Heaven, and cast, Idonea ! thy blind father, on the ordeal Of the bleak waste — left him — and so he died ! — [Idonea sinks senseless; Beggar, Eleanor, &c., crowd round, and hear her off. Why may we speak these things, and do no more ; Why should a thrust of the arm have such a power. And words that tell these things be heard in vain? She is not dead. Why ! — if 1 loved this woman, 1 would take care she never woke again But she WILL wake, and she will weep for me, And say, no blame was mine — and so, poor fool. Will waste her curses on another name. [He walks about distractedly. Enter Oswald. Your pupil is, yon see, an apt proficient, {ironically.) Start not ! — Here is another face hard by ; Come, let us take a peep at both together. And, with a voice at which the dead will quake, Resound the praise of your morality — Of this too much. [Drawing Oswald towards the cottage — stops short at the door. Men are there, millions, Oswald, Who with bare hands would have plucked out thy heart And flung it to the dogs : but I am raised Above, or sunk below, all further sense Of provocation. Leave me, with the weight Of that old man’s forgiveness on thy heart. Pressing as heavily as it doth on mine. Coward I have been; know, there lies not now Within the compass of a mortal thought . A deed that I would shrink from ; — but to endure, That is my destiny. May it be thine : Thy office, thy ambition, be henceforth To feed remorse, to welcome every sting Of penitential anguish, yea with tears. When seas and continents shall lie between us — The wider space the better — we may find In such a course fit links of sympathy. An incommunicable rivalship Maintained, for peaceful ends beyond our view. [Confused voices — several of the band enter — rush upon Oswald and seize him. One of them. I would have dogged him to the jaws of hell! — Osw. Ha ! is it so ! — That vagrant hag ! — this comes Of having left a thing like her alive ! [Aside. Several voices. Despatch him ! If I pass beneath a rock And shout, and, with the echo of my voice. Bring down a heap of rubbish, and it crush me, I die without dishonour. Famished, starved, A fool and coward blended to my wish! [Smiles scornfully and exultingly at Marmaduke. Wal. ’T is done ! {stabs him.) Another of the band. The ruthless traitor ! Alar. . A rash deed! With that reproof I do resign a station Of which I have been proud. I Wil. {approaching Marmaduke.) O, my poor Oswald, {to himself.) Strong to o’erturn, strong also to build up. [To Marmaduke. The starts and sallies of our last encounter i Were natural enough ; but that, I trust, 1 Is all gone by. You have cast off the chains That fettered your nobility of mind — Delivered heart and head! Let us to Palestine ; This is a paltry field for enterprise. Mar. Ay, what shall we encounter next? This issue — ’T was nothing more than darkness deepening darkness, And weakness crovvned with the impotence of death ! master ! Mar. Discerning monitor, my faithful Wilfred, Why art thou here? [Tttrning to Wallace. Wallace, upon these Borders, Many there be whose eyes will not want cause To weep that I am gone. Brothers in arms ! Raise on that dreary waste a monument That may record my story : nor let words — Few must they be, and delicate in their touch As light itself— be there withheld from her Who, through most wicked arts, was made an orphan By one who° would have died a thousand times, To shield her from a moment’s harm. To you. POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 71 Wallace and Wilfred, I commend the lady, By lowly nature reared, as if to make her (n all things worthier of that noble birth. Whose long-suspended rights are now on the evo Of restoration : with your tenderest care Watch over her, I pray — sustain her Several of the band (eagerly.) Captain ! Mar. No more of that ; in silence hear my doom : A hermitage has furnished fit relief To some offenders ; other penitents, Less patient in their wretchedness, have fallen, Like the old Roman, on their own sword’s point. They had their choice : a wanderer must I go, The spectre of that innocent man, my guide. No human ear shall ever hear me speak ; No human dwelling ever give me food. Or sleep, or rest: but, over waste and wild. In search of nothing that this earth can give. But e.xpiation, will I wander on — A man by pain and thought compelled to live, Yet loathing life — till anger is appeased In Heaven, and mercy gives me leave to die. NOTES TO POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. Note 1, p. 2.5. Of the Poems in this class, “The Evening Walk” and “ Descriptive Sketches” were first published in 1793. They are reprinted with some unimportant alte- rations 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 temp- tation : but attempts of this kind are made at the risk of injuring those characteristic features which, after all, will be regarded as the principal recommendation of juvenile poems. Note 2, p. 39. ‘And, hovering, round it often did a raven fy.' From a short MS. poem read to me when an under- graduate, by my schoolfellow and friend, Charles Farish, long since deceased. The verses were by a brother of his, a man of promising genius, who died young. Note 3, p. 45. 'The Borderers' This Dramatic Piece, as noticed in its title-page, was composed in 1795-6. It lay nearly from that time till within the last two or three months unregarded among my papers, without being mentioned even to my most intimate friends. Having, however, impressions upon my mind which made me unwilling to destroy the MS., I determined to undertake the responsibility of publish- ing ft during my own life, rather than impose uixm my successors the task of deciding its fate. Accordingly it has been revised with some care; but, as it was at first written, and is now published, without any view to its exhibition upon the stage, not the slightest alteration has been made in the conduct of the story, or the com- position of the characters; above all, in respect to the two leading persons of the drama, I felt no inducement to make any change. The study of human nature sug- gests this awful truth, that, as in the trials to which life subjects us, sin and crime are apt to start from their very opposite qualities, so are there no limits to the hardening of the heart, and the perversion of the under- standing to which they may carry their slaves. During my long residence in France, while the revolution was rapidly advancing to its extreme of wickedness, I had frequent opportunities of being an eye-witness of this process, and it was while that knowledge was fresh upon my memory, that the Tragedy of “ The Borderers” , was composed. — 1842. , iflt' Iff x; ■ ..... «#«. .. .k. ih ^ •> ifAAi-r^ tMfl ! LtM#k 4J>I ^ .-Hjp i-fe'ffpi ■' ''*«PiT^ tufl .-fV0mf*‘’:.^' (<(t ^1 <1.-01 A| . . -tt. -v,,.,-*4 *•: 3Ea_.'^ 't^h - ■ >!W»P'^I^P*T * -■« w-H|tUw'»^ll»f;Tr i-S,«» . '! i HH » l y - „!~,^)f,if J •-y::^*>M- l if^ i V^'y', T «i^v3rfi*jndRMr^l . ►*.'’ ^.,'-»r ;7,iA»p^.«|wtilM'«H»i>ri^ A. -V - *iS| 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 tlirough tlie 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 the polished ice, in games Confederate, imitative of the Chase And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn. POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 81 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, EastwaS, 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 cliffs Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had rolled With visible motion her diurnal round ! Behind me did they stretch in solemn train. Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.* 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 sky. Evening now unbinds the fetters Fashioned by the glowing light; All that breathe are thankful debtors To the harbinger of night. Vet 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 indifferent to thee ! Who would check the happy feeling That inspires the linnet’s songl Who would stop the swallow, wheeling On her pinions swift and strong I Yet at this impressive season. Words which tenderness can speak From the truths of homely reason. Might exalt the loveliest eheek ; And, while shades to shades suceeeding, 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. Y’et we mark it not ; — fruits redden. Fresh flow'ers 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 fruit-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 w’hose 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 w’hich many a star Marks, not mindless of frail mortals. When his light returns from far. Thus when Thou w'ith 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. L See nole. 82 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Grasp it, — if thou shrink and tremble, Fairest damsel of the green, Thou wilt lack the only symbol That proclaims a genuine Queen; And ensures those palms of honour Whicli selected spirits wear, Bending low before the donor. Lord of Heaven’s unchanging yearl 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. I started — seeming to espy The home and sheltered bed. The Sparrow’s dwelling, which, hard by My father’s house, in wet or dry. My sister Emmeline and I Together visited. She looked at it and seemed to fear it; Dreading, tho’ wishing, to be near it: Such heart was in her, being then A little prattler among men. Tlie blessing of my later years Was with me when a boy: She gave me eyes, she gave me ears ; And liumble cares, and delicate fears; A heart, the fountain of sweet tears ; And love, and thought, and joy. THE NORMAN BOY.* High on a broad unfertile tract of forest-skirted down. Nor kept by nature for lierself, nor made by man his own, From home and company remote and every playful joy. Served, tending a few sheep and goats, a ragged Norman boy. Him never saw I, nor the spot, but from an English dame. Stranger to me and yet my friend, a simple notice came. With suit that I would speak in verse of that sequestered child Whom, one bleak winter’s day, she met upon the dreary wild. His flock, aTong the woodland’s edge with relics sprinkled o’er Of last night’s snow, beneath a sky threatening the fall of more. Where tufts of herbage tempted each, were busy at their feed. And the poor boy was busier still, with work of anxious heed. There was he, where of branches rent and withered and decayed. For covert from the keen north wind, his hands a hut had made, A tiny tenement, forsooth, and frail, as needs must be A thing of such materials framed, by a builder such as he. The hut stood finished by his pains, nor seemingly lacked aught That skill or means of his could add, but the architect had wrought Some limber twigs into a cross, well-shhped with fingers nice. To be engrafted on the top of his small edifice. The cross he now was fastening there, as the surest power and best For supplying all deficiencies, all wants of the rude nest In which, from burning heat, or tempest driving far and wide. The innocent boy, else shelterless, his lonely head must . hide. That cross belike he also raised as a standard for the true And faithful service of his heart in the worst that might ensue Of hardship and distressful fear, amid the houseless waste Where he, in his poor self so weak, by Providence was placed. Here, lady ! might I cease; but nay, let us before we part With this dear holy shepherd-boy breathe a prayer of earnest heart. That unto him, where’er shall lie his life’s appointed way, The cross, fixed in his soul, may prove an all-sufficing stay. THE POET’S DREAM, SEQUEL TO THE NORMAN BOY. Just as those final words were penned, the sun broke out in power. And gladdened all things; but, as chanced, within that very hour. Air blackened, thunder growled, fire flashed from clouds that hid the sky. And, for the subject of my verse, I heaved a pensive sigh. Nor could my heart by second thoughts from heaviness be cleared. For bodied forth before my eyes the cross-crowned hut appeared ; See Note 3. POEMS EEFERKTNG TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 83 And, while around it storm as fierce seemed troubling earth and air, I saw, within, the Norman boy kneeling alone in prayer. The child, as if the thunder’s voice spake with articu- late call. Bowed meekly in submissive fear, before the Lord of All ; His lips were moving; and his eyes, upraised to sue for grace. With soft illumination cheered the dimness of that place. How beautiful is holiness! — what wonder if the sight. Almost as vivid as a dream, produced a dream at night] It came with sleep and showed the boy, no cherub, not transformed. But the poor ragged thing whose ways my human heart had warmed. Me had the dream equipped with wings, so I took him in my arms. And lifted from the grassy floor, stilling his faint alarms. And bore him high through yielding air my debt of love to pay. By giving him for both our sakes, an hour of holiday. I whispered, Yet a little while, dear child ! thou art my own. To show thee some delightful thing, in country or in town. What shall it be? a mirthful throng? or that holy place and calm St. Denis, filled with royal tomb.s, or the Church of Notre Dame ? “ St. Ouen’s golden Shrine ? Or choose what else would please thee most Of any wonder Normandy, or all proud France, can boast !” “ My mother,” said the boy, “ was born near to a blessed tree, The Chapel Oak of Allonville; good Angel, show it me !” On wings, from broad and steadfast poise let loose by this reply. For Allonville, o’er down and dale, away then did we fly ; O’er town and tower we flew, and fields in May’s fresh verdure drest; The wings they did not flag; the child, though grave, was not deprest. But who shall show, to waking sense, the gleam of light that broke Forth from his eyes, when first the boy looked down on that huge oak. For length of days so much revered, so famous where it stands | For twofold hallowing — Nature’s care, and work of human hands? j Strong as an eagle with my charge I glided round and round The wide-spread bough.?, for view of door, window, and stair that wound Gracefully up the gnarled trunk ; nor left we imsiirveycd The pointed steeple peering forth from the centre of the shade. i I lighted — opened w’ith soft touch the chapel’s iron door, Past softly leading in the boy; and, while from roof to floor From floor to roof all round his eyes the child with wonder cast, Pleasure on pleasure crowded in, each livelier than the last. For, deftly framed within the trunk, the sanctuary showed. By light of lamp and precious stones, that glimmered here, there glowed. Shrine, altar, image, offerings hung in sign of gratitude : Sight that inspired accordant thoughts; and speech I thus renewed ; “ Hither the afflicted come, as thou hast heard thy mother say. And, kneeling, supplication make to our Lady de la Paix ; What mournful sighs have here been heard, and, when the voice was stopt By sudden pangs; what bitter tears have on this pave- ment dropt ! “ Poor shepherd of the naked down, a favoured lot is thine. Far happier lot, dear boy, than brings full many to this shrine ; From body pains and pains of soul thou needest no release. Thy hours as they flow on are spent, if not in joy, in peace. “Then offer up thy heart to God in thankfulness and praise. Give to Him prayers, and many thoughts, in thy most busy days ; And in His sight the fragile cross, on tliy small hut. will be Holy as that which long hath crowned the chapel of this tree ; “Holy as that far seen which crowns the sumptuous Church in Rome Where thousands meet to worship God under a mighty dome ; He sees tlie bending multitude, he hears the choral - rites. Yet not the less, in children’s hymns and lonely prayer, delights. 84 WORDSWOKTirS POETICAL WORKS. “ God for his service needeth not proud work of human skill ; They please him best who labour most to do in peace liis will : So let us strive to live, and to our spirits will be given Such wings as, when our Saviour calls, shall bear us up to lieaven.” The boy no answer made by words, but, so earnest was his look. Sleep fled, and with it fled the dream — recorded in this book, Lest all that passed should melt away in silence from my mind. As visions still more bright have done, and left no trace behind. But oh ! that country-man of thine, whose eye, loved child, can see A pledge of endless bliss in acts of early piety. In verse, which to thy ear might come, would treat this simple theme. Nor leave untold our happy flight in that adventurous dream. Alas the dream, to thee, poor boy ! to thee from whom it flowed. Was nothing, scarcely can be aught, yet ’t was bounte- ously bestowed. If I may dare to cherish hope that gentle eyes will read Not loth, and listening little-ones, heart-touched their fancies feed. THE WESTMORELAND GIRL.* TO MY GEANDCHILDREN. PART I. Seek who will delight in fable, I shall tell you truth. A lamb Leapt from this steep bank to follow ’Cross tlie brook its thoughtless dam. Far and wide on hill and valley Rain had fallen, unceasing rain. And the bleating mother’s young one Struggled with the flood in vain : But, as chanced, a cottage maiden (Ten years scarcely had she told) Seeing plunged into the torrent. Clasped the lamb and kept her hold. [* In a letter to the editor, 31st July 1845, Mr. Words- worth thus speaks of this poem : “ The little poem which I ventured to send you lately, I thought, might interest you on account of the fact as exhibiting what sort of characters our mountains breed. It is truth to the letter.” H. R.] Whirled adown the rocky cliannel. Sinking, rising, on they go. Peace and rest, as seems, before them Only in the lake below. Oh ! it was a frightful current Whose fierce wrath the girl had braved ; Clap your hands with joy my hearers. Shout in triumph, both are saved ; Saved by courage that with danger Grew, by strength the gift of love. And belike a guardian angel Came with sticcour from above. PART II. ' Now, to a maturer audience. Let me speak of this brave child Left among her native mountains With wild nature to run wild. So, unwatched by love maternal. Mother’s care no more her guide. Fared this little bright-eyed Orphan Even while at her fatlier’s side. Spare your blame, — remembrance makes him I,oth to rule by strict command ; Still upon his cheek are living Touches of her infant hand. Dear caresses given in pity. Sympathy that soothed his grief. As the dying mother witnessed To her thankful mind’s relief. Time passed on ; the child was happy. Like a spirit of air she moved. Wayward, yet by all who knew her For her tender heart beloved. Scarcely less than sacred passions. Bred in house, in grove, and field. Link her with the inferior creatures. Urge her powers their rights to shield. Anglers, bent on reckless pastime. Learn how she can feel alike Both for tiny harmless minnow And the fierce and sharp-toothed pike. Merciful protectress, kindling Into anger or disdain; Many a captive hath she rescued. Others saved from lingering pain. Listen yet awhile ; — with patience Hear the homely truths I tell. She in Grasmere’s old church-steeple Tolled this day the passing-bell. POEMS EEFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 85 Yes, the wild girl of the mountains To their echoes gave the sound, Notice punctual as tlie minute, Warning solemn and profound. She, fulfilling her sire’s office. Rang alone the far-heard knell. Tribute, by her hand, in sorrow. Paid to one who loved her well. When his spirit was departed On that service she went forth ; Nor will fail the like to render When his corse is laid in earth. What then wants the child to temper. In her breast, unruly fire. To control the froward impulse And restrain the vague desire 1 ] Easily a pious training j And a stedfast outward power I Would supplant the weeds and cherish, j In their stead, each opening flower. j Thus the fearless lamb-del iv’rer, Woman-grown, meek-hearted, sage. May become a blest e.\-ample For her sex, of every age. Watchful as a wheeling eagle. Constant as a soaring lark. Should the country need a heroine. She might prove our Maid of Arc. i Leave that thought ; and here be ulterca I Prayer tliat grace divine may raise I Her humane courageous spirit, I Up to heaven, thro’ peaceful ways. N O T E S TO POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. Note 1, p. 73. [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. “Men 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 I when they have ceased to look back on their former selves with joy and tenderness. They exist in frag- ments. Annihilated as to tiie 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 rainbow 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 man, And I woidd wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. V\'oRDSWORTH. “I am informed, that these very lines have been cited jas 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 tlie living I was always pleased with the motto placed under the figure of tlie rosemary in old herbals : ‘Sus apage ! Haud tibi spiro.’ ” ‘ The Friend; Vol. I. p. 58. — II. R.J Note 2, p. 81. [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 tlie French Revolution were first published in ‘ 'I'he Friend.’ A record of his feelings — of tlie manner in which his spirit 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 8 86 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. worthy of its lofty theme, and of him who wrote and him who is addressed. In thus appending it, I cannot but hope that I am rendering a grateful service to every reflecting reader of this volume — a service too, which a restraining modesty might prevent Mr. Wordsworth from rendering in his own edition. — II. R. The poem by Coleridge, referred to in the above note, is transferred in this edition to w’hat has become a more appropriate place, and will be found as an introduction to ‘The Prelude.’ — II. R.] Note 3, p. 82. ‘77ie Norman Boy.'' “Among ancient trees there are few, I believe, at least in France, so worthy of attention as an oak which may be seen in the ‘ Pays de Caux,’ about a league from Yvetot, close to the church, and in the burial- ground of Allonville. The height of this tree does not answer to its girth ; the trunk, from the roots to the summit, forms a com- plete cone ; and the inside of this cone is hollow throughout the whole of its height. Such is the Oak of Allonville, in its state of nature. The hand of man, however, has endeavoured to impress upon it a cliaracter still more interesting, by adding a religious feeling to the respect which its age naturally inspires. The lower part of its hollow trunk has been trans- formed into a chapel of six or seven feet in diameter, carefully wainscoted and paved, and an open iron gate guards the humble sanctuary. Leading to it there is a staircase, which twists round the body of the tree. At certain seasons of the year divine service is performed in this chapel. The summit has been broken off many years, but there is a surface at the top of the trunk, of the diameter of a very large tree, and from it rises a__ pointed roof, covered with slates, in the form of a steeple, which is surmounted with an iron cross, that rises in a picturesque manner from the middle of the leaves, like an ancient hermitage above the surrounding wood. Over the entrance to the chapel an inscription ap- pears, which informs us it was erected by the Abbe du Detroit, Curate of Allonville, in the year 1696 ; and over a door is another, dedicating it ‘To Our Lady of Peace.’ ” Yide 14 No. Saturday Magazine. 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 they were butterflies to wheel about Long as the 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 corn. But, for that moping Son of Idleness, Why can he tarry yonder ? — In our church-yard Is neither epitaph nor jnonument. 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 lie 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, templed to entrust * This Poem was intended to eonclnde a series of psi-slorats, iho scene of which was laid among the mountains of Ciimber- lond and Westmoreland. 1 mention this to apologise for the ab rupmctss 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 WTought 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 Ijconard had approached his home, his heart Failed in him ; and, not venturing to enquire Tidings of one whom he so dearly loved. Towards the church-yard he had turned aside ; That, as he knew in what particular spot llis family were laid, he thence might learn + This description of tho Culonliire is sketched from an im- perfect recollectiiin of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Od- 1 bort, author of Thu Ilurricano 88 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL Vv’ORKS. If still his Brother lived, or to the file Another grave was added. — He had found Another grave, — near which a full half-hour He had remained ; but, as 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 Iiis 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 tlie 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 witli 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. LEO.\AR0. 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 ? 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 ah that perish. 1 remember, (For many years ago I passed this road) There was a foot-w'ay all along the fields By the brook-side — ’t is g'one — and that dark cleft ! To me it does not seem to wear the face Whicli then it had. PRIEST. Nay, Sir, for aught I know. That chasm is much the same — LEO.NARD. 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 W^as rent with lightning — one hath disappeared; The other, left behind, is flowing still.* For accidents aiid changes such as these. We w’ant not store of them ; — a water-spou,t Will bring down half a mountain ; what a feast For folks that w’ander up and down like you. To see an acre’s breadth of that wide clifl' One roaring cataract! — a sharp May-stor.m Will come with loads of January snow. And in one night send twenty-score of sheep To feeil 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 fiom wanting facts 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! LEONARD. Yet your Church-yard Secm.«, 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. PRIE.ST. 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: Tlie tliought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains. * Tli'is actually tuoK place upon Kidstoy. Pike at the head of Uaweswater POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 89 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 these Graves. PRIEST. For eight-score winters past, WitJi 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. LEONARD. ’Tis a common case. We ’ll take another : who is he that lies Beneath yon ridge, tlie last of those three graves 1 It touches on that piece of native rock Left in the church-yard wall. PRIEST. That ’s Walter Ewbank. lie 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 tliose 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 cheerful mind, — and buffeted 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 Y’ou, Unless our Landlord bo your host to-night. Have far to travel, — and on these rough paths Even in the longest day of midsummer — LEONARD. 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, M The old man was a father to the boys. Two fathers in one fiither: 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 ! — PRIEST. They did — and truly: But that was what w^e 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 Schoo. Is distant three short miles — and in the time Of storm and thaw, when every water-course And un’oridged 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 liome, go staggering through the fords. Bearing his Brother on his back, I have seen him, On W'indy 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 — PRIE.ST. 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 Ibot 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 hills ; They played like two young Ravens on the crags : 90 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Then tliey 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 — EONARD. Then James still is left among you? 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, Ilis 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, ♦ The Great Gayeh so called, I imagine, from its resemblance to the Gable end of a bouse, is one of the highest of the Cum.- bei land 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 fails intp ibe aea a little belpw Egrement, 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 alw'ays 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 liis cheek; he drooped, and pined, and pined — LEONARD. But these are all the graves of full-grown men ! 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 six months with another, And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love: And many, many happy days were his. But, wdiether 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 I Forgive me. Sir: before I spoke to you, I judged you most unkindly. LEONARD. But this Youth, How did he die at last! 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 throe oompanions, whom thoir course Of occupation led from height 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. Dl You see yon precipice ; — it wears the shape 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 Pielar. 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 by 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 Tliey found him at the foot of that same Rock Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after I buried 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? 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 ? — PRIEST. Yes, long before he died, he found tliat time Is a true friend to sorrow ; and unless His thoughts were turned on Leonard’s luckless for- tune, lie talked about him with a cheerful 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 cliurch-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 cherislied hopes. And thoughts whicli 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- x\nd 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 Lsle, J’or his paternal Gods, the Trojan raised ? 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-pollutod land imbued With goodly arts and usages refined ; Whence golden harvests, cities, warlike towers, And Pleasure’s sumptuous bowers; 92 WORDSWORTH’S ROETICAL WORKS. Whence all the fixed delights of house and home, Friendships that will not break, and love that cannot roam. O, happy Britain ! rcjrion 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 rutliless sword: Then, into Severn hideously defiled. She flung her blameless child, Sabrina — vowing that the stream should bear Tliat name tlirough every age, her hatred to declare. So speaks the Clironicle, and tells of Lear By his ungrateful daughters turned adrift. Ye lightnings, hoar 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 kniglitly 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 from 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 Opnressor he withstood ; And wliile 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 Brothei 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 the 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! From 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. 93 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 n>y 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 ’t is just That now I should restore what hath been held in trust.” Awhile the astonished Artegal stood mute. Then thus e.xclaimed — “ 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, 1 Would balance claim with claim, and right with riMit? 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, it, 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 1 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 shaft 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 devi.sed ; And which, with caution due, may soon be realised.” The Story tells wfoat 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 !” 94 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. The People answered with a loud acclaim : Yet more ; — heart-smit*en by the heroic deed, The reinstated Artegal became Eartl.’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, \Ie bore the lasting name of “ pious Elidure !” FAREWELL LINES. ‘High bliss is only for a higher state,’ But, surely, if severe afflictions borne With patience merit the reward of peace. Peace ye deserve; and may the solid good. Sought by a wise though late exchange, and here With bounteous hand beneath a cottage roof To you accorded, never be withdrawn. Nor for the world’s best promises renounced. Most soothing was it for a welcome friend. Fresh from the crowded city, to behold That lonely union, privacy so deep. Such calm employments, such entire content. So when the rain is over, the storm laid, A pair of herons oft-times have I seen. Upon a rocky islet, side by side. Drying their feathers in the sun, at ease; And so, when night with grateful gloom had fallen. Two glow-worms in such nearness that they shared. As seemed, their soft self-satisfying light. Each with the other on the devvy ground. Where He that made them blesses their repose. — When wandering among lakes and hills I note. Once more, those creatures thus by nature paired. And guarded in their tranquil state of life. Even as your happy presence to my mind Their union brought, will they repay the debt. And send a thankful spirit back to you. With hope that we, dear friends! shall meet again. 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. 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 ^Vill 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 I 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. 05 Dear Spot ! which we have watched with tender heed, Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown Among the distant mountains, flower and weed, Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own. Making all kindness registered and known ; Thou for our sakes, though Nature’s Child indeed. Fair in thyself and beautiful alone. 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 ; And 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 hours ; And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers. And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers; Two burning months let summer overleap. And, coming back with Her who will be ours. Into thy bosom wo 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 awaj’. 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 the sun was shining bright ; What ill was on him, what he had to do, A mighty wonder bred among our quiet crew. Ah I 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 wmuld he sit ; and without strength or power Look at the common grass from hour to hour : And oftentimes, how long I fear to say. Where apple-trees jn 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 Wlienever from our Valley he withdrew ; For happier soul no living creature has Than he had, being here the long day througln 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 aloii» 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 him repair, — And certes not in vain ; he had inventions rare. E.\pedients, too, of simplest sort he tried : Long blades of grass, plucked round him as he lav, Made — to his ear attentively applied — A pipe on which the wind would deftly play ; Glasses he had, that little things display, Tlie beetle panoplied in gems and gold, A mailed angel on a battle day ; Tbe 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 nlace could be ; 96 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. There did they dwell — from earthly labour free, As happy spirits as were ever seen; If but a bird, to keep them company. Or butterfly sate down, tliey were, I ween. As pleased as if the same had been a Maiden Queen. LOUISA. I MET Louisa in the shade ; And, having seen that lovely Maid, Why should I fear to say That she is ruddy, fleet, and strong ; And down the rocks can leap along. Like rivulets in May 1 And she hath smiles to earth unknown; Smiles, tliat with motion of their own Do spread, and sink, and rise ; That come and go with endless play. And ever, as they pass away. Are hidden in her eyes. She loves her fire, her Cottage-home ; Yet o’er the moorland will she roam In weather rough and bleak ; And, when against the wind she strains. Oh ! might I kiss the mountain rains That sparkle on her cheek. Take all that’s mine “beneath the moon,” If I with her but half a noon May sit beneath the walls Of some old cave, or mossy nook. When up she winds along the brook To hunt the waterfalls. Stranoe fits of passion have I known: And I will dare to tell. But in the Lover’s ear alone. What once to me befel. When she I loved was strong and gay, And like a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way. Beneath the evening Moon. Upon the Moon I fixed my eye. All over the wide lea ; My Horse trudged on — and we drew nigh Those paths so dear to me. And now we reached the orchard plot; And, as we climbed the hill, Towards the roof of Lucy’s cot The Moon descended still. In one of those sweet dreams I slept. Kind Nature’s gentlest boon ! And all the while my eyes I kept On the descending Moon. My Horse moved on ; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopped : When down behind the cottage roof. At once, the bright Moon dropped. What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a Lover’s head ! — “ O mercy !” to myself I cried, “If Lucy should be dead !” y ■ Sue dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise. And very few to love: A Violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye ! — Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When I.ucy ceased to be ; But she is in her Grave, and, oh. The difference to me ! I TRAVELLED among unknowm Men, In Lands beyond the Sea; Nor, England ! did I know till then What love I bore to thee. ’T is past, that melancholy dream ! Nor will I quit thy shore A second time ; for still I seem To love thee more and more. Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire ; And she I cherished turned her wheel Beside an English fire. Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed The bowers where Lucy played ; And thine is too the last green field That Lucy’s eyes surveyed. Ere with cold beads of midnight dew Had mingled tears of thine, I grieved, fond Youth ! that thou shouldst sue To haughty Geraldine. POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 97 Immoveable by generous sighs, She glories in a train Who drag, beneath our native skies. An oriental Chain. Pino not like them with arms across. Forgetting in thy care IIow 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 Rosel Not even an hour! The deepe.st 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-gifted 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 Ilcivellyn’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 another tree. “Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain bounds. And there for ever be thy waters ci)ained ! For thou dost haunt the air with sounds That cannot be sustained; If still beneath that pine-tree’s ragged boug!'i Headlong yon waterfall must come. Oh, let it then be dumb! — Be any thing, swmet 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. THE FORSAKEN. The peace which others seek they find; The heaviest storms not longest last; Heaven grants even to the guiltiest mind An amnesty for what is past; When will my sentence be reversed' I only pray to know the worst; And wish as if my heart would burst. N AVORDS WORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. 0 weary struggle ! silent years Tell seemingly no doubtful tale; And yet they leave it short, and fears And hopes are strong and will prevail. My calmest faith escapes not pain; And, feeling that the hope is vain, 1 think that he will come again. 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. What happy moments did I count! Blest was I then all bliss above ! Now, for that consecrated fount Of murmuring, sparkling, living love. What have II shall 1 dare to tell 1 A comfortless and hidden well. A well of love — it may be deep — 1 trust it is, — and never dry: What matter] if the waters sleep In silence and obscurity. — Sucli 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! 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. Yes ! thou art fair, yet be not moved To scorn the declaration. That sometimes I in thee have loved My fancy’s own creation. Imagination needs must stir; Dear maid, this truth believe, Minds that have nothing to confeir Find little to perceive. Be pleased that nature made thee fit To feed my heart’s devotion. By laws to which all forms submit In sky, air, earth, and ocean. IIow 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 now 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! What heavenly smiles! O Lady mine. Through my very heart they sliine; And, if my brow gives back their light. Do thou look gladly on the sight; As the clear moon with modest pride Beholds her own bright beams Reflected from the mountain’s side And from the headlong streams. 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 witli the day, and cross the hour of rest; While all the future, for thy purer soul. With ‘sober certainties’ of love is blest. That sigh of thine, not meant for human ear, Tells that these words thy humbleness offend ; Yet bear me up — else faltering in the rear I Of a steep march : support me to the end. POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 99 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 liglit 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. Born all too high, by wedlock raised Still higher — to be cast thus low i 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 howl — 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 tlie 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. I A woman rules my prison’s key ; A sister queen, against tire bent Of law and holiest sympathy. Detains me, doubtful of the event; Great God, who feel’st for my distress, My thoughts are all tliat 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 WIDOW ON WINDERMERE SIDE. How beautiful when up a lolly height Honour ascends among the humblest poor. And feeling sinks as deep ! See there the door Of one, a widow, left beneath a weight Of blameless debt. On evil fortune's spite She wasted no complaint, but strove to make A just repayment, both for conscience-sake And that herself and hers should stand upright In the world’s eye. Her work when daylight failed Paused not, and through the depth of night she kept Such earnest vigils, that belief prevailed With some, the noble creature never slept; But, one by one, the hand of death assailed Her children from her inmost heart bewept. II. The mother mourned, nor ceased her tears to flow. Till a winter’s noon-day placed her buried son Before her eyes, last child of many gone — His raiment of angelic white, and lo! His very feet briglit as the dazzling snow Which they are touching; yea far brighter, even As that which comes, or seems to come, from heaven. Surpasses aught these elements can show. Much she rejoiced, trusting that from that hour Whate’er befel she could not grieve or pine ; But the transfigured, in and out of season. Appeared, and spiritual presence gained a power Over material forms that mastered reason. O, gracious Heaven, in pity make her thine! 100 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. III. But why that prayer 1 as if to her could come No good but by tiie way that leads to bliss Through death, — so judging we should judge amiss. Since reason failed want is her threatened doom, Yet frequent transports mitigate the gloom: Nor of those maniacs is she one that kiss The air or laugh upon a precipice; No, passing through strange sufferings toward the tomb, She smiles as if a martyr’s crown were won : Off, when light breaks tlirough clouds or waving trees, With outspread arms and fallen upon her knees The mother hails in her descending sen An angel, and in earthly ecstasies Her own angelic glory seems begun. TIIE LAST OF TIIE FLOCK. Ln 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 liighway he came. Ills cheeks with tears w'ere 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 so !” — “ Shame on me. Sir ! this lusty Lamb, He makes my tears to flow. To-day I fetched him from the roede ; He is the last of all my flock. Wlien 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, this 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, anil then its mother! It was a vein that never stopped — Like blood-drops from my heart they droppe.!. 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. Ml flock it seemed to melt away. POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 101 They dwindled, Sir, sad siglt; 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 flock.” 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. Vv'hen the troublesome Tempter beset us, said I, “ Let him come, with his purse proudly grasped in his hand ; But, Allan, be true to me, Allan, — we’ll die Before he shall go with an inch of the land I” 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 to me !” 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 w'as done. The Sabbath’s return — and its leisure’s soft chain ! And in sickness, if night had been sparing of sleep, llow cheerful, at sunrise, the hill where I stood, liooking dow’n on the kine, and our treasure of sheep That besprinkled the field — ’t was like youth in my blood ! 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 si.K feet of earth where our forefathers lie ! THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET. Where art thou, my beloved Son, Where art thou, worse to me than deadl 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 1 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 W'ere not base ; And never blush was on my face. Ah ! little doth the Young-one dream, When full of play and childish cares. What power is in his wildest scream. Heard by his Mother unawares! He knows it not, he cannot guess: Years to a Mother bring distress ; But do not make her love the less. Neglect me! no, I suffered long From that ill thought; and, being blind, Kaid, “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. 9 * 102 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Alas ! the fowls of Heaven have wings, And blasts of Heaven will aid their flight ; They mount — how short a voyage brings The Wanderers back to their delight ! Chains tie us down by land and sea; And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee. Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, Maiiped, mangled by inhuman men; Or thou upon a Desert thrown Inheritest the Lion’s den ; Or hast been summoned to the deep. Thou, Thou and all thy mates, to keep An incommunicable sleep. I look for Ghosts ; but none will force Their way to me : — ’t is falsely said That there w'as ever intercourse Between the living and the dead; For, surely, then I should have sight Of Him I wait for day and night. With love and longings infinite. My apprehensions come in crowds; I dread the rustling of the grass; The very shadows of the clouds Have power to shake me as they pass ; I question things, and do not find One that will answer to my mind ; And all the world appears unkind. Beyond participation lie My troubles, and beyond relief; If any chance to heave a sigh. They pity me, and not my grief. Then come to me, my Son, or send Some tidings that my woes may end ; I have no other earthly friend ! THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT. BY MY SISTER. The days are cold, the nights «re long. The norlli-wind sings a doleful song; Then hush again upon my breast; All merry things are now at rest, Save thee, my pretty Love ! The kitten sleeps upon the hearth. The crickets long have ceased their mirth ; There’s nothing stirring in the house Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse. Then why so busy thou 1 Nay! start not at that sparkling light; ’T is but the moon that shines so bright On the window pane bedropped with rain : Then, little Darling! sleep again. And wake when it is day. THE SAILOR’S MOTHER. One morning (raw it was and wet, A foggy day in winter time) A Woman on the road I met. Not old, though something past her prime: Majestic in her person, tall and straight ; And like a Roman matron’s was her mien and gait The ancient Spirit is not dead; Old times, thought I, are breathing there; Proud was I that my country bred Such strength, a dignity so fair: She begged an alms, like one in poor estate ; I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate. When from these lofty thoughts I woke, “ What treasure,” said I, “ do you bear. Beneath the covert of your Cloak, Protected from the cold damp air'!” She answered, soon as she the question heard, “ A simple burthen. Sir, a little Singing-bird ” And, thus continuing, she said, “ I had a Son, who many a day Sailed on the seas, but he is dead; In Denmark he was cast away: And I have travelled weary miles to see If aught which he had owned might still remain for me. “ The Bird and Cage they both were his : ’T was my Son’s Bird ; and neat and trim He kept it : many voyages 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. “ He to a Fellow-lodger’s care Had left it, to be watched and fed. And pipe its song in safety ; — there I found it wlien my Son was dead ; And now, God help me for my little w'it! I bear it with me. Sir, he took so much delight in it.” THE CHILDLESS FATHER. “ Up, Timothy, up with your Staff and away ! Not a soul in the village this morning will stay ; The Hare has just started from Hamilton’s grounds. And Skiddavv is glad with the cry of the hounds.’’ POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 103 — 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 Ij 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 oflen 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, thou 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 lam come. And I have left a Babe at home: * In sev eral 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 hotise 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! — 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 mo, ‘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 w'ould have hopes of him — and then I should behold his face again ! ’Tis 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 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 ; l04 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 ! Wliile thou art mine, my little Love, This cannot be a sorrowful grove; Contentment, hope, and Motlier’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 liast, I think, a look of ours. Thy features seem to me the same; His little Sister thou slialt be; And, when once more my home I see, I ’ll teL' him many tales of Thee.” VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA. Tlio following tale was written as an Episode, in a work from which its length m.ay perhaps exclude it. Tlte facts are true; no invention as to these has been exercised, as none was needed. O HArrv time of youthful lovers (thus My story may begin) O balmy time. In w.iich 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 W'hose progress had a little overstepped His stripling prime. A town of small repute. Among the vine-clad mountains of Auvergne, Was the Youth’s birth-place. There he wooed a Maid Who heard the heart-felt music of his suit With answ’ering vows. Plebeian was the stock. Plebeian, though ingenuous, the stock. From which her graces and her honours sprung : And hence the father of the enamoured Youth, With haughty indignation, spurned the thought Of such alliance. — From their cradles up, Witn but a step between their several homes. Twins had they been in pleasure ; after strife And petty quarrels, had grown fond again ; Each other’s advocate, each other’s stay ; And strangers to content if long apart. Or more divided than a sportive pair Of sea-fowl, conscious both that they are hovering Within the eddy of a common blast. Or hidden only by the concave depth Of neighbouring billows from each other’s sight. Thus, not without concurrence of an age Unknown to memory, was an earnest given By ready nature for a life of love, For endless constancy, and placid truth ; But whatsoe’er of such rare treasure lay Reserved, had fate permitted, for support Of their maturer years, his present mind Was under fascination ; — he beheld A vision, and adored the thing he saw. Arabian fiction never filled the world With half the wonders that were wrought for him. Earth breathed in one great presence of the spring ; Life turned the meanest of her implements, Before his eyes, to price above all gold ; The house she dwelt in was a sainted shrine; Her chamber window did surpass in glory The portals of the dawn ; all paradise Could, by the simple opening of a door, ' I.et itself in upon him ; pathways, walks. Swarmed with enchantment, till his spirit sank. Surcharged, within him, — overblest to move Beneath a sun that wakes a weary world To its dull round of ordinary cares; A man too happy for mortality ! So passed the time, till, whether through effect Of some unguarded moment that dissolved Virtuous restraint — ah, speak it — think it not! Deem rather that the fervent Youth, who saw So many bars between his present state And the dear haven where he wished to be In honourable wedlock with his Love, Was in his judgment tempted to decline To perilous weakness, and entrust his cause To nature for a happy end of all ; Deem that by such fond hope the Youth was swayed And bear with their transgression, when I add That Julia, wanting yet the name of wife. Carried about her for a secret grief The promise of a mother. To conceal The threatened shame, the parents of the Maid Found means to hurry her away by night. And unforewarned, that in some distant spot She might remain shrouded in privacy. Until the babe was born. When morning came. The Lover, thus bereft, stung with his loss, And all uncertain whither he should turn. Chafed like a wild beast in the toils; but soon Discovering traces of the fugitives. Their steps he followed to the Maid’s retreat. 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 sw’allow Fluttering its pinions, almost w’ithin reach. About the pendent nest, did thus espy Her Lover ! — thence a stolen intei .iew. Accomplished under friendly shade of night. POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 105 I pass the raptures of the Pair ; — such theme Is, by innumerable poets, touched In more delig-htful 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 tiiat brief meeting’s slender filament ! They parted ; and the generous Vaiidracour Reached speedily tlie native thresiiold, 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 baffled in your mad intent If there be justice in the Court of France,” Muttered the Father. — From these words the Youth Conceived a terror, — and, by night or day. Stirred nowhere without weapons — that full soon Found dreadful provocation : for at night When to his chamber he retired, attempt Was made to seize him by three armed men. Acting, in furtherance of the Father’s will. Under a private signet of the 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 suffered not to use Its natural gifts for purposes of rest. Driven by the autumnal whirlwind to and fro Through the wide element] or have you marked TIio heavier substance of a leaf-clad bough, O Within the vortex of a foaming flood. Tormented ] by such aid you may conceive The 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 e.xaction 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 ]” exclaimed the Maiden — “ One For innocence and youth, for weal and woe ]” Then with the Father’s name she coupled words Of vehement indignation ; but the Youth 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 wedge of tyranny Achieved their separation ; — and once more Were they united, — to be yet again Disparted — pitiable lot ! But here A portion of the Tale may well be left In silence, though my memory could add Much how the Youth, in scanty space of time. Was traversed from without; much, too, of thoughts That occupied his days in solitude Under privation and restraint; and what. Through dark and shapeless fear of things to come. And what, through strong compunction for the past. He suffered — breaking down in heart and mind ! Doomed to "a third and last captivity, His freedom he recovered on the eve Ot Julia’s travail. When the babe was born, Its presence tempted him to cherish schemes Of future happiness. “ You shall return, Julia,” said he, “and to your Father’s house Go with the Child. — You have been wretched, yet The silver shower, whose reckless burthen weighs Too heavily upon the lily’s head. Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root. Malice, beholding you, will melt away. Go! — ’tis a Town where both of us were born; None will reproach you, for our truth is Known ; 106 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 our Boy, And feed his countenance witli 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 tlie unweeting Child Shall by his beauty w'in his Grandsire’s heart So that it shall be softened, and our loves End happily — as they began !” These gleams Appeared but seldom ; oflener was he seen Propping a pale and melancholy face Upon the Mother’s bosom; resting thus His liead 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 ! Unw’edded 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 I.ord Of lier affections 1 So they blindly asked tVlio knew not to w hat 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 answ'er, 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 disavow'ed. — So bo it ! In the city he remained A season after Julia had withdrawn To those religious walls. He, too, departs — Who with him 1 — 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 w’hich the Babe was carried. To a hill. That rose a brief league distant from the towm. The Dw'ellers in that house where he had lodged Accompanied his steps, by anxious love Impelled, — they parted from him there, and stood Watching below, till he had disappeared On the hill top. His eyes he scarcely took. Throughout that journey, from the vehicle (Slow-moving ark of all his hopes !) that veiled The tender Infant ; and at every inn. And under every hospitable tree At which the Bearers halted or reposed. Laid him with timid care upon his knees. And looked, as mothers ne’er were knowm to look. Upon the Nursling which his arms embraced. — Til is was the manner in which Vaudracour Departed with his Infant; and thus reached His Father’s house, where to the innocent Child Admittance was denied. The young Man spake No words of indignation or reproof. But of his Father begged, a last request. That a retreat might be assigned to him ' Where in forgotten quiet he might dwell. With such allowance as his wants required ; For wishes he had none. To a Lodge that stood Deep in a forest, with leave given, at the age Of four-and-twenty summers, he withdrew ; And thither took with him his 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, Which, after a short time, by some mistake Or indiscretion of the Father, died. — The Tale I follow to its last recess Of suffering or of peace, I know not which : Theirs be the blame who caused the woe, not mine ? From this time forth, he never shared a smile With mortal creature. An Inhabitant Of that same Town, in which the Pair had left So lively a remembrance of their griefs. By chance of business, coming wdthin reach Of his retirement, to the forest lodge Repaired, but only found the Matron there. Who told him that his pains were thrown away. For that her Master never uttered word 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 gate, 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 ! POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 107 THE ARMENIAN LADY’S LOVE. [Tlie subject of the following poem is from the Orlandus of the author’s friend, Kenelra 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 Bv 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 yotir 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 ! otherwi.se Man could not bear 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.” 5 . “ 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.” 6 . “ Generous Frank ! the just in effort Are of inward peace secure ; ‘See, in Percy’s Reliqiies, that fine old ballad, “The Spanish Lady’s Love from which Poem the form of stanza, as suitable to dialogue, is adopted. Hardships for tlie 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.” 7 . “ 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.” 8 . “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] 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.” 1 ’ 2 . “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 I] where]” 103 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL W'ORKS. 13 . Here broke off the dangerous converse : Less impassioned words might 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, the 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 tlieir inward selves had they to fear. 16 . Thought infirm ne’er came between them, Wliether 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 frona me 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 w'as spent. Now before the gates of Stolberg My Deliverer would present For a crowning recompense, the precious grace Of her who in iny heart still holds her ancient place. 20. “ Make it known that my Comuanion 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 walla. 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 farew’elL 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. 25 . 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 W'edded 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. 109 THE SOMNAMBULIST, 1 . List, ye who pass by Lyulph’s Tower* At eve ; how softly then Doth Aira-force, that torrent hoarse, Speak from the woody glen ! Pit 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 . Aot 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 ; Where 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 pleasurc-fiouse built by the late Duke of Norfolk upon the banks of Ulkwater. Force is the word used in the Luke Dis- Irict for Water-fall. 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 w’ide-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 thield. The solace beads and mas.ses yield. And needlework and flowers. 7. 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 w’hen a bold heroic lay She warbled frotn full heart ; Delightful blossoms for the May Of absence ! but they will not stay. Born only to depart. 8 . Hope W'anes with her, while lustre fills Whatever path he chooses; As if his orb, that owms 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 l;er. “Still is he my devoted knight 1” 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 fiincied 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 ! 10 no WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. 11. 16. W’^Iiile ’mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe, And owls alone are waking, In white arrayed, glides on the Maid The downward pathway taking. That leads her to the torrent’s side And to a holly bower; By whom on this still night descried 1 By whom in that lone place espied 1 By thee. Sir Eglamore! In plunged the Knight ! when on firm ground The rescued Maiden lay. Her eyes grew bright with blissful light. Confusion passed away ; She heard, ere to the throne of grace Her faithful Spirit flew. His voice ; beheld his speaking face, And, dying, from his own embrace. She felt that he was true. 12. 17. A wandering Ghost, so thinks the Knight, His coming step has thwarted, Beneath the boughs that heard their vows. Within whose shade they parted. Hush, hush, the busy Sleeper see ! Perplexed her fingers seem. As if they from the holly tree Green twigs would pluck, as rapidly Flung from lier to tlie stream. So was he reconciled to life : Brief words may speak the rest ; Within the dell he built a cell. And there was Sorrow’s guest ; In hermits’ weeds repose he found. From vain temptations free ; Beside the torrent dwelling — bound By one deep heart-controlling sound. And awed to piety. 13. 18. What means the Spectre! Why intent To violate the Tree, Thought Eglamore, by wliich I swore Unfading constancy ! Here am I, and to-morrow’s sun. To her I left, shall prove That bliss is ne’er so surely won As when a circuit has been run Of valour, truth, and love. Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course. Nor fear memorial lays, Where clouds that spread in solemn shade, Are edged with golden rays ! Dear art thou to the light of Heaven, Though minister of sorrow ; Sweet is thy voice at pensive Even ; And thou, in Lovers’ hearts forgiven. Shall take thy place with Yarrow 1 14. So from the spot whereon he stood. He moved with stealthy pace; THE IDIOT BOY. And, drawing nigh, with his living eye, He recognised the face; And whispers caught, and speeches small. Some to the green-leaved tree. Some muttered to the torrent fall, — “ Roar on, and bring him with thy call ; “ I heard, and so may he !” ’Tis eight o'clock, — a clear March night. The Moon is up, — the Sky is blue, The Owlet, in the moonlight air, Shouts, from nobody knows where ; He lengthens out his lonely shout. Halloo ! halloo 1 a long halloo ! 15. Soul-shattered was the Knight, nor knew If Emma’s Ghost it were. Or boding Shade, or if the Maid — Wliy bustle thus about your door. What means this bustle, Betty Foy ! Why are you in this mighty fret ? And why on horseback have you set Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy! Her very self stood there. He touched, what followed who shall tell ? The soft touch snapped the thread Of slumber — shrieking back she fell. And the Stream whirled her down the dell Along its foaming bed. There’s scarce a soul that’s out of bed; Good Betty, put him down again; His lips with joy they burr at you ; But, Betty ! what has he to do With stirrup, saddle, or with rein ’ POEMS FOUNDED ON TPIE AFFECTIONS. Ill 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 W'oodman in the distant vale; There’s none to help poor Susan Gale; What must be done ! 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 whorn 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 w’and; For Johnny has his holly-bough. And with a hurly-burly now lie 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 mule 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, lier free 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 tunc; 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 Jolmny well, Vet, for his life, he cannot tell What he has got upon his back. 112 tVORDSWORTirS POETICAL WORKS. So through the moonlight lanes they go, And far into the moonlight dale, And by the church, and o’er the down. To bring a Doctor from the town. To comfort poor old Susan Gale. And Betty, now at Susan’s side. Is in the middle of her story, Wliat comfort soon her Boy will bring, With many a most diverting thing, Of Johnny’s wit, and Johnny’s glory. And Betty, still at Susan’s side. By this time is not quite so flurried: Demure with porringer and plate She sits, as if in Susan’s fate Her life and soul were buried. But Betty, poor good Woman ! she. You plainly in her face may read it. Could lend out of that moment’s store Five years of happiness or more To any that might need it But yet I guess that now and then With Betty all was not so well ; And to the road she turns her ears. And thence full many a sound she hoars. Which she to Susan will not tell. Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans ; “As sure as there’s a moon in heaven,” Cries Betty, “ lie ’ll be back again ; They’ll both be here — ’t is almost ten — Both will be here before eleven.” Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans; The clock gives warning for eleven ; ’Tis on the stroke — “He must be near,” Quoth Betty, “and will soon be here. As sure as tiiere’s a moon in heavc.n.” The clock is on the stroke of twelve, And Johnny is not yet in sight, — The Moon ’s in heaven, as Betty sees, But Betty is not quite at ease; And Susan has a dreadful night. And Betty, half an hour ago. On Johnny vile reflections cast: “ A little idle sauntering Thing !” With other names, an endless string ; But now that time is gone and past. And Betty ’s drooping at the heart. That happy time all past and gone, “How can it be he is so late? The Doctor he has made him wait, Susan! they’ll both be here anon.” And Susan’s growing worse and worse, And Betty’s in a sad quandary; And then there ’s nobotly to say If she must go, or she must stay ! She ’s in a sad quandary. The clock is on the stroke of one; But neither Doctor nor his Guide Appears along the moonlight road ; There’s neither horse nor man abroad. And Betty ’s still at Susan’s side. And Susan now begins to fear Of sad mischances not a few. That Johnny may perhaps be drowned. Or lost, perhaps, and never found ; Which they must both for ever rue. She prefaced half a hint of this With, “ God forbid it should be true !” At the first word that Susan said. Cried Betty, rising from the bed, “Susan, I’d gladly stay with you. “ I must be gone, I must away, Consider, Johnny’s but half-wise; Susan, we must take care of him. If he is hurt in life or limb” — “ Oh God forbid !” poor Susan cries. “ What can I dol” says Betty, going, “ What can I do to ease your pain 1 Good Susan, tell me, and I ’ll stay ; I fear you ’re in a dreadful way, But I shall soon be back again.” “ Nay, Betty, go ! good Betty, go ! There’s nothing that can ease my pain.” Then off she hies ; but with a prayer That God poor Susan’s life would spare, Till she comes back again. So, through the moonlight lane she goes, And far into the moonlight dale ; And how she ran, and how she walked, And all that to herself she talked. Would surely be a tedious tale. In high and low, above, below. In great and small, in round and square. In tree and tower was Johnny seen. In brush and brake, in black and green, ’Twas Johnny, Johnny, everywhere. The bridge is past — far in the dale; And now the thought torments her sore, Johnny perhaps his horse forsook. To hunt the moon within the brook. And never will be heard of more. POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 113 Now is she high upon the down, Alone amid a prospect wide : There’s neither Johnny nor his Horse Among the fern or in the gorse ; There’s neither Doctor nor his Guide. “ Oh saints ! what is become of him I Perhaps he’s climbed into an oak, Where he will stay till he is dead ; Or, sadly he has been misled, And joined the wandering gipsy-folk. “Or him that wicked Pony’s carried To the dark cave, the goblin’s hall; Or in the castle he ’s pursuing Among the ghosts his own undoing ; Or playing with the waterfall.” At poor old Susan then she railed. While to the town she posts away ; “ If Susan had not been so ill, Alas ! 1 should have had him still. My Johnny, till my dying day.” 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 mel” “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 !” P She stops, she stands, she looks about ; Which way to turn she cannot tell. Poor Betty ! it would ease her pain If she had heart to knock again ; — The clock strikes three — a dismal knel. ! Then up along the town she hies. No wonder if her senses fail. This piteous news so much it shocked her. She quite forgot to send the Doctor, To comfort poor old Susan Gale. And now she ’s high upon the down. And she can see a mile of road ; “ Oh cruel ! I’m almost threescore ; Such night as this was ne’er before. There’s not a single soul abroad.” She listens, but she cannot hear The foot of horse, the voice of man ; The streams with softest sound are flowing- The grass you almost hear it growing. You hear it now, if e’er you can. 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’ei’oad 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! 10 * 114 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Perhaps, and no unlikely thought ! lie with his Pony now doth roam The cliffs 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, .411 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, .4nd 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 Tliese 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 kindl Why will ye thus my suit repel 1 Why of your further aid bereave me 1 And can ye thus unfriended leave me; Ye 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 1 Unto his Horse, there feeding 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 1 It is no goblin, ’tis no ghost, ’Tis he whom you so long have lost. He whom you love, your Idiot Boy. She loolcs 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 every w'here ; Her limbs are all alive with joy. She pats the Pony, where or w'hen 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 the 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 w'ere 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 I Who is it, but old Susan Galel 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 w'orse, Her body — it grew better. POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 115 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 figfhtirig thus. Her body still grew better. “ Alas ! what is become of them 1 These fears can never be endured. I’ll 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 ]\Iade answer, like a Traveller bold, (Ills very word.s 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 P A S T O K A I, POEM. If from 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, I Or for the summer shade. It was the first Of those domestic tales that spake to me j 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 I For the delight of a few natural hearts; j And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake Of youthful Poets, who among these Hills 1 Will be my second self when I am gone. Upon the Forest-side in Grasmere Vale There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name; An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength ; his mind was keen, Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs. And in his Shepherd’s calling he was prompt And watchful more than ordinary men. Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes. When others heeded not, he heard the South Make subterraneous music, like the noise Of Bagpipers on distant Highland hills. The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock Bethought him, and he to himself would say, “ The winds are now devising work for me !” And, truly, at all times, the storm — that drives The Traveller to a shelter — summoned him 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 Valley.s, and tire 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 116 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. Ilis days had not been past in singleness. His helpmate v/as 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 w’ool. That small for flax ; and if one wheel had rest, It was because the other 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, \\"ith one foot in the grave. This only Son, Mlth tw’o brave Sheep-dogs tried in many a storm. The one of an inestimable worth, I\Iade all their Household. I may truly say, Tliat they were as a proverb in the vale For endless industry. When day was gone, And from their occupations out of doors Tlie 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 cheese. 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 ; perhaps to card Wool for the Housewife’s spindle, or repair Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe. Or other implement of house or field. Down from the ceiling, by the chimney’s edge. That in our ancient uncouth country style Did with a huge projection overbrow I.arge space beneath, as duly as the light Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a Lamp; An aged utensil, which had performed Service beyond all others of its kind. Early at evening did it burn and late. Surviving Comrade of uncounted Hours, Which, going by from year to 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 Luke 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 old and young, was named The Evening Star. Thus living on through such a length of years?. The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs Have loved his Helpmate; but to 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. Exceeding was the love he bare to him. His Heart and his Heart’s joy ! For oftentimes Old Michael, white 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 that large old Oak, which near their doer 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 w'ere sitting in the shade. With others round them, earnest all and blithe, Would Michael 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 1 * Clippingis the word used in the NorthofEngland forshearing. POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 117 Two steady roses that were five years old, Then Michael from a winter coppice cut With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped With iron, making it throughout in all Due requisites a perfect Shepherd’s Staff, .\nd gave it to the Boy ; wherewith equipt He as a Watchman ol'tentirnes was placed At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock; .\nd, 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 alw’ays, 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 years old, could stand Against the mountain blasts ; and to the heights. Not fearing toil, nor length of weary w'ays. He W'ith 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 1 Thus in his Father’s sight the Boy grew up : And nowq 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. Ijong 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 Slore hope out of hie 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 tliat 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 sunshine of God’s love Have we all lived ; }’et 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 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 hope. I 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 owm thrift He quickly will repair this loss, and then May come again to us. If here he stay. What can be done 1 Where every one is poor. What can be gained?” At this the Old Man paused, And Isabel sat silent, for her mind Was busy, looking back into past times. There’s Richard Bateman, thought she to herself. He was a Parish-boy — at the Church-door They made a gathering for him, 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, I And left estates and moneys to the poor, I And, at his birth-blace, built a Chapel floored I With Marble, which he sent from foreign lands. I 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 tw'o days, has been meat and drink to me. j Far more than we have lost is left us yet. j — We have enough — I wish indeed that I j Were younger, — but this hope is a good hope. I — Make ready Luke’s best garments, of the best j 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- 118 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. And when they rose at morningf she could see That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon She said to Luke, while they two by themselves Were sitting at the door, “Thou must not go : We have no other Child but thee to lose, None to remember — do not go away, For if thou leave thy Father 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 Tlie expected letter from their Kinsman came. With kind assurances that he would do Ills utmost for the welfare of the Boy; To which, requests were added, that forthv.'ith He might be sent to him. Ten times or more The letter was read over ; Isabel Went forth to show it to the 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 Whicli, 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 gathered up A heap of stones, whicli by the Streamlet’s edge Lay thrown together, ready for the work. With Luke that evening thitherward 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 tlie 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; ’twill do thee good When thou art from me, even if I should speak Of tilings thou canst not know of. After thou .First earnest into the world — as oft befalls To new-born infiints — 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 Iladst 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 tlnngs of which I need not speak. — Even to the utmost I have been to thee A kind and a good Father : and herein I but repay a gift which I myself ' Received at others’ hands ; for, though nljw old Beyond the common life of man, I still Remember them who loved me in my youth. Both of them sleep together: here they lived. As all their Forefathers had done ; and when At length their time was come, they were not loth To give their bodies to the family mould. I wished that thou shonldst 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 canVe to me Till I was forty years of age, not more Than half of my inheritance was mine. I toiled and toiled ; God blessed me in my work. And till these three weeks past the land was fi-ee. — 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 the Old Man 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 thee go again, and do All works which I was wont 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 that 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, POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 119 VVlien thou art gone away, should evil men Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts, And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou ' Mayst bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, Who, being innocent, did for that cause Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well — When thou returnest, thou in this place wilt see A work which is not here : a covenant ’Twill be between us But, whatever fate Befall thee, I shall love thee to tlie 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 Man’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 all 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, full of wondrous news, Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout “ The prettiest letters that were ever seen.” Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. So, many months passed on : and once again 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 ; •T will 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 w'as Years after he had heard this heavy news. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks He went, and still looked up tow’ards the sun, And listened to the wind ; and, as before, Performed all kinds of labour for his Sheep, knd 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 which 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 deatli the estate Was sold, and went into a Stranger’s hand. The Cottage which was named the Evening Star Is gone — the ploughshare has been through the ground On which it stood ; great changes have been wrouglit In all the neighbourhood : — yet the Oak is left That grew beside tiieir Door ; and the remains Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Gliyll THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. [Peter Henry Bruce, having given in his entertaining Memr rs the substance of the following Tale, affirms, that, besides tho 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 bearing that name as the acknowledged Wife of Peter the Great.] PART I, Enough of rose-bud 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 frail flowers; Yea, to the stars, if they were born For seasons and for hotirs. 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 cast Appeared unwelcome dawn. 120 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. 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. “ 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; Slie hung upon the Fugitive, Embracing and embraced. She led tlie Lady to a seat Beside the glimmering fire. Bathed duteously her wayworn feet. Prevented each desire: The cricket chirped, the house-dog dozed. And on that simple bed, ^Vhere she in childhood had reposed. Now rests her weary head. When she, whose couch had been the sod, Whose curtain pine or thorn. Had breathed 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. Refreshed, the Wanderer rose at mom. And soon again was dight In those unworthy vestments W'orn Through long and perilotis flight; And “ O beloved Nurse,” she said, “ My thanks with silent tears Have unto Heaven and You been paid : Now listen to my fears 1 “ Have you forgot” — and here she smiled — “The babbling flatteries You lavished on me when a child Disporting round your knees? I was your lambkin, and your bird, Your star, your gem, your flower; Light words, that were more lightly heard In many a cloudless Ixmr! 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 hidden from his wrath : You, Foster-father dear. Will guide me in my forward path; I may not tarry here 1 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.” “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. 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. 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. The Woodman knew, for such the craft This Russian Vassal plied. That never fowler’s gun, nor snaft Of archer, there was tried ; POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 121 A sanctuary seemed the spot, From all intrusion free; And there he planned an artful Cot For perfect secrecy. With earnest pains unchecked by dread Of Power’s far-stretching hand, The bold good Man his labour sped At nature’s pure command ; Heart-soothed, and busy as a wren. While, in a hollow nook, She moulds her sight-eluding den Above a murmuring brook. Rejoiced to bid the world farewell. No saintly Anchoress E’er took possession of her cell With deeper thankfulness. “ Father of all, upon thy care And mercy am I thrown ; Be thou my safeguard !” — such her prayer When she was left alone. Kneeling amid the wilderness When joy had passed away. And smiles, fond efforts of distress To hide what they betray ! His task accomplished to his mind. The twain ere break of day Creep forth, and through the forest wind Their solitary way; Few words they speak, nor dare to slack Their pace from mile to mile. Till they have crossed the quaking marsh, And reached the lonely Isle. The prayer is heard, the Saints have seen, Diffused through form and face. Resolves devotedly serene; That monumental grace Of Faith, which doth all passions tame That Reason should control ; And shows in the untrembling frame A statue of tlw soul ine sun above the pine-trees showed A bright and cheerful face; And Ina looked for her abode. The promised hiding-place; She sought in vain, the Woodman smiled ; No threshold could be seen. Nor roof, nor window ; all seemed wild As it had ever been. Advancing, you might guess an hour, The front wit’n such nice care Is masked, “ if house it be or bower,” But in they entered are ; As shaggy as were wall and roof With branches intertwined. So smooth was all within, air-proof. And delicately lined. And hearth was there, and maple dish. And cups in seemly rows. And couch — all ready to a wish For nurture or repose; And Heaven doth to her virtue grant That here she may abide In solitude, with every want By cautious love supplied. No Queen, before a shouting crowd. Led on in bridal state. E’er struggled with a heart so proud. Entering her palace gate ; q PART III. ’Tis sung in ancient minstrelsy That Phoebus wont to wear “ The leaves of any pleasant tree Around his golden hair,”* Till Daphne, desperate with pursuit Of his imperious love. At her own prayer transformed, took root, A laurel in the grove. Then did the Penitent adorn His brow with laurel green ; And ’mid his bright locks never shorn No meaner leaf was seen ; And Poets sage, through every age. About their temples wound The bay ; and Conquerors thanked the Gods, With laurel chaplets crowned. Into the mists of fabling Time So far runs back the praise Of Beauty, that disdains to climb Along forbidden ways ; That scorns temptation ; power defies Where mutual love is not ; And to the tomb for rescue flies. When life would be a blot. ♦ From Golding’s Translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoa<» So also his Dedicatory Epistle prefix’d to the same work. 122 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. To this fair 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. 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. And ofl, as cither 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 now burst of spring. But, when she of her Parents thought. The pang was hard to bear; And, if with all things not enwrought. 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. 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. The happiest of the band ! 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 cha,sed At speed a wounded Deer, Bounding through branches interlaced, And where the wood was clear. 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. 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 ! 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. 123 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 ! Faint sanction given, the Cavalier Was eager to depart. Though question followed question, dear To the Maiden’s filial heart. 1 speak not of the winter’s cold, For summer’s heat exchanged. 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. Light was his step, — his Iiopcs, 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 pow'er could give. 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.” 0 more than mighty change ! If e’er Amazement rose to pain, And over-joy produced a fear Of something void and vain, ’T was when the Parents, who had mourned So long the lost as dead. Beheld their only Child returned. The household floor to tread. “ 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 1 You, Lady, forced to wear These rude habiliments, and rest Your head in this dark lair !” 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. 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 miomcnt came As on the wings of years. Flowers strewed the ground ; the nuptial feasi 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 ! “ Such bounty is no gift of cliance,” 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 I.ady Catherine pleads. His violence is stilled. GRACE DARLING. Among the dwellers in the silent fields The natural heart is touched, and public way And crowded streets resound with ballad strains. Inspired by one whose very name bespeaks Favour divine, exalting human love; Whom since her birth on bleak Northumbria’s coast, “ Leave open to my wish the course. And I to her will go ; From that hum.ane and heavenly source, Good, only good, can flow.” Known unto few but prized as far as known, A single act endears to high and low Through the whole land — to Manhood, moved in spue Of the world’s freezing cares — to generous Youth — 121 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. To Infancy, that lisps lier praise — to Age Whose eye reflects it, glistening through a tear Of tremulous admiration. Such true fame Awaits her vow ; but, verily, good deeds Do no imperishable record find Save in the rolls of heaven, where hers may live A theme for angels, when they celebrate The high-souled virtues which forgetful earth lias witnessed. Oh ! that winds and waves could speak Of things which their united power call forth From the pure depths of her humanity ! A maiden gentle, yet, at duty’s call. Firm and unflinching, as the lighthouse reared On the Island-rock, her lonely dwelling-place ; Or like the invincible rock itself, that braves Age after age the hostile element.s. As when it guarded holy Culhbert’s cell. All night tlie storm had raged, nor ceased, nor paused, When, as day broke, the maid, through misty air, Espies far oft’ a wreck, amid the surf. Beating on one of those disastrous isles — Half of a vessel, half — no more; the rest Had vanished, swallowed up with all that there Had for the common safety striven in vain. Or thither thronged for refuge. With quick glance Daughter and sire through optic-glass discern. Clinging about the remnant of this ship. Creatures — how precious in the maiden’s sight! For whom, belike, the old man grieves still more Than for their fellow-sufferers engulfed Where every parting agony is hushed, And hope and fear mix not in further strife. “But courage, father! let us out to sea — A few may yet be saved.” The daughter’s words, Her earnest tone, and look beaming with faith. Dispel the father’s doubts : nor do they lack The noble-minded mother’s helping hand To launch the boat; and witli her blessing cheered. And inwardly sustained by silent prayer. Together they put forth, father and child ! Each grasp an oar, and struggling on they go — Rivals in effort; and, alike intent Here to elude and there surmount, they watch The billows lengthening, mutually crossed And shattered, and re-gathering their might; As if the tumult, by the Almighty’s will Were, in the conscious sea, roused and prolonged That woman’s fortitude — so tried, so proved — May brighten more and more ! True to the mark, They stem the current of that perilous gorge, Their arms still strengthening with the strengthening heart. Though danger as the wreck is near’d, becomes More imminent. Not unseen do they approach ; And rapture, with varieties of fear Incessantly conflicting, thrills the frames Of those who, in that dauntless energy, I Foretaste deliverance; but the least perturbed Can scarcely trust his eyes, when he perceives j That of the pair — tossed on the waves to bring j Hope to the hopeless, to the dying, life — I One is a woman, a poor earthly sister. Or, be the visitant other than she seems, i A guardian spirit sent from pitying Heaven, In woman’s shape. But why prolong the tale. Casting weak words amid a host of thoughts ! Armed to repel them? Every hazard faced And difficulty mastered, with resolve ' That no one breathing should be left to perish, This last remainder of the crew are all Placed in the little boat, then o’er the deep j Are safely borne, landed upon the beach, • And, in fulfilment of God’s mercy, lodged I Within the sheltering lighthouse. — Shout ye waves! J Send forth a song of triumph. Waves and winds, Exult in this deliverance wrought through faith In Him whose Providence your rage hath served ! Ye screaming Sea-mews, in the concert join ! And would that some immortal voice — a voice Fitly attuned to all that gratitude Breathes out from floor or couch, througli pallid lips Of the survivors — to the clouds might bear — Blended with praise of that parental love, Beneath whose watchful eye the maiden grew Pious and pure, modest and yet so brave. Though young so wise, though meek .so resolute — Might carry to the clouds and to the stars. Yea, to celestial choirs, Grace Darling’s name ! THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN. [When a Nortliern tmlian, from sickness, is unalile to continue his journey with his companions he is left behind, covered over with deer-skins, and is snpiilied with water, food, and fuel, if the situa- tion of the place will afford it. He is informed of the track which his companions intend to pursue, and if he he unable to ftdlow, or overtake them, he perishes alone in the desert; unless he should have the good fortune to fall in with some other tribes of Indians. The females are equally, or still more, e-vitosed to the same fate. See that very interesting work He.iaNE's Jour.net 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, «s alluded to in the following poem.] Before I see another day, 0 let my body die away ! In sleep I heard the northern gleams; The stars, they were among my dreams; In rustling conflict through the skies, 1 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 ! POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 125 II. 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. III. 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 O, how grievously I rue. That, afterwards, a little longer. My friends, I did not follow you ! For strong and without pain I lay. Dear friends, when ye were gone away. IV. My child ! they gave thee to another, A woman who was not thy mother. When from my arms 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, 'J'nat he might pull the sledge for me : And then he stretched his arms, how wild ! 0 mercy ! like a helpless child. V. My little joy ! my little pride ! In two days more 1 must have died. Then do not weep and grieve for me ; 1 feel I must have died with thee. 0 wind, that o’er my head art flying The way my friends their course did bend, 1 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. VI. I ’ll 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 : 1’he 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! VII. Young as I am, my course is run, I shall not see another sun ; I cannot lift my limbs to know If they have any life or no. My poor forsaken child, if I For once could have thee close to me, With happy heart I then would die, And my last thought would happy be ; But thou, dear babe, art far away. Nor shall I see another day MATERNAL GRIEF. Departed child ! I could forget thee once Though at my bosom nursed ; this woeful gain Thy di.ssolution brings, that in my soul Is present and perpetually abides A shadow, never, never to be displaced By the returning substance, seen or touched. Seen by mine eyes, or clasped in my embrace. Absence and death how differ they! and how Shall I admit that nothing can restore What one short sigh so easily removed ! — Death, life, and sleep, reality and thought. Assist me, God, their boundaries to know, O teach me calm submission to thy Will ! The child she mourned had overstepf>ed the pale Of infancy, but still did breathe the air That sanctifies its confines, and partook Reflected beams of that celestial light To all the little-ones on sinful earth Not unvouchsafed — a light that warmed and cheered Those several qualities of heart and mind Which, in her own blest nature, rooted deep. Daily before the mother’s watchful eye. And not hers only, their peculiar charms Unfolded, — beauty, for its present self. And for its promises to future years. With not unfrequent rapture fondly hailed. Have you espied upon a dewy lawn A pair of Leverets each provoking each To a continuance of their fearless sport. Two separate creatures in their several gifts Abounding, but so fashioned that, in all That nature prompts them to display, their looks. Their starts of motion and their fits of rest. An undistinguishable style appears And character of gladness, as if spring Lodged in their innocent bosoms, and the spirit Of the rejoicing morning were their own. Such union, in the lovely girl maintained And her twin brother, had the parent seen. Ere, pouncing like a ravenous bird of prey, i Death in a moment parted them, and left 11 * 126 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. The mother, in her turns of anguish, worse Than desolate; for ofttimes from the sound Of the survivor’s sweetest voice (dear cliild, lie knew it not) and from Ids happiest looks. Did she extract the food of self-reproach, As one that lived ungrateful for the stay By Heaven afforded to uphold her maimed And tottering spirit. And full oft the boy, Now first acquainted with distress and grief, Shrunk from his mother’s presence, shunned with fear Her sad approach, and stole away to find. In his known haunts of joy where’er he might, A more congenial object. But, as time Softened her pangs and reconciled the child To wliat he saw, he gradually returned, Like a scared bird encouraged to renew A broken intercourse ; and, while his eyes Were yet with pensive fear and gentle awe Turned upon her who bore him, she would stoop To imprint a kiss that lacked not power to spread Faint colour over both their pallid cheeks. And stilled his tremulous lip. Thus they were calmed And cheered ; and now together breathe fresh air In open fields; and when the glare of day Is gone, and twilight to the mother’s wish Befriends the observance, readily they join In walks whose boundary is the lost one’s grave. Which he with flowers hath planted, finding there Amusement, where the mother does not miss Dear consolation, kneeling on the turf In prayer, yet blending with that solemn rite Of pious faith the vanities of grief; For such, by pitying Angels and by Spirits Transferred to regions upon which the clouds Of our weak nature rest not, must be deemed Those willing tears, and unforbidden sighs. And all those tokens of a cherished sorrow. Which, soothed and sweetened by the grace of Heaven As now it is, seems to her own fond heart. Immortal as the love that gave it being. LOVING AND LIKING: lUUEGULAR VERSES, .ADDRESSED TO A CHILD. BY MY SISTER. 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. O mark the beauty of his eye’ What wonders in that circle lie ! I So clear, so bright, our fathers said j 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, I Startling the timid as they pass, j Do you observe him, and endeavour To take the intruder into favour; Learning from him to find a reason I For a light heart in a dull season. [ And you may love him in the pool, j That is for him a happy school, ; In which he swims as taught by nature, Fit pattern for a buman creature. Glancing amid the water bright, 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 thankfully eat. j Long may you love your pensioner mouse, j Though one of a tribe that torment the hou.se: Nor dislike for her cruel sport the cat. Deadly foe both of mouse and rat; Remember she follows the law of her kind, j And instinct is neither wayward nor blind. 1 Then think of her beautiful gliding form, j Her tread that would scarcely 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, I Or track the hedgehog to his hole. I Loving and liking are the solace of life. Rock the cradle of joy, smooth the death-bed of strife. I You love your father and your mother. Your grown-up and your baby brother; j You love your sister, and your friends, j 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, I 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 will be our bliss with saints above. POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 127 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 1 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 chest. And busy throat whose sink and swell Betray the elf that loves to dwell In Robin’s bosom, as a chosen cell. 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 hers who long hath lain. With languid limbs and patient head Reposing on a lone sick-bed ; Where now, she daily hears a strain That cheats her of too busy cares. Eases her pain, and helps her prayers. And who but this dear bird beguiled The fever of that pale-faced child ; 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 siie lies upon!’* And sometimes, just as listening ends In slumber, witli the cadence blends A dream of that low-warbled hymn * The words — ‘Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, Bless the bed that I lie on,’ are part of a child’s prayer, still in general use through the northern counties. Which old folk, fondly pleased to trim Lamps of faith, now burning dim. Say that the cherubs carved in stone, Wlien clouds gave way at dead of night And the ancient church was filled 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 yel 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, lie 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, Wliere sits tlie dame, and wears away Her long and vacant holiday ; With images about her heart. Reflected from the years gone by. On human nature’s second infancy. HER EYES ARE WILD. Her eyes are wild, her head is bare. The sun has burnt her coal-black hair; Her eyebrows have a rusty stain. And site came far from over the main. She has a baby on her arm. Or else she were alone : And underneath the hay-stack warm. And on the greenwood stone. She talked and sung the woods among, And it was in the English tongue. II. “ Sweet babe ! they say that I am mad. But nay, my heart is far too glad ; And I am happy wlien 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 shaft be : To thee I know too mucli I owe ; I cannot work thee any woe. WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. 12P^ III. VII. A fire was once within my brain ; And in my head a dull, dull pain; And fiendish faces, one, two, three, Ilunnr 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 flesli and blood ; 0 joy for me that sight to see ! For he was here, and only he. Thy father cares not for my breast, ’T is thine, sweet baby, there to rest; ’T is all thine own ! — and, if its hue Be changed, that was so fair to view, ’T is fair enough for thee, rny dove ! My beauty, little child, is flown. But thou wilt live with me in love; And what if my poor cheek be brown J ’T is well for me, thou canst not see How pale and wan it else would be. IV. VIII. Suck, little babe, O suck again ! It cools my blood ; it cools my brain ; Thy lips I feel them, baby ! they Draw from my lieart the pain away. Oil ! 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. 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 liarm my babe can take; But he, poor man I is wretched made ; And every day we two will pray For him that’s gone and far away. V. IX. Oh ! love me, love me, little boy ! Thou art thy mother’s only joy ; And do not dread the waves below. When o’er the 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, lie saves for me my precious soul; Tlien happy lie; for blest am 1; Without me my sweet babe would die. I ’ll 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 tliou gone, my own dear child! What wicked looks are those I see! Alas! alas! that look so wild. It never, never came from me : If thou art mad, my pretty lad. Then I must be for ever sad. VI. X. Then do not fear, my boy ! for thee Bold as a lion will 1 be; .\nd I will always be thy guide. Through hollow snows and rivers wide. I’ll build an Indian bower; 1 know The leaves that make the softest bed : And, if from me tbou 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. 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 shade ; 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 ave.” POEMS POUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 129 NOTES TO POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. J J Note, p. 67. Brothers." [Extract .‘I'om a letter addressed by Wordsworth to Charles James Fox in 1802, and accompanying a copy of the Poems : “In the two poems, ‘The Brothers’ and ‘Michael,’ I have attempted to draw a picture of the domestic affections, as I know they exist amongst a class of men who are now almost confined to the north of England. They are small independent proprietors of land, here called ‘statesmen,’ men of respectable education, who daily labour on their own little properties. The domestic affections will always be strong amongst men who live in a country not crowded with population ;'if these men are placed above poverty. But, if they are proprietors of small estates which have descended to them from their ancestors, the power which these affections will acquire amongst such men, is inconceivable by those who have only had an opportunity of observing hired labourers, farmers, and the manufacturing poor. Their little tract of land serves as a kind of permanent rally- ing point for their domestic feelings, as a tablet upon which they are written, which makes them objects of memory in a thousand instances when they would otherwise be forgotten. It is a fountain fitted to the nature of social man, from which supplies of affection as pure as his heart was intended for, are daily drawn. This class of men is rapidly disappearing. You, Sir, have a consciousness, upon which every good man will congratulate you, that the whole of your public conduct has in one way or other been directed to the preservation of this class of men, and those who hold similar situa- tions. You have felt that the most sacred of all pro- perty is the property of the poor. The two poems that I have mentioned were written with a view to show that men who do not wear fine deaths can feel deeply. ‘Pectus enim est quod di.sertos facit, et vis mentis. Ideoque imperitis quoque, si mode sint aliquo affectu concitati, verba non desunt.’ The poems are faithful copies from nature ; and I hope whatever effect they may have upon you, you will at least be able to perceive that they may excite profitable sympathies in many kind and good hearts ; and may in some small degree enlarge our feelings of reverence for our species, and our knowledge of human nature, by showing that our best qualities are possessed by men whom we arc too apt to consider, not with reference to the points in which they resemble us, but to those in which they manifestly differ from us.” 11 The letter from which tliis extract is made, was pub- lished in 1838, by Sir Henry Bunbury, among some miscellaneous letters in his “ Correspondence of Sir Thomas Ilanmer, etc.,” p. 436. It is this poem of which Coleridge said — “The Bro- thers, that model of English pastoral, which I never yet read with unclouded eye.” Biographia JAterarin, Vol. II., chap, v., p. 8.7, Note, Edit, of 1847. And Southey, writing to Coleridge, July 11, 1801, says: — “God bless Wordsworth for that poem ! (‘The Bro- thers.’)” Lz/e rtnti Correspondence of Southey, Vu\. II., p. 150, chap. viii. — II. R.] Page 96. ‘7 travelled among unhiown men.' [“Amongst the Poems founded on the Affections is one called, from its first line, ‘ I travelled among un- known men,’ which ends with these lines, wherein the poet addresses his native land : Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed The bowers where Lucy played ; And thine too is the last green field That Lucy’s eyes surveyed. A friend, a true poet himself, to whom I owe some new insight into the merits of Mr. Wordsworth’s poetry, and who showed me to my surprise, that there were nooks in that rich and varied region, some of the shj treasures of which 1 was not perfectly acquainted with, first made me feel the great beauty of this stanza; m which the poet, as it were, spreads day and night over the object of his affections, and seems, under the influ- ence of passionate feeling, to think of England, whether in light or darkness, only as her play-place and verdant home. — S. C.” (Sara Coleridge.) Biographia JAte- raria of S. T. Coleridge, Vol. II., chap, ix., p. 173, Note, Edit, of 1847. — II. R.] Page 98. 'Let other hards of angels sing.' [In his editions of 1845 and 1850, the author has e.x- eluded the following stanza, which was the second in this piece in the earlier editions, to the readers of which it had become familiar, and is therefore preserved in this note: Such if thou wert in all men’s view, A universal show, What would my fancy have to do? My feelings to bestow 1 — H. R.] : -fs l Jt:' iiJ'? -•* 2 li T O OT ..^oi 7 'i:mA ;t t •‘ ,: . ■' .-.■'T./ri-' •■■-,; t' .;?:.><> . .^ .y.-Tt '1 'i ' . . v =T---. v : '• ‘-1 . •„ - Cj , ■' t' .H’- / ' 1 *' ' ’ •' '"■■'■ '••■^ » :“'*. ’ w * f • 1 — ' '■ ' •iffVi®, >-.X '''*»• f.»» '’-■ ■ : .-^"ll- ■..• yr •-,1 ' .. ..-^«: , .. ,!44 - 'V-Mr- ■ . / .■a'> 1 ■ V 4 - 5 H 1 ■■ ....V*:tV ' ■' .■■•-. t .- -v - t . _ .. jn ■ , . ’ :- 7» i7*i'-''^ s 7;'^ - 1 • : ■•-.fT-i ,.'V '* ' V*^ m ..:,;.>.d ■■ - :s t.i* ..«•■• ' , > :;j •A-'rt, •'^ ■ ■' •'.’•;''•• . '<‘::ir*.«|; ‘' ’ • ' \ ^ , * ■ • .• -T-'ir* n' V;., ,■ It ‘ >('..( ^ ''*/■ »M ' . •--» *1 lltrr'T.'tr t • ■ -.-ft- i * ■ ~ ‘ ' ’ • '■■ ( ''tj, ./V :l ,•) . ' T - . ' ■ ■ , |., a' ■ 'f • ; w*Mr>> v•^' ,‘> )uJ iyi <■' - ■ . l»*i - j.i.n- ■ •* iL. vtc. Ay ,. POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. ADVERTISEMENT. By persons resident in the country and attached to rural objects, many places will be 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 Incidents, or renew the gratification of such Feelings, Names have been given to Places by the Author and some of his Friends, and the following Poems written in consequence. I. It was an April morning : fresh and clear The Rivulet, delighting in its strength. Ran with a young man’s speed ; and yet the voice Of waters which the winter had supplied W^as softened down into a vernal tone. The spirit of enjoyment and desire. And hopes and wishes, from all living things Went circling, like a multitude of sounds. The budding groves appeared as if in haste To spur the steps of June ; as if their shades Of various green were hinderances that stood Between them and their object : yet, meanwhile. There was such deep contentment in the air. That every naked ash, and tardy tree Yet leafless, seemed as though the countenance With which it looked on this delightful day Were native to the summer. — Up the brook I roamed in the confusion of my heart. Alive to all things and forgetting all. At length I to a sudden turning came In this continuous glen, where down a rock The Stream, so ardent in its course before. Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice Of common pleasure : beast and bird, the Lamb, The Shepherd’s Dog, the Linnet and the Thrush Vied with this Waterfall, and made a song Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth Or 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 thor". 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. II. 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 The 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! 131 132 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. And when will she return to us ?” 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. — ’Twas that delightful season when the broom. Full- flowered, and visible on every steep. Along the copses runs in veins of gold. Our pathw’ay 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 w'ith 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 cwn 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 Helrn-Crag Was ready wdth her cavern; Ilammar-Scar, And the tall Steep of Silver-How, sent forth A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard. And I'airfield 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.f * In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several Inscriptions, upon the native rock, which, from the wasting of Time, and the rudeness of the workmanship, liave been mistaken for Runic. They are without doubt Roman. The Rolha, mentioned in this poem, is the River which, flow- ing through the lakes of Grasmere and Rydale, falls into Wy- nander. On Ilelra-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 mcnlioned immediately surround the Vale of Grasmere ; of the others, some are at a considerable distance, but they belong to the same cluster. t [“ — a noble imitation of Drayton, (if it was not rather a coincidence).” Coleridge, ‘ Biographia Literaria,’ chap 20 — It mattere little which, though there seems to be greater proba- 1 — 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 shelter from some object of her fear. — And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone Beneath tliis rock, at sunrise, on a calm And silent morning, I sat down, and there, , In memory of affections 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.” III. There is an Eminence, — 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 Cliff, 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 communion, that no place on earth Can ever be a solitude to me. Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name. bility in the la'!er supposition. The passage in Drayton, alluded to, is as loilows : “ — Till to your shouts the hills with echo all reply, Which Copland scarce had spoke, but quickly every hill. Upon her verge that stands, the neighbouring valleys fill ; Ilelvillon from his height, it through the mountains threw, From whom as soon again, the sound Dunbalrase drew. From whose slone-trophicd head, it on to Wendross went, Which tow'rds the sea again, resounded it to Dent, That Broadwater therewith within her banks astound,' In sailing to the sea, told it in Fgremound, Whose buildings, walks, and streets, with echoes loud and long. Did mightily commend old Copland for her .song.” Tohjolbion; Song XXX. — II. R.] POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 133 IV. A NARROW girdle of rough stones and crags, A 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 ; And 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 wa)\ Ill 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 Of 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 ; In all its sportive wanderings, all the while. Making report of an invisible breeze That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse. Its playmate, rather say its moving soul. 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. Fair Ferns and Flowers, and chiefly that tall Fern, So stately, of the Queen Osmunda named ; Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode On Grasmere’s beach, than Naiad by the side Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old Romance. — 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. Improvident 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 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 tlioughts 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 our 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 nremorial name, uncouth indeed As e’er by Mariner was given to Bay Or Foreland, on a new-discovered coast; And Point Rash-Judgment is the Name it bears. V, TO M. II. 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 of water and this one green field. The spot was made by Nature for herself; The travellers know it not, and ’twill remain Unknown to tliem : but it is beautiful ; And if a man should plant his cottage near. Should sleep beneath tlie 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 12 ]34 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 clog'ged With frequent showers of snow. Upon a hill At a short distance from my Cottage, stands A stately Fir-grove, whither I was wont To hasten, for I found, beneath the roof Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor. Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow. And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth. The redbreast near me hopped ; nor v;as 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 1 seek, between their stems, A length of open space, where to and fro My feet might move without concern or care ; And, baffled 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 witli 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 tliy lionourcd 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 1 And, while I gaze upon the spectacle Of clouded splendour, on this dream-like sight I 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 not long after perished by shipwreck, in discharge of his duty as Om mander of the Honourable East India Company’s Vessel, the Earl of Abergavenny. POEMS ON THE NAxMING OF PLACES. 135 VII. Forth from a jutting ridge, around wliose base Winds our deep vale, two heath-clad rocks ascend In fellowship, the loftiest of the pair Rising to no ambitious height; yet both. O’er lake and stream, mountain and flowery mead, Unfolding prospects fair as human eyes Ever beheld. Up-led with mutual help. To one or other brow of those twin peaks Were two adventurous sisters wont to climb. And took no note of the hour while thence they gazed. The blooming heath their couch, gazed, side by side. In speechles.s admiration. I, a witness I And frequent sharer of their calm delight With thankful heart, to either eminence Gave the baptismal name each sister bore. Now are they parted, far as death’s cold hand Hath power to part the Spirits of those who love As they did love. Ye kindred pinnacles — That, while the generations of mankind Follow each other to their hiding-place I In time’s abyss, are privileged to endure I Beautiful in yourselves, and richly graced 1 With like command of beauty — grant your aid : For Mary’s humble, Sarah’s silent, claim, I That their pure joy in nature may survive 1 From age to age in blended memory. E 3»i?K - - -^T-r^ -t -t;itu - -- I I - -p- - . ^ J^ Tj^'fesp artira fwNM - .l>#> »ai^ ^ '-V ^ V f^*T'viri ^ .If, rv- * ' ' ■„ i,jt Ir> '\. tiar*' •<(>44ii«fe: v ' .f / 4t‘i'i-' ; »> <‘‘ <,.«/i»iif>« .m*>rti»-f)jy) ^,i» ^. v^ i.“Y *. ' -;ar; V ,^_J- ., -m-m^ 3? j- . 'v4kt K '--- > •^. '- *U".‘ -^**rv-*w!4 *1- ' 4 POEMS OF THE FANCY. A MORNING EXERCISE. Fanxy, who leads the pastimes of the glad, Full ofl 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-whil — 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, “ Work 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 lie 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 ! Had, 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 free; So humble, yet so ready to rejoice In power of wing and never-wearied voice ! To the last point of vision, and beyond. Mount, daring warbler ! — that love-prompted strain, (’Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain ; Yet might’st thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing All independent of the leafy spring. How would it please old ocean to partake. With sailors longing for a breeze in vain. The harmony thy notes most gladly make Where earth resembles most his own 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, ’T is 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! TO THE DAISY. “Herf divine skill taught me this. That from every thing I saw I could some instruction draw, And raise pleasure to the height Through the meanest object's sight. By the murmur of a spring. Or the least bough’s rustelling ; By a daisy whose leaves spread Shut when Titan goes to bed ; Or a shady bush or tree ; She could more infuse in me Than all nature’s beauties can In some other wiser man.” G. Wminas. 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; l.'i7 See Waterton’s Wanderings in South America. S t Ilis muse. 12 * 138 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. Whole summer fields are thine by right; And Autumn, melancholy Wight! Doth in thy crimson head delight When rains are on thee. In shoals and bands, a morrice train. Thou greetest the Traveller in the lane; If welcome thou countest it gain ; Thou art not daunted. Nor carest if thou be set at naught: And oft alone in nooks remote We meet thee like a pleasant thought. When such are wanted. Be Violets in their secret mews The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose; Proud be the Rose, with rains and dews Her head impearling; Thou livest with less ambitious aim, Yet hast not gone without tliy fame ; Tliou art indeed by many a claim The Poet’s darling. If to a rock from rains he fly. Or, some bright day of April sky. Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie Near the green holly, .^nd wearily at length should fare; He needs but look about, and there Thou art ! — a Friend at hand, to scare Ilis melancholy. A hundred times, by rock or bower. Ere thus I have lain couched an hour. Have I derived from thy sweet power Some apprehension ; Come steady love ; some brief delight ; Some memory that had taken flight ; Some chime of fancy wrong or right; Or stray invention. If stately passions in me burn. And one chance look to Thee should turn, I drink out of an humbler urn A lowlier pleasure ; The homely sympathy that heeds The common life our nature breeds; A wisdom fitted to the needs Of hearts at leisure. When, smitten by the morning ray, I see thee rise, alert and gay. Then, cheerful Flower ! my spirits play W'ith kindred gladness; And when, at dusk, by dews opprest Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest Hath often eased my pensive breast Of careful sadness. And all day long I number yet. All seasons through, another debt. Which I, wherever thou art met, To thee am owing; An instinct call it, a blind sense ; A happy, genial influence. Coming one knows not how, nor whence, Nor whither going. Child of the year! that round dost run Thy course bold lover of the sun. And cheerful when the days begun As morning Leveret, Thy long-lost praise* thou shalt regain; Dear shalt thou be to future men As in old time; — thou not in vain Art Nature’s favourite. A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill Rushed o’er the wood with startling sound ; Then — all at once the air was still. And showers of hail-stones pattered round Where leafless Oaks towered high abore, I sat within an undergrove Of tallest hollies, tall and green ; A fairer bower was never seen. From year to year the spacious floor With withered leaves is covered o’er. And all the year the bower is green. But see ! where’er the hail-stones drop The withered leaves all skip and hop; There’s not a breeze — no breath of air — ■ Yet here, and there, and everywhere Along the floor, beneath the shade By those embowering hollies made. The leaves in myriads jump and spring, A.S if with pipes and music rare Some Robin Good-fellow were there. And all those leaves, in festive glee. Were dancing to the minstrelsy. THE GREEN LINNET, Beneath these fruit tree boughs that shed Their snovv-white blossoms on my head. With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring’s unclouded weather. In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my Orchard-.seat ! And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year’s Friends together. One have I marked, the happiest Guest In all this covert of the blest: Hail to Thee, far above the rest * See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours lornterly paid to this flower rOE?vIS OF THE FANCY. lao III joy of voice and pinion, Thou, Linnet ! in thy green array. Presiding Spirit here to-day. Dost lead the revels of the May, And this is thy dominion. While Birds, and Butterflies, and Flowers, Make all one Band of Paramours, Thou, ranging up and down the bowers. Art sole in thy employment ; A Life, a Presence like the Air, Scattering thy gladness without care. Too blest with any one to pair, TTiyself thy own enjoyment. Upon yon tuft of hazel trees. That twinkle to the gusty breeze, Behold him perched in ecstasies, Yet seeming still to hover ; There! where the flutter of his wings Upon his back and body flings Shadows and sunny glimmerings That cover him all over. My dazzled sight 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 He mocked and treated with disdain The voiceless Form he chose to feign. While fluttering in the bushes. THE CONTRAST. THE PARROT AND THE WREN. I. Within her gilded cage confined, I saw a dazzling Belle, A Parrot of that famous kind Whose name is Non-pareil. Like beads cf glossy jet her eyes; And, smoothed by Nature’s skill. With pearl or gleaming agate vies Her finely-curved bill. Her plumy Mantle’s living hues In mass opposed to mass. Outshine the splendour that imbues The robes of pictured glass. Ana, sootii to say, an apter Mate Did never tempt the choice Of feathered Thing most delicate Li figure and in voice. But, exiled from Australian Bowers, And singleness her lot. She trills her song with tutored powers. Or mocks each casual note. 1 No more of pity for regrets I With which she may have striven ! Now but in wantonness she frets. Or spite, if cause be given ; Arch, volatile, a sportive Bird By social glee inspired ; Ambitious to be seen or heard. And pleased to be admired i II. This moss-lined shed, green, soft, and dry. Harbours a self-contented Wren, Not shunning man’s abode, though shy. Almost as thought itself, of human ken. 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. 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. Say, Dora ! tell me by yon placid Moon, If called to choose between the favoured pair, Which would you be, — the Bird of the Saloon, By Lady fingers tended with nice care, Caressed, applauded, upon dainties fed. Or Nature’s Darkling of this mossy Shed 1 TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.’ Pansies, Lilies, Kingcups, Daisies, ijct them live upon their praises ; Long as there’s a sun that sets. Primroses will have their glory ; Long as there are Violets, They will have a place in story : There’s a flower that shall be mine. ’Tis the little Celandine. Eyes of some men travel far For the finding of a star; Up and down the heavens they go. Men that keep a mighty rout! I’m as great as they, I trow. Since the day I found thee out. Little flower ! — I ’ll make a stir. Like a great Astronomer. Common PileworL 140 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Modest, yet withal an Elf Bold, and lavish of thyself; Since we needs must first have met I have seen thee, high and low, Thirty years or more, and yet ’T was a face I did not know; Thou hast now, go where I may. Fifty greetings in a day. Ere a leaf is on a bush. In the time before the Thrush Has a thought about her nest, Thou wilt come with half a call. Spreading out thy glossy breast Like a careless Prodigal; Telling tales about the sun. When we’ve little warmth or none. Celandine ! and long ago. Praise of which I nothing know j I have not a doubt but he. Whosoe’er the man might be, Who the first with pointed rays (W’orkmen worthy to be saintedt Set the sign-board in a blaze. When the rising sun he painted. Took the fancy from a glance At thy glittering countenance. Soon as gentle breezes bring News of winter’s vanishing. And the children build their bowers Sticking ’kerchief-plots of mould All about with full-blown flowers, ’ Thick as sheep in shepherd’s fold . Poets, vain men in their mood! Travel with the multitude; Never heed them; I aver That they are all wanton Wooers; But the thrifty Cottager, Who stirs little out of doors, Joys to spy thee near her home; Spring is coming. Thou art come! Comfort have thou of thy merit. Kindly, unassuming Spirit! Careless of thy neighbourhood. Thou dost show thy pleasant face On the moor, and in the wood. In the lane — there’s not a place. Howsoever mean it be. But ’tis good enough for thee. Ill befall the yellow Flowers, Children of the flaring hours! Buttercups, that will be seen. Whether we will see or no; Others, too, of lofty mien ; They have done as worldlings do. Taken praise that should be thine. Little, humble Celandine! With the proudest thou art there. Mantling in the tiny square. Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure. Sighed to think, I read a book Only read, perhaps, by me ; Yet I long could overlook Thy bright coronet and Thee, And thy arch and w'ily ways. And thy store of other praise. Blithe of heart from w’eek to week Thou dost play at hide-and-seek; While the patient primrose sits Like a Beggar in the cold. Thou, a Flower of wiser wits. Slip’s! into thy sheltering hold ; Liveliest of the vernal train When ye all are out again. Drawn by vvlrat peculiar spell. By what charm of sight or smell. Does the dim-eyed curious Bee, Labouring for her waxen cells. Fondly settle upon Thee, Prized above all buds and bells Prophet of delight and mirth. Ill-requited upon earth ; Herald of a mighty band. Of a joyous train ensuing. Serving at my heart’s command. Tasks that are no tasks renewing, I will sing as doth behove. Hymns in praise of what I love! Opening daily at thy side. By the season multiplied? Thou art not beyond the moon. But a thing “beneath our shoon:” Let the bold Discoverer thrid In his bark the polar sea; Rear who will a pyramid; Praise it is enough for me. If there be but three or four Who will love my little Flower. TO THE SAME FLOWER. Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet: February last, my heart First at sight of thee was glad ; All unheard of as thou art. Thou must needs, I think, have had. the waterfall AND THE EGLANTINM “Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,” Exclaimed an angry Voice, “ Nor dare to trust thy foolish self Between me and my choice.” POEMS OF THE FANCY. 141 A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose, That, all bespattered with his foam. And dancing liigh and dancing low, Was living, as a child might know, In an unhappy home. “ Dost thou presume my course to block 1 Off, off! or, puny Thing! I’ll hurl thee headlong with the rock To which thy fibres cling.” The Flood was tyrannous and strong ; The patient Briar suffered long. Nor did ho utter groan or sigh. Hoping the danger would be past: But, seeing no relief, at last He ventured to reply. “ Ah !” said tlie Briar, “ blame me not ; M’hy 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, IMy leaves you freshened and bedewed; Nor was it common gratitude That did your cares repay. ‘When Spring came on with bud and bell, \mong these r.icks did I Before vou hang my wreaths, to tell That gentle days were nigh ! And in the sultry summer hours, I sheltered you with leaves and flowers; And in iny loaves — 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 ! w'ould you think, even yet how blest Together vye might bo ! Though of bvth leaf and flower bereft, Some ornv.;^nts to me are left — Rich store, cf scarlet hips is mine. With which I, T. 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 doll With aggravated haste ; I listened, nor aught else could hoar ; The Briar quaked — and much I fear 'Those accents were his last. THE OAK AND THE BROOM. A P A .S T O R A L. 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. The Frost hath wrought both night and day. Wedge driving after wedge. liOok 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- j I see them yonder — what a load I For such a Thing as you ! You are preparing, as before. To deck your slender shape ; And yet, just three years hack — 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, ’Tis hanging to this day! The Thing had better been asleep, Whatever thing it were. Or Breeze, or Bird, or Dog, or Slieep, That first did plant you there. For you and your greeti 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. 14-2 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. From me tliis friendly warning lake’ — The Broom began to doze, And thus, to keep herself awake, Did gently interpose : ‘ My thanks for your discourse are due ; That 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 1 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 may 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; Tlie 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 That 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 tlie Pastoral Vales of Westmoreland. Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel ! Night has brought 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, while 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. When the flocks are all at rest Sleeping on the mountain’s breast. THE REDBREAST AND BUTTERFLY. Art thou the Bird whom Man loves best, The pious Bird with the scarlet breast. Our little English Robin ; The Bird that comes about our doors When Autumn winds are sobbing" Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors 1 Their Thomas in Finland, And Russia far inland ? The Bird, who by some name or other All men who know thee call their Brother, The Darling of Children and men ! Could Father Adam* open his eyes And see this sight beneath the skies. He’d wish to close them again. If the Butterfly knew but his friend. Hither his flight he would bend; And find his way to me. Under the branches of the tree : * See Paradise I^st, Book XI., where Adam points out to Eve the ominous sign of the Eagle chasing "two Birds of gayesi plume,’' and the gentle Hart and Hind pursued by their enemy POEMS OF THE FANCY. 143 In and out, he darts about; Can this be the Bird, to man so good, That, after their bewildering, Covered with leaves the little children. So painfully in the wood 1 What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could’st pursue A beautiful Creature, That is gentle by nature! Beneath the summer sky From flower to flower let him fly; ’T is all that he wishes to do. The Cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness. He is the Friend of our summer gladness: What hinders, then, that ye should be Playmates in the sunny weather. And fly about in the air together! HlS beautiful wings in crimson are drest, A crimson as bright as thine own: If thou would’st be happy in thy nest, O pious Bird I whom man loves best. Love him or leave him alone ! THE KITTEN AND TIIK FALLING LEAVES. That way look, my Infant, lo ! What a pretty baby show ! See the Kitten on the Wall, Sporting with the leaves that fall. Withered leaves — one — two — and three — From the lofty Elder-tree! Through the calm and frosty air, Of this morning bright and fair. Eddying round and round they sink Softly, slowly: one might think, From the motions that are made. Every little leaf conveyed Sylph or Faery hither tending, — To this lower world descending. Each invisible and mute. In his wavering parachute. But the Kitten, how she starts. Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts! First at one, and then its fellow Just as light and just as yellow; There are many now — now one — Now they stop and there are none; What intenseness of desire In her upward eye of fire! With a tiger-leap half way Now she meets the coming prey. Lets it go as fast, and then Has it in her power again: Now she works with three or four, Like an Indian Conjuror; Quick as he in feats of art. Far beyond in joy of heart. Were her antics played in the eye Of a thousand Standers-by, Clapping hands with shout and stare. What would little Tabby care For the plaudits of the Crowd? Over happy to be proud. Over wealthy in the treasure Of her own e.xceeding pleasure ! ’T is a pretty Baby-treat ; Nor, I deem, for me unmeet; Here, for neither Babe nor me, Other Play-mate can I see. Of the countless living things. That with stir of feet and wings (In the sun or under shade. Upon bough or grassy blade) And with busy revellings, Chirp and song, and murmurings, Made this Orchard’s narrow space, And this Vale so blithe a place; Multitudes are swept away. Never more to breathe the day: Some are sleeping; some in Bands Travelled into distant Lands; Others slunk to moor and wood. Far from human neighbourhood; And, among the Kinds that keep With us closer fellowship. With us openly abide. All have laid their mirth aside. — Where is he tnat giddy Sprue, Blue cap, with his colours bright, Who was blest as bird could be. Feeding in the apple-tree; Made such wanton spoil and roiit. Turning blossoms inside out; Hung with head towards the ground. Fluttered, perched, into a round Bound himself, and then unbound; Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin ! Prettiest Tumbler ever seen ! Light of heart and light of limb; What is now become of Him? Lambs, that through the mountains went Frisking, bleating merriment. When the year was in its prime, They are sobered by this time. If you look to vale or hill. If you listen, al. Is still. Save a little neighbouring Rill, That from out the rocky ground Strikes a solitary sound. 144 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Vainly glitter hill and plain, And the air is calm in vain ; Vainly Morning spreads the lure Of a sky serene and pure ; Creature none can slie decoy Into open sign of joy ; Is it that they liave a fear Of the dreary season near '! Or that other pleasures be Sweeter even than gaiety 1 Yet, whate’er enjoyments dwell In the impenetrable cell Of the 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 iny 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 deca}'. 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 wrouglit, I^Iatter for a jocund thought. Spite of care, and spite of grief. To gambol with Life’s falling Leaf. A FLOWER GARDEN. Tell me, ye Zephyrs ! tliat 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 ? 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 tlie liappy 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 wouiiri. 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 — cros- Only by art in nature lost. And, though the jealous turf refuse By random footsteps to be prest. And feeds on never-sullied dew's. Ye, gentle breezes from tlie West, With all the ministers of Hope, Are tempted to this sunny slope ! And hither throngs of birds resort ; feorne, 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 tlie moral Muse — her wing Abruptly spreading to depart, She left, that farewell offering, Memento for some docile Iicart ; That may respect the good old age When Fancy was Truth’s willing Page; And Truth would skim the flowery glade Though entering but as Fancy’s Shade. POEMS OF THE FANCY 115 TO THE DAISY. With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world he, Sweet Daisy ! oft I talk to thee, For thou art worthy. Thou unassuming Common-place Of Nature, with that homely face. And yet with som. thing of a grace, Which Love makes for thee! Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similies. 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, Tliat thought comes next — and instantly The freak is over. The shape will vanish, and behold A silver Shield with boss of gold, That Spreads itself, some Faery bold In fight to cover ! I see thee glittering from afar; — And then thou art a pretty Star; Not quite so fair as many are In heaven above thee! Yet like a star, with glittering crest. Self-poised in air thou seem’st to rest; — May peace come never to his nest, Who shall reprove thee ' Sweet Flower! for by that name at last, When all my reveries aro 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! T TO THE SAME FLOWER. Bright flower, whose home is everywhere ! A Pilgrim bold in Nature’s care. And oft, the long year through, the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity. Given to no other Flower I see The forest through ! And wherefore 1 Man is soon deprest; A thoughtless Thing ! who, once unblest. 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. Thou wander’st this wide world about, Uncheck’d by pride or scrupulous doubt, WitI) friends to greet thee, or without. Yet pleased and willing; Meek, yielding to the occasion’s call. And all things suffering from all. Thy function apostolical In peace fulfilling. 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! Singing, singing. With clouds and sky about thee ringing. Lift me, guide me till I find That spot which seems so to thy mind ! I have walked through wildernesses dreary. And to-day my heart is weary ; Had I now the wings of a Faery, Up to thee would I fly. 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 I, ark ! thou wouldst bo loth To be such a Traveller as I. Happy, happy I.iver, With a soul as strong as a mountain River, Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, Joy and jollity be with us both ! 13 146 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Alas ! my journey, ruf^o-ed and uneven, Throug-h prickly moors or dusty ways must wind ; 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-house bone on bone ’T is already like a hill In a field of battle made, Wliere 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 ! Who fancied what a pretty sight This Rock would be if edged around With living Snow-drops 1 circlet bright! How glorious to this Orchard-ground ! Wlio loved the little Rock, and set Upon its head tliis Coronet 1 Was it the humour of a Child 1 Or rather of some love-sick Maid, Whose brows, the day that she was styled The Shepiierd-queen, were thus arrayed I Of Man mature, or Matron sage 1 Or Old-man toying with his age I I asked — ’twas whispered. The ievici To each and all might well be'ong : It is the Spirit of Paradise That prompts such work, a Spirit stro:ig, That gives to all the self-same bent Where life is wise and innocent. SONG FOR TIIF WANDERING JEW. Though the torrents from their 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. What, 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 my soul. THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE Seven Daughters had I.ord Archibald. All Children of one Mother: I could not say in one short day What love they bore each other. A Garland of Seven Lilies wrought POEMS OF THE FANCY. 147 Seven Sisters that tog-ether dwell ; But he, bold Knight as ever fought, Their Father, took of them no thought, He loved the Wars so well. Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully. The Solitude of Binnorie ! 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 I mournfully, Fresh blows the wind, a w’estern wind. And from the shores of Erin, Across the wave, a Rover bravo 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. The Solitude of Binnorie. THE DANISH BOY. A FRAGMENT. Thesk Slan-zas were designed to introduce a Ballad U[«)n the Story of a Danish Prince who had fled from Battle, and fiir 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 tlie Spirit of the Youth, it was believed, haunted the Valley where the crime had been committe The family had come that way. Green pasture and the sotl 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 tehing 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 the Cherrv Tree ! Thence the sound — the light is tliere — As Benjamin is now aware. Who, to his inward thoughts confined, POEMS OF THE FANCY. 157 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 ’t is the village Merry-.mght Although before in no dejection. At this insidious recollection His heart with sudden joy is filled, — His ears are by the music thrilled. His eyes take pleasure in the road . Glittering before him bright and broad ; And Benjamin is wet and cold. And there are reasons manifold That make the good, 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 mo ! 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 greate.st 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 — ^Vhat greater good can heart desire ? ’T were worth a wise man’s while to try The utmost anger of the sky; To seek fi^r 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 the North of Knglaml, ami applied to rural Festivals vvhere voting persons meet in the evening lor the pnrixtse 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, I’hey 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) acro.ss the floor — Is gone — returns — and with a prize ; With what? — a Sliip of lusty size; A gallant stately Man of War. Fixed on a smoothly-sliding car. Surprise to all, but most surprise To Benjamin, who rubs his eyes. Not knowing that he had befriended A Man so gloriously attended ! “This,” cries the Sailor, “a Third-rate is — Stand back, and you shall see her gratis! This was the Flag-Ship at the Nile, The Vanguard — you may smirk and smile. But, pretty Maid, if you look near. You’ll find you’ve much in little here! A nobler Ship did never swim. And you shall see her in full trim : I’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 lidille summons the Rustic to tlie agreeable duly of saluting his I’urincr i i 158 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. On which brave Admiral Nelson stood — A sijrlit that wo lid have roused your blood! One eye ho had which, bright as ten. Burnt like a fiie among his men; Let this be Land, and that be Sea, Here lay the French — and thus came we !” Hushed was by this ♦he fiddle’s sound, The Dancers 1' 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 tlirough 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 bow’. The MastilT, from beneath the Waggcn, Where he lay, watchful as a dragor, Rattled his cliain — ’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 tlm 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. Right gladly had the horses stirred. When they the wished-for greeting heard. The whip’s loud notice from the door. That they were free to move once more. You think, ti.ese doings must have bred (n them disheartening doubts and dread; No, not a horse of all the eight. Although it be a moonless night. Fears citlicr lor himself or freight; For this they know (and let it hide. In part, the offences of their Guide) That Benjamin, with clouded brains, fs 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 ardeep 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 Mastiffs 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 Vanguakd, following close behind. Sails spread, as if to catch the wind ! “ Thy Wife and Child are snug and warm. Thy Ship will travel without harm ; POEMS OF THE FANCY. 159 I like,” said Benjamin, “her shape and stature: And this of mine — this bulky Creature Of which I have the steering — this. Seen fairly, is not much amiss! We want yonr streamers. Friend, you know ; But, altogether, as we go. We make a kind of handsome show I 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 snow’s 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 Fhis 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-inlsic, 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 Gimmer-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 iho ewe lamb. WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. IGO 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, Lurl hig in a double shade, By tiees and lingering twilight made: There, at Blencathra’s rugged feet. Sir Laimcelot 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, w’ater-falls, and rills; Which soon the morning shall enfold, From east to west, in ample vest Of massy gloom and radiance bold. The mists, that o’er the Streamlet’s bed Hung low, begin to rise and spread ; Even while I speak, their skirts of ^ray Are smiCen 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 stalely 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 — Tugging ah vith might and mam — 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 bright a screen Him .and his enemies between! Alas ! what boots it 1 — who can hide When the malicious Fates are bent On w'orking out an ill intent 1 Can destiny be turned aside 1 ]\jo — 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 aw’ay That might his trespasses betray. ^ But what can all avail to clear him, POEMS OF THE FANCY Or what need of explanation, Parley or interrogation] For the Master sees, alas ! That unhappy Figure near him, Limping o’er the dewy grass, \\ here the road it fringes, sweet. Soft and cool to wayw'orn 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. Folk wing after in full sail ! Not to speak of Babe and Mother, Who, contented w'ith each other. And snug as birds in leafy arbour. Find, within, a blessed harbour ! With eager eyes the Master pries; Looks in and out — and through and through; Says nothing — till at last he spies A wound upon the Mastiff's head, A wound — where plainly might be read What feats an Ass’s hoof can do ! But drop the rest; — this aggravation. This complicated provocation, A hoard of grievances unsealed; All past forgiveness it repealed; — 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. IN or 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 w’hat the morning brought to light. Two losses had we to sustain. We lost both Waggoxer and Wain! Accept, O Friend, for praise or blame. The gift of this adventurous song ; A record which I dared to frame. Though timid scruples checked me long; They checked me — and I left the theme Untouched — in spite of many a gleam Of fancy which thereon was shed. Like pleasant sunbeams shifting still Upon the side of a distant hill : But Nature might not be gainsaid ; lor what T have and what I miss I sing of those — it makes my bliss ! IGl 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 j^ear. 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 othei 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 brio-ht — Crag, lawn, and wood — w'ith rosy ligJit. 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 tram ! 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, bo 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; 162 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Am grieved for Uiat unhappy sin ] And of his stately Charge, which none Which robbed us of good Benjamin; — Could keep alive when he was gone! NOTES TO POEMS OF THE FANCY. Page 145. ‘To the Daisy.' This poem, and two others to the same Flower, were written in the year 1802; which is mentioned, because in some of the ideas, tliough not in the manner in which tliose ideas are connected, and likewise even in some of the e.xpressions, there is a resemblance to passages in a Poem (lately published) of Mr. Montgomery’s, en- titled, a Field Flower. This being said, Mr. Mont- gomery will not tliink any apology due to him; I can- not, however, help addressing him in the words of the Father of English Poets. “ Though it happe me to rehersin — That ye han in your freshe songis saied, Forberith me, and beth not ill apaied, Sith that ye se I doe it in the honour Of Love, and eke in service of the Flour.” 1807. Page 146. ‘T/te Seven Sisters' The Story of this Poem is from the German of Frederica Brun. Page 154. 'The buzzing Dor-hawk round and round, is wheel- ing,— When the Poem was first written the note of the bird was thus described : — ‘The night-hawk is singing his frog-like tune. Twirling his watchman’s rattle about — ’ but from unwillingness to startle the reader at the out- set by so bold a mode of expression, the passage was altered as it now stands. Page 158. After this line, ‘ Can any mortal clog come to her,' followed in the MS. an incident which has been kept back. Part of the suppressed verses shall here be given as a gratification of private feeling, which the well- disposed reader will find no difficulty in excusing. They are now printed for the first time. ‘Can any mortal clog come to her! It can: * * * • *♦*### But Benjamin in his vexation. Possesses inward consolation ; He knows his ground, and hopes to find A spot with all things to his mind. An upright mural block of stone. Moist with pure water trickling down. A slender spring; but kind to man It is a true Samaritan ; Close to the highway, pouring out Its offering from a chink or spout; Whence all, howe’er athirst, or drooping With toil, may drink, and without stooping. Cries Benjamin “ Where is it, where 1 Voice it hath none, but must be near.” — A star declining towards the west. Upon the watery surface threw Its image tremulously imprest. That just marked out the object and withdrew : Right welcome service ! * * ****** Rock of Names ! Light is the strain, but not unjust To Thee and thy memorial-trust That once seemed only to express Love that was love in idleness ; Tokens, as year hath followed year How changed, alas, in character ! For they were graven on thy smooth breast By hands of those my soul loved best ; Meek women, men as true and brave As ever went to a hopeful grave : Their hands and mine, when side by side With kindred zeal and mutual pride. We worked until the Initials took Shapes that defied a scornful look. — Long as for us a genial feeling Survives, or one in need of healing. The power, dear Rock, around thee east, Thy monumental power, shall last For me and mine ! O thought of pain, That would impair it or profane ! Take all in kindness then, as said With a staid heart but playful head ; And fail not Thou, loved Rock ! to keep Thy charge when we are laid asleep.’ 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 Tc move along the edges of the hills. Rising or setting, would he stand alone. Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake ; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument. Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls. That they might answer him. — And they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout again. Responsive to his call, — with quivering peals. And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse wild Of 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 heart the voice Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene Would enter unawares into his mind With all its solemn imagery, its rocks. Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received Into tlie 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 w’hen 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! 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 shield ! — 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 off 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 tliee. As was witnessed through thine eye Then, when old Ilelvellyn won thee To confess their majesty! TO , ON HER FIRST ASCENT TO THE SUMMIT OP HELVELLYN. Inmate of a mountain Dwelling, Thou hast clomb aloft, and gazed. From the watch-towers of Ilelvellyn ; Awed, delighted, and amazed! TO THE CUCKOO. 0 BLITHE New-comer ! I have heard, 1 hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? 164 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 School-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. Checkering 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. 'Phere, 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 aid 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 Tlieir curious pastime 1 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. — ’Tis done — Ten times, or more, I fancied it had ceased ; But lo 1 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 1 They tempt the sun to sport amid their plumes; They tempt the w'ater, or the gleaming ice. To show tliem a fair image; — ’tis themselves. Their own fair forms, upon the glimmering 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 Umfraville or Percy ere they marched To Scotland’s Heaths; or those that crossed the Sea And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. Of vast circumference and gloom profound This solitary Tree ! — a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay ; POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed. But worthier still of note Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale, Joined in one solemn and capacious grove ; Huge trunks !— and each particular trunk a growth Of intertwisted fibres serpentine Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved, — Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks That threaten the profane ; — a pillared shade. Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue. By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged Perennially — beneath whose sable roof Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked With unrejoicing berries, ghostly Shapes May meet at noontide — Fear and trembling Hope, Silence and Foresight — Death the Skeleton And Time the Shadow, —there to celebrate, As in a natural temple scattered o’er 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. Mam 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; hut now appears A dwindled object, and submits to lie At the Spectator’s feet. — Yon azure Ridge, Is it a perishable cloud ? Or, there Do we behold the line of Erin’s Coast? * Black Comb stands at llie southern c.'ttremity of Cumber- land: Its base covers a much greater extent of ground than any other mountain in tliese 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 another 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 loward 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 ; IHotley 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 Un visited, 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 sate Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played, A temper known to those, who, after long And weary expectation, have been blest With sudden happiness beyond all hope. Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons re-appear And fade, 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 tliose green stones That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady trees. Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep, I heaid the murmur and tiie murmuring sound. In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease ; and, of its joy secure, Tlie heart luxuriates witii indifferent things. Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones. And on the vacant air. Then up I rose. And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash 166 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 Wlien first she gleamed upon my sight ; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment’s ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twiliglit 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 sorrow.s, simple wiles. Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine ; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveller between life and death ; The reason firm, the temperate will. Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly planned. To warn, to comfort, and command ; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of an angel light. 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 Ilis 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 bowei, 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 round 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.” O Nightingale ! thou surely art A Creature of a fiery heart: — These notes of thine — they pierce and pierce; Tumultuous harmony and fierce ! Thou sing’st as if the God of wine Had helped thee to a Valentine; POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. IGT 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 has been, And never more will bo. 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 eartli’s diurnal course \Vith 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, w'as 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 I 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 sound 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 bet. 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 IG8 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 tlie heart, and sad. ’T is Sir Eustace ; if it be Living Man, it must be he I 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, .\nd 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 tlie Horn which tb.ey 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? That evermore his teeth they chatter, Chatter, chatter, chatter 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 w'as a lusty drover. And who so stout of limb as he? 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 three 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 canly Dame V/ould sit, as any linnet gay. But when the ice oor 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 1 And, now and then, it must be said, When her old bones were cold and chill, She left her fire, or left her betl. 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 niAGTNATION. 1G9 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 1 — on tip-toe down the hill He softly creeps — ’T is 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 I” T1i 3 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. ’Twas 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 old ; But ever to himself he mutters, “Poor Harry Gill is very cold.” W 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 WANDERED lonely as a Cloud That floats on high o’er Vales and Hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden Daffodils ; Pes’de the Lake, beneath the trees, Flu*te'‘ing and dancing in the breeze. Contiguous as the stars that shine And twLnk’e on the milky way. They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin o.'’ a bay : Ten thousand saw I at a glance. Tossing their heads in s.pi'ght!y dance. The waves beside them danaed, but they Out-did the sparkling waves iv glee; — A poet could not but be gay. In such a jocund company : I gazed — and gazed — but little ih> uoft What wealth the show' to me had biough 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 wuth pleasure fills. And dances with the Daffodils. THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. At the corner of Wood Street, when dayliglit appear?. 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 her? 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 her pail ; And a single small Cottage, a nest like a dove’s, The one only Dwelling on earth that she loves. She looks, and her Heart is in heaven : but they fade The mist and the river, the hill and the shade : The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise. And the colours have all passed away from her eyes, 15 170 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. POWER OF 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 ? W'hat 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 opprest. As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night. So he, where he stands, is a centre of light; It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed Jack, And the pale-visaged Baker’s, with basket on back. That errand-bound ’Prentice was passing in haste — What matter ! he ’s caught — and his time runs to waste — The Newsman is stopped, though he stops on the fret. And the half-b’'eathless Lamplighter — he ’s in the net ! The Porter siis down on the weight which he bore ; The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store ; — If a Thief could be here, ho might pilfer at ease ; She sees the Musician, ’tis 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 ! Tire one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare. 0 blest are the Hearers, and proud 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 ’tis 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 1 oh, 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, IVhile she dandles the Babe in her arms to the 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 r.ot for you I Nor what ye are flying, nor what you pursue ! STAR-GAZERS. What crowd is this? what have we here? 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’s waters float. 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 ? Shall thy Implement have blame, A Boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame ? Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault? Their eyes, or minds? or, finally, is yon resplendent Vault? Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here ? Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear ? The silver Moon, with all her Vales, and Hills of mightiest fame, Doth she 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. Poof in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude, Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore prostrate lie? No, no, this cannot be — Men thirst for power and majesty ! POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 171 Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind employ Of him who gazes, or has gazed '! 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 ! Wlratever 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. TO . Those silver clouds collected round the sun Ilis 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, affords 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 diffuse 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 suporstitiously 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) The 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 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 172 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 theii 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 the 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 blitne 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, Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew ! SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING, COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER. Where are they now, those v.-anton 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 w'ear. 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 lo 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 ISIortality 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. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 173 And to my heart is still endeared Tlie faith with which it then was cheered ; The faith which saw that gladsome pair Walk through the fire with unsinged hair. 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 7 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 tlius 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 them from the Cherokces ; 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 ’cro.ss 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 liiey 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 witli a choral song When dayliglit 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 sw’eet years ! Ah me ! Our life w'ere life indeed, with thee So passed in quiet bliss. And all the while,’’ said he, “ to know That we were in a w’orld of woe. On such an earth as this !’’ * Magnolia grandinora. tTho splendid appearance of these scarlet flowers, which ar > scattered with such profusion over the Hills in the Southern p.arts of North America, is frequently mentioned by Bartram in his Travels. 15 174 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. And then he sometimes interwove Fond thoughts about a Father’s love : “For there,” said lie, “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, through savage lands Had roamed about, with vagrant bands Of Indians in the West. The w’ind, 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 The 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 ? 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 I 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 nr'tli, The morning doth return.” Full soon that purer mind w'as 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. 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. 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 toid, 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. Among the fields she breathed again: The master-current of her brain Ran permanent and free ; 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 tlie 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 Somerselshire, 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 nchly covered with coppice woods. 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 I” So speaking, and by fervent love endowed With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands, WTtle, 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 ! W’hat doth she look on ? — whom doth she behold i Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy 1 His vital pre.sence — his corporeal mould ? It is — if sense deceive her not — ’tis He! And a God leads him — winged Mercury ! Mild Hermes spake — and touched her with his wand That calms all fear, “ Such grace hath crowned thy prayer, Laodamfa ! that at Jove’s command I Thy Husband walks the paths of upper air: 176 AVORDSWORTirS 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 Pliantom parts — but parts to re-unite, And re-assume his place before her sight. “ Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! Confirm, I pray, the Vision with thy voice : This is our Palace, — yonder is thy throne; Speak, and the floor thou treadest on will rejoice. Not to appal me have the Gods bestowed Tliis precious boon, — and blest a sad Abode.” “Great Jove, Laodamia ! doth not leave llis gifts impel feet; — 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 bringeth 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 withliold ; 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, Wliich then, when tens of thousands were deprest By doubt, propelled thee to the flital shore ; Thou found’st — and I forgive thee — here thou art — A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. “ But thou, though capable of sternest deed, Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave; And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed That thou should’st cheat tlie malice of the grave ; Redundant are thy 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, this day, a second time thy bride !” Jove frowned in heaven : the conscious Parcae 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 ^son 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 sinew, 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 gocst, I follow — ” “Peace!” he said — She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered. The ghastly colour from his lips had fled ; In his deportment, shape, 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 that 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 hath earned That privilege by virtue. — “111,” said he, “The end of man’s e.xistence 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. 171 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 IVajan 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 lofly 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 Tlie 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 mortal effort 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 bli.ssful quiet ’mid unfading bowers. Yet tears to human suffering 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 I will not fetch a Naiad from a flood ' Pure as herself — (song lacks not mightier power) ! Nor leaf-crowned Dryad from a pathless wood, I 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 intorweavings 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 the features in the charac ter of Prolcsilaus, see the Iphigenia in Aulis of Euripides. Virgil places ihe Shade of I.aodamia in a mournful region, among un- liappy Lovers, Ilis Laodamia It Cornea. 178 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 draws — 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 llis 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 tearl 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 the bare life beneath the hawthorn roof Of Sherwood’s archer, or in caves of Wallace — Who that hath seen thy beauty could content Ilis soul with but a glimpse of heavenly day 1 Who that hath loved thee, but would lay Ilis 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 which 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 j 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 enwreathed? But her humility is well content With one wild floweret (call it not forlorn) Flower of the ^\'l^•DS, 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 tlieir smiles and dimples dignified — Fit countenance for the soul of primal truth. The bland composure of eternal youth ! What more changeful than the sea? But over his great tides Fidelity presides; And this light-hearted Maiden constant is as ' c. — 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 fro,sty star Is to her charity no bar. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 179 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 : Iler’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 liands. “ Last of the Three, though eldest born, Jleveal 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 thoughtfulness 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! 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 Youtl.. ; The apparition that before thee shone Obeyed a summons covetous of truth. From these wild rocks thy footstep's I will guide To bowers in which thy fortune may be tried. And one of the bright Three become thy happy Bride Lyre ! though such power do in thy magic live As might from India’s farthest plain Recal the most unwilling maid. Assist me to detain Tlie lovely fugitive : Check with thy notes the impulse which, betrayee By her sweet farewell looks, I longed to aid. Here let me gaze enwrapt upon that eye. The impregnable and awe-inspiring fort Of contemplation, the calm port By reason fenced from winds that sigh Among the restless sails of vanity. But if no wish be hets that we should part, A humbler bliss would satisfy my heart. Where all things are so fair. Enough by her dear side to breathe the air Of this Elysian weather ; And, on or in, or near, the brook, espy Shade upon the sunshine lying Faint and somewhat pensively; And downward image gaily vying W'ith its upright living tree Mid silver clouds, and openings of blue sky As soft almost and deep as her cerulean eye. Nor less the joy with many a glance Cast up the stream or down at her beseeching. To mark its eddying foam-balls prettily distrest By ever-changing shape and want of rest; Or watch, with mutual teaching. The current as it plays In flashing leaps and stealthy creeps Adown a rocky maze ; Or note (translucent summer’s happiest chance!) In the slope-channel floored with pebbles bright, Slones of all hues, gem emulous of gem. So vivid that they take from keenest sight The liquid veil that seeks not to hide them. 180 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. A JEWISH FAMILY. IM A SMALL VALLEY OPPOSITE ST. GOAR. OPO.V THE RHINE.) Genius of Raphael ! if thy wings Might bear thee to this glen, With faithful memory left of things To pencil dear and pen, Tiiou would’st 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 the 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. Refined, as with intent to show The holiness within; The grace of parting infancy By blushes yet untamed ; Age faithful to the mother’s knee. Nor of her arms ashamed. Two lovely sisters, still and sweet As flowers, stand side by side ; Their soul-subduing looks might cheat 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 ! I ‘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 m.ore-than-reasoning mind. And colour life’s dark cloud with orient rays. Imagination is that sacred power. Imagination lofty and refined : ’Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer’s temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction’s heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow’s keenest wind. 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 sometime 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. 181 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 alll I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride ; Of him who walked in glory and in joy Following his plough, along the mountain-side : By our own spirits are we deified : We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness. 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 T 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, ho the Pond Stirred with his Staff, and fixedly did look Upon the muddy water, which he conned. As if he had been reading in a book : And now a Stranger’s privilege T 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 I This is a lonesome place for one like you.” He answered, while a flash of mild surprise Bloke 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 : P’rom 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 I” 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 w’ith them on every side; But they have dwindled long by slow decay; Yet still I persevere, and find them where I ma) ” 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. I While I these thoughts within myself pursued, I He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. IG 182 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 n that decrepit Man so firm a mind. ‘ God,” said I, “ be my help and stay secure ; I’ll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!” 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: THE THORN. But never, never any where. An infant’s grave was half so fair. “ 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 aged 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. Now would you see this aged Thorn, This Pond, and beauteous Hill of moss. You must take care and choose your Lime 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 !’ 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. 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 !’ ” 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. “Now v.'herefore, 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 W’hen 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 ! 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, the darlings of the eye, So deep is their vermilion dye. “ I cannot tell ; I wish 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 when she is there. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 1S5 “ But wherefore to tlie mountain-top Can this unhappy Woman go, Whatever star is in the skies, Whatever wind may blow!” “’Tis known, that twenty years are past Since she (her name is Martha Ray) Gave with a maiden’s true good will Her company to Stephen Hill ; And she was blithe and gay, Wliile friends and kindred all approved Of him whom tenderly she loved. And they had fixed the wedding day. The morning that must wed them both; But Stephen to another Maid Had sworn another oath ; And, with this other Maid, to church Unthinking Stephen went — Poor Martha! on that woeful day A pang of pitiless dismay Into her soul was sent; A Fire was kindled in her breast. Which might not burn itself to rest. They say, full six months affer this. While yet the summer leaves were green. She to the mountain-top would go. And there was often seen. Alas! her lamentable state Even to a careless eye was plain ; She was with child, and she was mad: Yet often she was sober sad From her exceeding pain. O guilty Father — would that death Had saved him from that breach of faith! Sad case for such a brain to hold Communion with a stirring child ! Sad case, as you may think, fer one Who had a brain so wild ! Last Christmas-eve we talked of this. And gray-haired Wilfred of the glen Held that the unborn Infant wrought About its mother’s heart, and brought Her senses back again : And, when at last her time drew near. Her looks were calm, her senses clear. More know I not, I wish I did. And it should all bo told to you ; For what became of this poor Child No Mortal ever knew ; Nay — if a Child to her was born No earthly tongue could ever tell ; And if ’twas born alive or dead. Far less could this with proof be said ; But some remember well. That Martha Ray about this time Would up the mountain often climb. And all that winter, when at night The wind blew from the mountain-peair, ’T was worth your while, though in the dark, The churchyard path to seek : For many a time and oft were heard Cries coming from the mountain-head: Some plainly living voices were; And others, I’ve heard many swear. Were voices of the dead : I cannot think, whate’er they say. They had to do with Martha Ray. But that she goes to this old Thorn, The Thorn which I described to you. And there sits in a scarlet cloak, I w'ill be sworn is true. For one day with my telescope, To view the ocean wide and bright, When to this country first I came. Ere I had heard of Martha’s name, I climbed the mountain’s height ; A storm came on, and I could see No object higher than my knee. ’T was mist and rain, and storm and rain; No screen, no fence could I discover; And then the wind ! in faith, it was A wind full ten times over. I looked around, I thought I saw A jutting crag, — and off I ran. Head-foremost through the driving rain. The shelter of the crag to gain ; And, as I am a man. Instead of jutting crag, I found A Woman seated on the ground. I did not speak — I saw her face; Her face ! — it was enough for me ; I turned about and heard her cry, ‘Oh misery! oh misery!’ And there she sits, until the moon Through half the clear blue sky will go; And, when the little breezes make The waters of the Pond to shake. As all the country know. She shudders, and you hear her cry, ‘ Oh misery ! oh misery !” “ But what ’s the Thorn 1 and what the Pond 1 And what the Hill of moss to her! And what the creeping breeze that comes The little Pond to stir I” “I cannot tell; but some will say She hanged her Baby on the tree ; Some say she drowned it in the Pond, Which is a little step beyond: But all and each agree, Tlie little babe was buried there. Beneath that hill of moss so fair. 184 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, ’t is plain Tlie baby looks at you ag’ain. And some had sworn an oath that she Sliould be to public justice broug-ht ; And for the little infant’s bones Witli spades they would have sought. But then tlie beauteous Hill of moss Before tlieir 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. 1 cannot tell how this may be ; But plain it is, the Thorn is bound With lieavy tufls 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 WEI-L. Ftarl-Leap Well is a small spnng of water, about five miles from Kictimond in Yorksliire, and near the side of the road that leads Irom Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable Chase, the memory of which is preserved hy 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 ; lie 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 Walter’s Hall, That as they galloped made the echoes roar ; But Horse and Alan 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 eyesiglit fiiil ; and, one by one. The Dogs are stretched among the mountain fern. Where is the throng, tlie tumult of the race 1 The bugles that so joyfully were blown 1 This Cliase it looks not like an earthly Chase; Sir Walter and Ihe.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 wdiat death he died: But now tlie 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 the 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 breath had fetched The waters of the spring were trembling still. 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, “ Til, now Such sight was never seen by living eyes : Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow Down to the very fountain where he lies. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 181 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 sammer-days were long. Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour ; And with the Dancers and the Minstrel's song Made merriment within that plea.sant 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 tale. PART SECOND. The moving accident is not my trade: To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'T is my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. Y As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair. It chanced that I saw standing in a dell 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 head 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 ’ooth 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. 16 * 186 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. For tlarteen 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 lie heard the birds their morning carols sing; And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born Not half a furlong from that 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 Shepherd, thou hast spoken well ; Small difference lies between thy creed and mine : This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell ; Ilis 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 arc, 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 OF BROUGHAM CASTLE, UrON THE RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, THE SHEPHERD, TO THE ESTATES AND HONOURS OF HIS ANCESTORS.* High 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. “ From Town 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, In love and sisterly delight The two that were at strife are blended. And all old troubles now are ended. — Joy ! .Toy to both ! but most to her Who is the Flower of Lancaster ! Behold her how She smiles to-day On this great throng, this bright array! Fair greeting doth sha send to all From every corner of the Hall ; But, chiefly from above the Board Where sits in state our rightful Lord, A Cliflbrd 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 course 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 Bailie of Bosworlh Field,” by Sir John Beaumont (brother to the Dramatist), whose poems are written with much spirit, elegance, and harmony; and have deservedly been reprinted lately in Chalmer’s Collection . f English Poets. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 187 “ Oh ! it was a time forlorn When the fatherless was born — Give her wings that she may fly, Or she sees her infant die! 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 House — but where? No, they must not enter there. To the Caves, and to the Brooks, To the Clouds of Heaven she looks ; She is speechless, but her eyes Pray in ghostly agonies. Blissful Mary, Mother mild. Maid and Mother undefded. Save a Mother and her Child ! “Now who is he that bounds with joy On Carrock’s side, a Shepherd Boy? No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass Light as the wind along the grass. Can this be He who hith.er came In secret, like a smothered flame ! O’er whom such thankful tears were shed For shelter and a poor Man’s bread ! God loves the Child ; and God hath willed That those dear words 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 rest thee, rest. For lowly Shepherd’s life is best!’ “Alas! when evil men are strong No life is good, no pleasure long. The Boy must part from Mosedale’s Groves, And leave Blencathra’s rugged Coves, And quit the flowers that summer brings To Glenderamakin’s lofty springs; Must vanish, and his careless cheer Be turned to heaviness and fear. — Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise! Hear it, good Man, old in days! Thou Tree of covert and of rest ! For this young Bird that is distrest; 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 Clifford’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. — 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 swim 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 Clifford calls;! — ‘ 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 restored * It is imagined by tlie people of the country that there are two immortal Fish, inhabitanis of this Tarn, which lies in die mountains not far from Threlkeld. — Illencalhara, mentioned before, is the old and proper name of the mountain vulgarly called Saddle-back. t The martial character of the Clitliirds is well known to the readers of F.nglish history; but it may not be improper here to say, by way of eommeni on the.se lines and what follows, that besides several others who perished in the same manner, the lour immediate Progenitors of the Person in whose hearing this is supposed to be spoken, all died in the Field. 188 WORDSAVORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. 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, A\'’ho, long compelled in humble walks to go. Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed. I.ove had he found in huts where poor Men lie ; Ilis 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 Vales, 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 — but 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? — 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 of the sky ! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will. Those quivering wings composed, that music still ! To the last point of vision, and beyond. Mount, daring Warbler ! that love-prompted strain, (’Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : Yet might’st thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing All independent of the leafy spring. Leave to the Nightingale her shady wood ; A privacy of glorious light is thine; Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine ; Type of the wise who soar, but never roam; True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home ! It is no Spirit who from Heaven hath flown. And is descending on his embassy ; Nor Traveller gone from Earth the Heavens to espy ! ’T is Hesperus — there he stands with glittering crown First admonition that the sun is down, For yet it is broad daylight ! clouds pass by ; A few are near him still — and now the sky. He hath it to himself — ’t is all his own. O most ambitious Star ! thy Presence brought A startling recollection to my mind 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 even I might one day trace Some ground not mine ; and, strong her strength above. My Soul, an Apparition in the place. Tread there, with steps that no one shall reprove ! FRENCH REVOLUTION, AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS COMMENCEilENT* REPRINTED FROM “ THE FRIEND.” Oh ! pleasant exercise of hope and joy ! For mighty were the Auxiliars, which then stood Upon our side, we who were strong in love ! Bliss was it in that dawn to be al ive. But to be young was very heaven ! — Oh ! times. In w'hich 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 going forward in her name ! Not favoured spots alone, but the whole earth. The beauty wore of promise — that which sets * This, and the Extract, page 80, and the first Piece of this Class, are from the unpublished Poem of which some account is given in the preface to the Excursion POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 189 (As at. some moment might not be unfelt Among the bowers of paradise itself) The budding rose above the rose full blown. What Temper at the prospect did not wake To happiness unthought of? The inert Were roused, and lively Nature rapt away ! 1 hey who had fed their childhood upon dreams, The playfellows of fancy, who had made All powers of swiftness, subtilty and strength Their ministers, — who in lordly wise had stirred Among the grandest objects of the sense. And dealt with whatsoever they found there As if they had within some lurking right To wield it; — they, too, who of gentle mood, Had watched all gentle motions, and to these Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild. And in the region of their peaceful selves ; — Now was it that both found, the Meek and Lofty Did both find helpers to their heart’s desire. And stuff at hand, plastic as they could w'ish; Were called upon to exercise their skill. Not in Utopia, subterranean Fields, Or some secreted Island, Heaven knows where! But in the very world, which is the world Of all of us, — the place where in the end We find our happiness, or not at all !* GOLD AND SILVER FISHES, I\ 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.’’ let might your glassy prison seem A place where joy is known, Mhere golden flash and silver gleam Have meanings of their own; While, high and low, and all about. Your motions, glittering Elves! 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. How beautiful ! 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 Eyes 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. (SEcrUEL TO THE ABOVE.) [Addressed to a Frieml; the Gold and Silver Fishes having beet removed to a pool in the pleasure-ground of Rydal Mount.] “The liberty of a people consists in being governed by laws winch they have made for themselves, under whatever form it be of government, The liberty of a private man, in being mas ter of his own time and actions, as far as may consist with the laws of CR)d and of his countrey. Of this latter W'c are here to discourse.” — Covvlev. 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;) See Note. 190 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 ; 'j’hat 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 Feailess (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, perhaps, 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? Rut if the change restore his birthright, then, Whate’er the difference, boundless is the ga'in. W'ho can divine what impulses from God Reach the caged Lark, within a town-abode. From his poor inch or two of daisied sod ? 0 yield him back his privilege! No sea Swells like the bosom of a man sot 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 thte ! 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 lu.xuries, 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, IIow 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? The Beetle loves his unpretending track. The Snail the house he carries on his back : The far-fetched Worm with pleasure would (jisown 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 boon that freedom can bestow ? 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 — day.s, months, from Nature’s ha Time, place, and business, all at his command VV'ho 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. Which 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 ? 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 he 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 ; POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. A. doleful bower for penitential song, \S here 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 thankless 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 the 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 bles.sing 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 KIRKSTOXE. 1 . Within the mind strong fancies work, A deep delight the bosom tlirills. Oft as I pass along the fork Of these fraternal hills : VYhere, save the rugged road, we find No appanage of human kind; Nor hint of man, if stone or rock Seem not his handy-wmrk to mock * rhepe is now, alas! no possibility of the anticipation, v which the above Epistle concludes, being realised : nor w the verses ever seen by the Individual for whom they were tended. She accompanied her husband, the Rev. Wm. Fletcl to India, and died of cholera, at the age of thirty-two or thi; three years, on her way from Shalajiore to Bombay, deeply mented by all who knew her. Her enthusiasm was ardent, her piety steadfast; and her -r talents would have enabled her to be eminently useful in difltcult path of life to which she had been called. 1 opinion she entertained of her own performances, given to : world under her maiden name, Jewshury, was modest a humble, and, indeed, far below their merits; as is often i case with those who are making trial of their powers with hope to discover what they are best fitted for. In one quali VIZ., quickness in the motions of her mind, she was in t author’s estimation unequalled. • 191 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! 2 . Ye plough-shares sparkling on the slopes ! Ye snow-white lambs that trip Imprisoned ’mid the formal props Of restle.ss 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 rushes, to the sweeping orecze, Sigh forth their ancient melodies ! 3 . 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 shaft 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! ]92 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. 4. My soul was grateful for delight That wore a threatening brow ; A veil is lifted — can she slight Tlie 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 ; VV’hile Faith, from yonder opening cloud. To hill and vale proclaims aloud, “ Whate’er the weak may dread, the wicked dare, Thy lot, O Man, is good, thy portion fair!” SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF THE BIRD OF PARADISE. The gentlest poet, with free thoughts endowed, And a true master of the glowing strain. Might scan the narrow province with disdain That to the painter’s skill is here allowed. This, this the Bird of Paradise! disclaim The daring thought, forget the name; This the sun’s bird, whom Glendoveers might own As no unworthy partner in their flight Through seas of ether, where the ruffling sway Of nether air’s rude billows is unknown; Whom sylphs, if e’er for casual pastime they Through India’s spicy regions wing their way. Might bow to as their Lord. What character, O sovereign Nature! I appeal to tliee. Of all thy feathered progeny Is so unearthly, and what shape so fair? So richly decked in variegated down, Green, sable, shining yellow, shadowy brown. Tints softly with each other blended. Hues doubtfully begun and ended ; Or intershooting, and to sight Lost and recovered, as the rays of light Glance on the conscious plumes touched here and there? Full surely, when with such proud gifts of life Began the pencil’s strife, O’erweening art was caught as in a snare. A sense of seemingly presumptuous wrong Gave the first impulse to the poet’s song ; ' But, of his scorn repenting soon, he drew A juster judgment from a calmer view ; And, with a spirit freed from discontent. Thankfully took an effort that was meant Not with God’s bounty, nature’s love, to vie. Or made with hope to please that inward eye Which ever strives in vain itself to satisfy. But to recal the truth by some faint trace Of power ethereal and celestial grace, I That in the living creature find on earth a place. AIREY-FORCE VALLEY. Not a breath of air Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen. ' From the brook’s margin, wide around, the trees Are stedfast as the rocks; the brook itself. Old as the hills that feed it from afar. Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm Where all things else are still and motionk'ss. And yet, even now, a little breeze, perchance Escaped from boisterous winds that rage without. Has entered, by the sturdy oaks unfelt. But to its gentle touch how sensitive Is the light ash ! that, pendent from the brow Of yon dim cave, in seeming silence makes A soft eye-music of slow-waving boughs, I Powerful almost as vocal harmony ; To stay the wanderer’s steps and soothe his thoughtii I THE CUCKOO-CLOCK. I WouLDST thou be taught, when sleep has taken flight, I By a sure voice that can most sweetly tell, I How far-off yet a glimpse of morning light, ! And if to lure the truant back be well, ! Forbear to covet a repeater’s stroke, I That, answering to thy touch will sound the hour; Better provide thee with a Cuckoo-clock For service hung behind thy chamber-door; And in due Lime the soft spontaneous shock, The double-note, as if with living power. Will to composure lead — or make thee blithe as bird in bovver. List, Cuckoo — Cuckoo! — oft tho’ tempests howl. Or nipping frost remind thee trees aie bare. How cattle pine, and droop the shivering fowl. Thy spirits will seem to feed on balmy air; I speak with knowledge, — by that voice beguiled. Thou wilt salute old memories as they throng Into thy heart; and fancies, running wild Through fresh green fields, and budding groves among, Will make thee happy, happy as a child ; Of sunshine wilt thou think, and flowers, and song And breathe as in a world where nothing can go wrong. And know — that, even for him who shuns the day And nightly tosses on a bod of pain; I Whose joys, from all but memory swept away, 1 Must come unhoped for, if they come again; POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION-. 193 Know — that, for him whose waking tlioughts, severe As his distress is sharp, would scorn my theme, The mimic notes striking upon his ear In sleep, and intermingling with his dream. Could from sad regions send him to a dear Delightful land of verdure, shower and gleam. To mock the wandering voice beside some haunted stream. O bounty without measure ! while the grace Of Heaven doth in such wise, from humblest springs. Pour pleasure forth, and solaces that trace A mazy course along familiar things. Well may our hearts have faith that blessings come. Streaming from founts above the starry sky. With angels when their own untroubled home They leave, and speed on nightly embassy To visit earthly chambers, — and for whom? Yea, both for souls who God’s forbearance try. And those that seek his help, and for his mercy sigh. 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 : LINES, While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy. We see into the life of things. 1/ COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OP THE WYE DURING 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 the 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 i3 not effected by the tides a few miles above Tintem. 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, O sylvan Wye ! Thou wanderer thro’ the woods. How often has my spirit turned to thee ! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished 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 I 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, 194 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL AVORKS 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 tlioughts ; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, AA^hose dwelling is the liglit of setting suns. And tiie 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 througli 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 mighty 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 her 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 AA'ith quietness and beauty, and so feed AVith 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, *Thia line has a close resemblance to an admirable line of Young, the exact expression of which I do not recollect. AVhen 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 thy'portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me. And these my exhortations ! Nor, penrhance If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence, wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream AVe stood together ; and that I, so long ' A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service : rather say AVith 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 ]\Iore dear, both for themselves and for thy sake ! PETER BELL A TALE. What’s in a Name ? Brutus will start a Spirit as soon as Casar ! TO ROBERT SOUTHEY Esq. T.L. &c. &c. My Dear Frie.nd. 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 TPIE IMAGINATION. 195 only does not require for its exercise the intervention of supernatural agency, but that, though such agency oe excluded, the faculty may be called forth as impe- riously, and for kindred results of pleasure, by incidents, within the compass of poetic probability, in the hum- blest departments of daily life. Since that Prologue was v.’ritten, you have e.^hibited 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 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- tion from one with whose name yours has been often coupled (to use your ovvn 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 >igh respect. Most faithfully yours, William Wordsworth. SvDAL Mount, A-prU. 1, 1819. PROLOGUE. TIiere’s something in a flying horse. There’s something in a huge balloon; But through the clouds I’ll never float Until I have a little Boat, Whose shape is like the crescent-moon. 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. Rocking 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 Tlie pointed horns of rny canoe ; And, Qid 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. 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 towms 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 ? 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 ! 196 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. “ Shame on you !” cried my little Boat, “ Was ever such a homesick Loon, Within a living Boat to sit. And make no better use of it, — A Boat twin-sister of the crescent moon ! Ne’er in the breast of full-grown Poet Fluttered so faint a heart before; — Was it the music of the spheres Tliat overpowered your mortal earsl — Such din shall trouble them no more. These nether precincts do not lack Charms of their own ; — then come with me — I want a Comrade, and for you There’s nothing that I would not do; Nought is there that you shall not see. Haste ! and above Siberian snows We’ll sport amid the boreal morning. Will mingle with her lustres, gliding Among the stars, the stars now hiding, And now the stars adorning. I know the secrets of a land Where human foot did never stray ; Fair is that land as evening skies. And cool, — though in the depth it lies Of burning Africa. Or we’ll into the realm of Faery, Among the lovely shades of things; The shadowy forms of mountains bare. And streams, and bowers, and ladies fair. The shades of palaces and kings! Or, if you thirst with hardy zeal Less quiet regions to explore. Prompt voyage shall to you reveal How earth and heaven are taught to feel The might of magic lore !” “ My little vagrant Form of light. My gay and beautiful Canoe, Well have you played your friendly part; As kindly take what from my heart Experience forces — then adieu ! Temptation lurks among your words ; But, while these pleasures you’re pursuing Without impediment or let. My radiant Pinnace, you forget What on the earth is doing. There was a time when all mankind Did listen with a faith sincere To tuneful tongues in mystery versed; Then Poets fearlessly rehearsed The wonders of a wild career. Go — (but tlie world ’s a sleepy world. And ’tis, I fear, an age too late) Take with you some ambitious Youth, For, restless Wanderer ! I, in truth, Am all unfit to be your mate. Long have I loved what I behold, The night that calms, the day that cheers-, The common growth of mother Earth Suffices me — her tears, her mirth, ■ Her humblest mirth and tears. The dragon’s wing, the magic ring, I shall not covet for my dower, < If I along that lowly way With sympathetic heart may stray, And with a soul of power. These given, what more need I desire To stir — to soothe — or elevate! What nobler marvels than the mind May in life’s daily prospect find. May find or there create ! A potent wand doth Sorrow wield ; What spell so strong as guilty fear! Repentance is a tender Sprite ; If aught on earth have heavenly might, ’Tis lodged within her silent tear. But grant my wishes, — let us now Descend from this ethereal height; Then take thy w-ay, adventurous Skiff, More daring far than Hippogriff, And be thy own delight! To the stone-table in my garden, Loved haunt of many a summer hour. The Squire is come ; — his daughter Bess Beside him in the cool recess Sits blooming like a flower. With these are many more convened; They know not I have been so far; — I see them there, in number nine. Beneath the spreading Weymouth pine — I see them — there they are ! There sits the Vicar and his Dame; And there my good friend, Stephen Otter, And, ere the light of evening fail. To them I must relate the Tale Of Peter Bell the Potter.” Off flew my sparkling Boat in scorn, Spurning her freight with indignation ! And I, as well as I w'as able. On two poor legs, tow’rd my stone-table Limped on with some vexation. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 197 “ 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 FlHgT. 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-wr~e 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 lofty 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 soft 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 steadfiist as the scene On which they gazed themselves away. * .98 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Within the breast of Peter Bell These silent raptures found no place; He was a Carl as wild and rude As ever hue-and-cry pursued, As ever ran a felon’s race. Of all that lead a lawless life, Of all that love their lawless lives. In city or in village small, lie was the wildest far of all lie had a dozen wedded wives. Nay, start not! — wedded wives — and twelve! Bat how one wife could e’er come near him, In simple truth I cannot tell; For, be it said of Peter Bell, 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 .^s of a dweller out of doors ; In his whole figure and his mien A savage character w'as 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. Ilis 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 ! One night, (and now my little Bess ! We’ve reached at last the promised Tale;) One beautiful November night. When the full moon was shining bright Upon the rapid river Swale, Along the river’s winding banks Peter was travelling all alone; — Whether to buy or sell, or led By pleasure running in his head, To me was never known. 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 That 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 tlie 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. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 199 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 ! Thought Peter, Wliat can mean all this! — Some ugly witchcraft must be here! Once more the Ass with motion dull, Upon the pivot of his skull Turned round his long left ear. 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 — 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. Across the deep and quiet spot Is Peter driving through the grass — And now he is among the trees; When, burning round his head, he sees A solitary Ass. What followed ! — yielding to the shocii, 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. “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 ! 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. 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. ’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. 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. 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. “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. 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. 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! With legs stretched out and stiff he lay ; No word of kind commiseration Fell at the sight from Peter’s tongue; Witli hard contempt his heart was wrung, With hatred and vexation. Quoth Peter, leaping from his seat, “ There is some plot against me laid ;” Once more the little meadow ground And all the hoary clifls around He cautiously surveyed. The meagre beast lay still as death — And Peter’s lips w’ith fury quiver — Quoth he, “ You little mulish dog, I’ll fling your carcass like a log Head-foremost down the river!” All, all is silent — rocks and woods, All still and silent — far and near! Only the Ass, with motion dull. Upon the pivot of hia SKull 1 Turns round his long left ear. 1 An impious oath confirmed tlie threat ; That instant, w'hile outstretched he lay. To all the echoes, south and north. And east and west, the Ass sent forth A loud and piteous bray ! 200 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 sometliing 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 ag^ain. — Among the rocks and winding crags — Among the mountains far away — Once more the Ass did lengthen out Itlore ruefully an endless shout. The long dry sec-saw of this horrible bray ! What is there now in Peter’s heart? Or whence the might of this strange sound ? 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.” lie scans the Ass from limb to limb; And Peter now uplifts his eyes; Steady the moon doth look, ai>d clear. And like themselves tlie ocks appear. And quiet are the skies. Wliereat, 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 dbtorted 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 I A grisly idol hewn in stone ? Or imp from witch’s lap let fall? 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 bretliren? 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 ! — He will be turned to iron soon. Meet 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 flowm 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 1 He lifts his head — he sees his stafT; He touches — ’tis to him a treasure! Faint recollection seems to tell That he is yet where mortals dwell — A thought received with languid pleasure I 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 staff*, intent The river’s depth to sound. ]\^ow — like a tempest-shattered oark, 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 OF THE IMAGINATION. 201 His staring bones all shake with joy — And close by Peter's side he stands: While Peter o’er the river bends, The little Ass his neck extends, And fondly licks his hands. 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 ! 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, IVIust now have thrown aside his fears. ’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 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. 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. Ho 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! What ails you now, my little Bess! Well may you tremble and look gra\ ! This cry — that rings along the wood, This cry — that floats adown the floaid of music; he shall sweep The rocks, and quivering trees, and billowy lake. And search the fibres of the caves, and they Shall answer, for our song is of the clouds And the wind loves them ; and the gentle gales — Which by their aid re-clothe the naked lawn With annual verdure, and revive the woods. And moisten the parched lips of thirsty flowers — Love them ; and every idle breeze of air Bends to the favourite burthen. Moon and stars Keep their most solemn vigils when the clouds Watch also, shifting peaceably their place Like bands of ministering spirits, or when they lie. As if some Protean art the change had wrought, In listless quiet o’er the ethereal deep Scattered, a Cyclades of various shapes And all degrees of beauty. O ye lightnings ! Ye are their perilous offspring; and the sun - - Source inexhaustible of life and joy. And type of man’s far-darting reason, therefore In old time worshipped as the god of verse, A blazing intellectual deity — Loves his own glory in their looks, and showers Upon that unsubstantial brotherhood Visions with all but beatific light Enriched — too transient were they not renewed [ From age to age, and did not while we gaze In silent rapture, credulous desire Nourish the hope that memory lacks not power To keep the treasure unimpaired. Vain thought? Yet why repine, created as we are For joy and rest, albeit to find them only I Lodged in the bosom of eternal things'* POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 2 }? STANZAS ON THE POWER OF SOUND. ARGUMENT. The Ear addressed, as occupied by a spiritual functionary, in communion with sounds, individual, or combined in studied harmony. — Sources and eflects of those sounds (to the close of 6th Stanza). — The power of music, whence procet-ding, exem- plified in the idiot — Origin of music, and its cflcct 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 for moral interests and intellectual contemplation. — (Stanza 12th.) The Pythagorean theory of numbers and music, with their supposed power over the motions of the universe — iraacinations consonant with such a theory. — Wish expressed (in 11th Stanza) realized, in some degree, by the repre.senta- tion of all sounds under the form of thanksgiving to the Creator. — (Last Stanza) the destruction of earth and the planetary sj^s. tem — the survival of audible harmony, and its support in the Divine Nature, as revealed in Holy Writ 1 . 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! 2 , 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 I am, How fearful to the desert wide ! 7'hat 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. 3 . 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. 4 . Blest be the song that brightens The blind Man’s gloom, exalts the Veteran’s mirth . Uiiscorned 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 Alarie 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 Ix)ve. G. How ofl along thy mazes. Regent of Sound, have dangerous Passions trod ! tin AVORDSWORTirS POETICAL WORKS. O Thou, through whom the Temple rings with praises, And blackening 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 hath 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 thine in firm array Knit every thought the 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, aw’ed he weeps, struggling to quell dismay. Point not these mysteries to an Art Lixlged above the starry pole ; Pure modulations flowing fiom the heart Of divine Love, where Wisdom, Beauty, Truth, With Order dw^ell, in endless youth 1 8 . 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 stremious 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 that clamorous spell and magic verse Her wan disasters could disperse. e The Gift to King Amphion That walled a city with its melody Was for belief no dream ; thy skill. Avion ! 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 night. 10 . The pipe of Pan, to Shepherds Couched in tlie shadow of Menalian Pines, Was passing sweet ; the eyeballs of the Leopards, That in high triumph drew the Lord of vines, IIow did they sparkle to the cymbal's clang! While Fauns and Satyrs beat the ground In cadence, — and Silenus swang This way and that, 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-affecting 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. 215 That Ocean is a mighty harmonist; Thy pinions, universal Air, Ever waving to and fro. Are delegates of harmony, and bear 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 thy life ? 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 Woed, that shall not pass away. MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. PART FIRST. I. 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 otliers 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. Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room ; And Hermits arc contented with their cells; And Students with their (jensive 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, ’twas pastime to be bound Within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground: Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must bo) Who have felt the weight of too much liberty. Should find brief solace there, as I have found. HI. AT APPLETIIWAITE, NEAR KESWICK. Beaumont ! it was thy wish that I should rear A seemly Cottage in this sunny Dell, On favoured ground, thy gift, where I might dwell In neighlKiurhood with One to me most dear. That undivided we from year to year Might work in our high Calling — a bright hope To which our fancies, mingling, gave free scope Till checked by some necessities severe. And should these slacken, honoured Beau.mont! still Even then we may perhaps in vain itnplore Leave of our fate thy wishes to fulfil. Whether this boon be granted us or not. Old Skiddaw will look down upon the Spot VV4th pride, the Muses love it evermore. 21G WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. IV. ADMOJVITION. Intended more particularly for the Perusal of those who may ave happened to be enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retreat, in the Country of the Lakes. Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye ! — The lovely Cottajre in the g-uarclian nook Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook, Its own small pasture, 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 This 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 tlie 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 crust, 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, 1 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, IMount Skiddaw ? 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 brouglA Oftener 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. viir. 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, Why have I crowded this small Bark with you And others of your kind. Ideal Crew ! While here sits One whose brightness ow'es its hues To flesh and blood ; no Goddess from above. No fleeting Spirit, but my ow'n true Love ! IX. The fairest, brightest hues of ether fiide ; 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 W’ho 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 tliis 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. 217 X. UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE, PAINTED BY SIR G. II. BEAUMONT, BART. Praised be 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 they 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 murmurings — Dull, flagging notes that with each other jar I “ Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far From its own Country, and 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 I XII. Aerial Rock — whose solitary brow From this low threshold daily meets my sight ; When I step forth to hail the morning light ; Or quit the stars with lingering farewell — how Shall Fancy pay to thee a grateful vowl 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 I XIII. TO SLEEP 0 GENTLE Sleep ! do they belong to thee. These twinklings of oblivion ] 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 from my orchard trees ; And the first Cuckoo’s melancholy cry. Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay. And could not win thee. Sleep ! 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 healt.h ! XV. TO SLEEP. Fond words have oft been spoken to thee. Sleep ! And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names; The very sweetest words that fancy frames. When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep ! Dear bosom Child wo 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 crostl 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! 218 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 LEA!' IN “THE COM- PLETE ANGLER.” While flowing Rivers yield a blameless sport. Shall 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. — hleek, nobly versed in simple discipline. He found the longest summer day too short. To his loved pastime given by sedgy 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 ! XVI IT. TO THE POET, JOHN DYER. Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made That wmrk a living landscape fair and bright; Nor hallowed less with musical delight Than those soft scenes through which thy Childhood strayed. Those southern Tracts of Cambria, “ deep embayed. With green hills fenced, with Ocean’s murmur lulled Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culled For worthless brow's, while in the pensive shade Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced. Vet 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 Snowdon’s wide aerial waste ; Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill ! XIX. ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED THE PUBLICATION OF A CERTAIN POEM. See Milton’s Sonnet, beginning “ A Book was writ of late, called “ Tetrachordon.’ ” A Book came forth of late, called “ Peter Bell Not negligent the style ; — the matter 1 — good As aught that song records of Robin Hood ; 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 with foul claws, a harpy brood, On Bard and Hero clamorously fell. Heed not, wild Rover once through heath ancl glen. Who madest at length the better life thy choice. Heed not such onset ! 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 Nemiean 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 ! XXL COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE VALLEYS OF WEST- MORELAND, ON EASTER SUNDAY. With each recurrence of this glorious morn That saw the Saviour in his human frame Rise from the dead, erewhile the 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 the platted thorn. A blest estate when piety sublime These humble props disdained not ! O green dales ! Sad may I he 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. 219 XXII. Grief, thou hast lost an ever-ready Friend, Now that the cottage spinning-wheel is mute ; And Care — a Comforter that best could suit Her froward mood, and soflliest reprehend ; And Love — a Charmer’s voice, that used to lend. More efficaciously 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.II. Excuse is needless when with love sincere Of occupation, not by fashion led, Thou turn’stthe 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 viitues. Venerable Art, Torn from the Poor ! 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 OK PFETY. Oft 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 Ideak Of Easter winds, unscarcd, from Hut or Hall They came to lowly bench or sculptured Stall, But with one fervour of devotion meek. I see the places wdiere they once were known. And ask, surrounded even by kneeling crowds. Is ancient Piety for ever flown 1 Alas ! 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 I 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, when 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 affections 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 chatige, there blooms a deathless flower, That breathes on earth the air of paradise. XXVII. FROM THE SAME. No mortal object did these eyes behold When 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 weaki Ideal Form, the universal mould. The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest In that which perishes; nor will he lend Ilis heart to aught which doth on time depend. ’Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love. That kills the soul : love betters what is best. Even here below, but more in heaven above 220 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. XXVIII. FROM THE SAME. TO THE SUPRiiME 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 find 1 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 1 — 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 strown 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 face up to heaven ; that seemed to have Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone ; A lovely Beauty in a summer grave ! XXXI. NOVEMBER, 1836. II. Even so for me a Vision sanctified The sway of Death; long ere mine eyes had seen Thy countenance — the still rapture of thy mien — When thou, dear Sister ! wert become Death’s Bride : No trace of pain or languor could abide That change : — age on thy brow was smoothed— thy cola Wan cheek at once was privileged to unfold A loveliness to living youth denied. Oh! if within me hope should e’er decline. The lamp of faith, lost Friend ! too faintly bbrn ; Then may that heaven-revealing smile of thine. The bright assurance, visibly return : And let my spirit in that power divine Rejoice, as, through that power, it ceased to mourn. 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; Tlie 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 worsliipp’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 ? What boots the inquiry ? — 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 of Cliildhood.”— ‘The Friend, ’Hi, p. 46. — II. R.l POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. OO] XXXIV. XXXVII. 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 brodd; 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"! She will brook No tarrying; where she comes the winds must stir: On went She, and due north her journey took. How sw’eet it is, w'hen 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. XXXVIII. XXXV. PERSONAL TALK. 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 uj>-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 ; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. I AM not One who much or oft delight To season my fireside with personal talk, — Of Friends, who live within an easy walk. Or 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. XXXVI. CONTINUED. A VOLANT Tribe of Bards on earth are found, Who, while the flattering Zephyrs round them play. On “ coigncs 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 Is gently closing with the flowers of spring : Where even the motion of an Angel’s wing Would interrupt the intense tranquillity Of silent lills, and more than silent sky. 1 “ 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 w'orld 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 ! 19* 222 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 lofty sanctifies the low. Dreams, Books, are each a world ; and books, we know. Are a substantial world, both pure and good : Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow. There find I personal themes, a plenteous store. Matter wherein right voluble I am. To which I listen with 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. XLI. CONCLUDED. Nor can I not believe but that hereby Great gains are mine ; for thus I live remote From evil-speaking ; rancour never sought, Comes to me not ; malignant truth, or lie. Hence have I genial seasons, hence have 1 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 heavenly lays! Oh ! might my name be numbered among theirs. Then gladly would I end my mortal days. XLII. 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 extinguished ; and our state. In this, how diflerent, lost star, from thine. That no to-morrow shall our beams restore ! XLIII. TO B. R. IIAYDON, 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 nci 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. 2*23 XLVI. 1 HEARD (alas! ’twas only in a dream) Strains — which, as sage Antiquity believed, By waking ears have sometimes been received, Wafled 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 her pinions shed a silver gleam. For is she not the votary of Apollo 1 And knows she not, singing as he inspires. That bliss awaits lier which the ungonial hollo\v* 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. XLVIII. 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. * See the Phedo of Plato, by which this Sonnet was suggested. 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 Lute 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 Uirough 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 1 II. 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, because it travels slowly ; Sort is the music that would charm for ever ; The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly. III. SEPTEMBER, 1815. While not a leaf seems faded, — while the fields, With ripening harvest prodigally fair. In brightest sunshine bask, — tliis 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 snow, the instinctive joys of song. And nobler cares than listless summer knew. WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. 224 IV. VII. NOVEMBER 1. IIow 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 shall the aerial Powers Dissolve that beauty — destined to endure. White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely puret Through all vicissitudes — till genial spring Have filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers. COMPOSED A FEW DAYS AFTER THE FOREGOING 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 these 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 ! V. VIII. COMPOSED DURING A STORM. One who was suffering tumult in his soul Yet 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 Tlie lingering remnant of their yellow hair. And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl As if the sun were not. He raised his eye Soul-smitten, 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! The Stars are mansions built by Nature’s hand. The sun is peopled ; and with Spirits blest : Say, can the gentle Moon be unpossessed ? 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 thought for every season I 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. VI. IX. TO A SNOW-DROP. TO THE LADY BEAUMONT. Ix)NE 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 ! Lady ! the songs of Spring were in the grovo 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 bljom And all the mighty ravishment of spring. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 2‘25 X. TO THE LADY MARY LOWTHER, 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 1 a grotto bright and clear From stain or taint ! in which thy blameless mind May feed on thoughts though pensive hot 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 ; — ’t was rightly said ; Whom could the Muses else allure to tread Their smoothest paths, to wear their lightest chains'? 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 obscurity. 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, looking 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 ; — eontent With one calm triumph of a modest pride. XIII. Haii,, 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 wdiieh 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 stops, 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-nigbt 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. Eve\ 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 I.ake below reflects it not ; the sky, - Muffled in clouds, affords no company To mitigate and cbeer 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. 226 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, wdiile 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 finds 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 'oy, and life without its cares. XIX. COMPOSED ON THE BANKS OF A ROCKY STREAM 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 tlie two following, were suggested by Mr. W. Westall 9 Views of the Caves, etc. in Yorkshire. 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.* XXL MALHAM COVE. Was the aim frustrated by force or guile. When giants scooped from out the rocky ground — Tier under tier — this semicirqtie profound! (Giants — the 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 Phoebus ! 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 * W'aters (as Mr. Westall informs us in the letter-press prefixed to his admirable views) are invariably found to flow through these caverns. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 227 Make sadder transits o’er truth’s mystic glass Than noblest objects utterly decayed. XXII. GORDALE. At early dawn, or rather when the air 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 liis jagged urn. Recumbent : Him thou may’st behold, who hides His lineaments by day, yet there presides. 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, whose massy strength and stature scorn The power of years — pre-eminent, 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 .\CROSS THE HAM- BLETON HILLS, YORKSHIRE. Dark and more dark the shades of evening fell ; The wished-for point was reached, hut late the hour ; * The Daughters of I.ong Meg, placed in a perfect circle eighty yanis in diameter, are .seventy-two in number, and their height is from three feet to so many yards above ground ; a little way out of tho circle stands Long Meg herself, a single Slone, 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, ho 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, w'hereof many tliousands 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 e.xpressed — 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 praise 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. Earth has not any thing to show more fiiir : 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, theatre.s, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky ; All blight 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 ! 228 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. XXVIl. OXFORD. xMAY 30, 1820. Ye sacred N’urscries of blooming Youth ! In whose collegiate shelter England’s Flowers E.xpand — enjoying through their vernal hours i'he air of liberty, the light of truth; IMuch 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 strearn-like windings of that glorious street, — An eager Novice robed in fluttering gown ! XXVIII. OxXFORD, MAY 30, 1820. Sn.vME 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 ; Lot her be comprehended in the frame Of these illusions, or they please no more. XXIX. RECOLLECTION OP THE PORTRAIT OF KING HENRY EIGHTH, TRINITY LODGE, CAMBRIDGE. 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 1 ’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. OxN THE DEATH OF HIS MAJESTY, (GEORGE THE THIRD.) Ward of the Law! — dread Shadow of a King ! Whose realm had dwindled to one stately room ; Whose 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 tears 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. Fa.me 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 conscious of the dashing 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. XXXII. 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 night. 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. * Wallacliia is the country alluded to. + See Note. 23, p. 324. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 2£9 XXXIII. COMPOSED AMONG THE RUINS OF A CASTLE IN NORTH WALES. Through shattered galleries, ’mid roofless halls, Wandering with timid footstep ofl. betrayed. The Stranger sighs, nor scruples to upbraid Old Time, though He, gentlest among the Thralls Of Destiny, upon these wounds hatli 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 Lu.xuriant wreaths around thy forehead hoar; And, though past pomp no changes can restore, A soothing recompense, his gill, is Tiiine ! XXXIV. TO THE LADY E. B. AND THE IION. MISS P. COMPOSED IN THE GROUNDS OF PLASS NEWIDD, NEAR LLANGOLLIN, 1834. A Stream to mingle with your favourite Dee, Along the Vale of Meditation* flows; So styled by those fierce Britons, pleased to see In Nature’s face the e.xpression 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 Cafaillg.vrocii, in the Cambrian tongue. In ours the Vale of Friendship, let this spot Bo 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 ! XXXV. TO THE TORRENT AT THE DEVIL’S BRIDGE, NORTH WALES. How art thou named I In search of what strange land From 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? Or come the incessant shocks From that young Stream, that smites the throbbing rocks Of Viamala? 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 F’amily of floods Over the minds of Poet.s, young or old I •Glyn Myi vr. XXXVI. “ gives to airy notliing 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 lie 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 minh 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. XXXVIII. When Philoctetes in the Lemnian Isle Lay couched; — upon that breathle.ss 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 affections, and heroic toil. Nor doubt that spiritual Creatures round us move, Griefs to allay that Reason cannot heal ; And very Reptiles have sufficed to prove To fettered ^V'retchedness, that no Bastilc Is deep enough to c.xclude the light of love. Though Man for Brother Man has ceased to feel. 20 WORDSWORTH’S ROETICAL WORKS. 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 the dance are led ; Her doom it is to press a weary bed — Till oft her guardian Angel, to some Charge IMore urgent called, will stretch his wings at large. And Friends too rarely prop the languid head. Vet 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 moonlight 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 Rends gladness, by no languid smile declared. The lordly Eagle-race through hostile search May perish ; time may come when never more The wilderness shall hear the Lion roar ; Rut, long as Cock shall crow from household perch To rouse the dawn, soft gales shall speed thy wing. And thy erratic voice be faithful to the Spring! XLI. THE INFANT M M . Unquiet 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 . Roth.\, 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 shaft become thy own sufficient stay : Too late, I feel, sweet Orplian ! was tlie day For steadfast hope the contract to fulfil ; Yet shall my blessing hover o’er thee still. Embodied in tlie music of this Lay, Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain Stream* Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother’s ear After her throes, tiiis 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 GRAVESTONE UPON THE FLOOR IN THE CLOISTERS 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, W/io chose his Epitaph! Himself alone Could thus have dared the grave to agitate. And claim, among the dead, this awful crown ; Nor doubt that lie marked also for his own. Close to these cloistral steps a burial-place. That every foot might fall witli heavier tread. Trampling upon his vileness. Stranger, pass Softly ! — To save the contrite, Jesus bled. * The River Rotlia, that flows into Windermere from tha Lakes of Gra.sraere and Rydal. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 2C1 XLV. A TKADITION 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 look more, exchanging, grief to still Or feed, each planted on that lolly 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. U.NTOUCHED 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 deatli went forth ’Gainst him who raised it, — his last work on earth ; Thence by his Son more prized than aught which gold Could purchase — watched, preserved by his own hands, That, faithful to the Structure, still repair Its waste. — Though crumbling with each breath of air. In annual renovation thus it stands — Rude IMausoleum I but wrens nestle there. And red-breasts warble when sweet sounds are rare. XLYII. TO B. R. II AY DON, ESQ., ON SEEING Ills PICTURE OF NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE ON THE ISLAND OF ST. HELENA. IIaydo.n! let worthier judges praise the skill Here by thy pencil shown in truth of lines And charm of colours; /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 liigh on the bare hill — Back turned, arms folded, the unapparent fiice 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 img-iilty Power pursues his way, ] And before him doth dawn perpetual run. 1 XLVIIl. Chatsworth ! 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 wdiose thritly 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 her 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 bou?'.’. So beautiful of late, with sunshine warmed. Or moist with dews ; what more unsightly now. Its blossoms shrivelled, and its fruit, if formed, Invisible 1 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 shalj call ; In all men, sinful is it to be slow To hope — in Parents, sinful above all. L. ROMAN ANTIQUITIES DISCOVERED, AT BISHOPSTONE, 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 giit, for business gowned. And some recline on couclie.®, myrtle-crowned. In festal glee : why not ? For fresh and clear, As if its hues were of tlie passing year. Dawns this time-buried pavement. From that mound Hoards may come forth of 'rrajan.s, Maximins, Shrunk into coins with all their warlike toil; Or a fierce impress issues with its fiiil Of tenderness — the Wolf, whose suckling Twins The unlettered Ploiighboy pities when he wins The casual treasure from the furrowed soil. 232 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. LI. Sr. CATHERINE OF LEDBURY When human touch, as monkish books attest, Nor was applied nor could be, Ledbury bells Broke forth in concert flung adovvn 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. Lir. 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 1 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, tlrat my torturing doubts their e.nd may know ! LIII. Four 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 AUTHOR’S PORTRAIT. [Painted at Rydal Mount, by VV. 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 dav 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 diffused, 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; Hoe 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 OF THE IMAGINATION. 233 PART THIRD. I. Though the bold wings of poesy affect The clouds, and wheel around tlie mountain tops Rejoicing, from her loftiest height she drops Well pleased to skim the plain with wild flowers deckt. Or muse in solemn grove whose shades protect The lingering dew — there steals along, or stops Watching the least small bird that round her hops. Or creeping worm, with sensitive respect. Her functions are they therefore less divine. Her thoughts less deep, or void of grave intent Her simplest fancies'! Should that fear he thine, Aspiring votary, ere thy hand present One offering, kneel before her modest shrine. With brow in penitential sorrow bent! II. A Poet ! — He hath put his heart to school. Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff Wliich art hath lodged within his hand — must laugh By precept only, and shed tears by rule. Thy art be nature ; the live current quaff. And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool. In fear that else, when critics grave and cool Have killed him, scorn should write his epitaph. How does the meadow-flower its bloom unfold! Because the lovely little flower is free Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold ; j And so the grandeur of the forest-tree / Comes not by casting in a formal mould, / But from its own divine vitality. TO [Miss not the occasion : by tlie forelock take That subtle Power, the never halting Time, Lest a mere moment's putting off should make Mischance almost as heavy as a crime.] III. “ Wait, pritbee, wait I” 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 thoughts were freed 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 Bounced, — and the dove, which from its ruthless beak Slie could not rescue, perished in her sight ! 2E IV. The most alluring clouds that mount the sky Owe to a troubled element their forms. Their hues to sunset. If with raptured eye We watch tiieir splendour, shall we covet storms. And wish the lord of day his slow decline Would hasten, that such pomp may float on high! Behold, already they forget to shine. Dissolve — add leave to him who gazed a sigh. Not loth to thank each moment for its boon Of pure delight, come whensoe’er it may, Peace let us seek, — to steadfast things attune Calm expectations, leaving to the gay And volatile their love of transient bovvers. The house that cannot pass away be ours. V. ON A PORTRAIT OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON UPON THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. BY HAYDON. By art’s bold privilege Warrior and War-horse stand On ground yet strewn with their last battle’s wreck ; Let the steed glory while his master’s hand Lies fixed for ages on his conscious neck ; But by the chieftain’s look, though at his side Hangs that day’s treasured sword, how firm a check Is given to triumph and all human pride ! Yon trophied mound shrinks to a shadowy speck In his calm presence! Him the mighty deed Elates not, brought far nearer the grave’s rest, As shows that time-worn face, for he such seed Has sown as yields, we trust, the fruit of fame In Heaven; hence no one blushes for thy name. Conqueror, mid some sad thoughts, divinely blest! VI. COMPOSED ON A MAY MORNING, 1838. Life with yon lambs, like day, is just begun. Yet nature seems to them a lieavenly guide. Does joy approach! they meet the coming tide; And sullenness avoid, as now they shun Pale twilight’s lingering glooms, — and in the sun Couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied ; Or gambol — each with his shadow at his side. Varying its shape wherever he may run. As they from turf yet hoar with sleepy dew All turn, and court the shining and the green. Where herbs look up, and opening flowers are seen; Why to God’s goodness cannot we be true. And so. His gifts and promises between, Feed to the last on pleasures ever new! VII. Lo ! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance, One upward hand, as if she needed rest From rapture, lying softly on her breast ! Nor wants her eyeball an ethereal glance; 20 * 234 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. But not the less — nay more — tliat countenance, While thus illumined, tells of painful strife For a sick heart made weary of this life By love, long crossed with adverse circumstance. — VVonld she were now as when she hoped to pass At God’s appointed hour to them who tread Heaven’s sapphire pavement, yet breathed well content. Well pleased, her foot should print earth’s common grass, Lived thankful for day’s light, for daily bread. For health, and time in obvious duty spent. VIII. TO A PAINTER. All praise the likeness by thy skill portrayed; But ’tis a fruitless task to paint for me. Who, yielding not to changes time has made. By the habitual liglit of memory see Eyes unbedimmed, see bloom tliat cannot fade. And smiles tliat from their hirth-jilace ne'er shall flee Into the land where ghosts and phantoms be ; And, seeing this, own nothing in its stead. Couldst thou go back into far-distant years. Or share with me, fond thought! that inward eye. Then, and then only, painter ! could thy art The visual powers of nature satisfy, ’Which hold, whate’er to common sight appears. Their sovereign empire in a faithful heart. IX. ON THE SAME SUBJECT. Though I beheld at first with blank surprise This work, I now have gazed on it so long I see its truth with unreluctant eyes; O, my beloved ! I have done thee wrong. Conscious of blessedness, but, whence it sprung. Ever too heedless, as I now perceive: Morn into noon did pass, noon into eve. And the old day was welcome as the young. As welcome, and as beautiful — in sooth More beautiful, as being a thing more holy: Thanks to thy virtues, to the eternal youth Of all thy goodness, never melancholy ; To thy large heart and humble mind, that cast Into one vision, future, present, past. X. Hark! ’tis the thrush, undaunted, undeprest. By twilight premature of cloud and rain ; Nor does that roaring wind deaden his strain Who carols thinking of his love and nest. And seems, as more incited, still more blest. Thanks; thou hast snapped a fire-side prisoner’s chain. Exulting warbler! eased a fretted brain. I And in a moment charmed my cares to test. ■ Yes, I will forth, bold bird ! and front the blast, That we may sing together, if thou wilt, So loud, so clear, my partner through life’s day. Mute in her nest love-chosen, if not love-built Like thine, shall gladden, as in seasons past. Thrilled by loose snatches of the social lay. Eydal Mount, 1S38. XI. ’Ti,s he whose yester-evening’s high disdain Beat back the roaring storm — but how subdued His day-break note, a sad vicissitude! Does the hour’s drowsy weight his glee restrain? Or, like the nightingale, her joyous vein Pleased to renounce, does this dear thrush attune His voice to suit the temper of yon moon Doubly depressed, setting, and in her wane? Rise, tardy sun ! and let the songster prove (The balance trembling between night and morn No longer) with what ecstasy upborne He can pour forth his spirit. In heaven above, ; And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness. XII. Oh what a wreck! how changed in mien and speech ! Yet — though dread Powers, that work in mystery spin Entanglings of the brain ; though shadows stretch O’er the chilled heart — reflect; far, far within Hers is a holy being, freed from sin. She is not what she seems, a forlorn wretch. But delegated Spirits comfort fetch To her from heights that reason may not win. Like children, she is privileged to hold Divine communion; both do live and move, Whate’er to shallow faith tlieir ways unfold. Inly illumined by Heaven’s pitying love; Love pitying innocence not long to last. In them — in her our sins and sorrows past. XIII. Intent on gathering wool from hedge and brake Yon busy little-ones rejoice that soon A poor old dame will ble.ss them for the boon : Great is their glee while flake they add to flake With rival earnestness; far other strife Than will hereafter move them, if they make Pastime their idol, give their day of life To pleasure snatched for reckless pleasure’s sake. Can pomp and show allay one heart-born grief? Pains which the world inflicts can she requite’ POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 235 Not for an interval however brief ; The silent thoughts that search for stedfast light, Love from her depths, and duty in her might. And faith — these only yield secure relief. March 8th, 1S42. XIV. ILLUSTRATED BOOKS AND NEWSPAPERS. Discourse was deemed man’s noblest attribute. And written words the glory of his hand ; Then followed printing with enlarged command For thought — dominion vast and absolute For spreading truth, and making love e.xpand. Now prose and verse sunk into disrepute Must lacquey a dumb art that best can suit The taste of this once intellectual land. A backward movement surely have we here. From manhood — back to childhood; for the age — Back towards caverned life’s first rude career. Avaunt this vile abuse of pictured page ! Must eyes be all in all, the tongue and ear Nothing! Heaven keep us from a lower stage. 1S46. XV. A PLEA FOR AUTHORS, MAY 1838. Failing impartial measure to dispense To every suitor, equity is lame; And social justice, stript of reverence F'or natural rights, a mockery and a shame ; Law but a servile dupe of false pretence. If, guarding grossest things from common claim Now and for ever, she, to works that came From mind and spirit, grudge a short-lived fence. “Whatl lengthened privilege, a lineal tie. For Books Yes, heartless ones, or be it proved That ’tis a fault in us to have lived and loved Like others, with like temporal hopes to die; No public harm that genius from her course Be turned ; and streams of truth dried up, even at their source ! XVI. A POET TO ms GRANDCHILD. (sequel to the foregoing.) “Son of my buried son ! while thus thy hand “Is clasping mine, it saddens me to think “IIow want may press thee down, and with thee sink “Thy children, left unfit, through vain demand* * The author of an animated article, printed in the Law Magazine, in favour of the principle of Sergeant Talfourd’s Copyriglit Hill, precedes me in the public expression of this feeling; which had been forced too often upon my own mind, by remembering how few descendants of men emi- nent in literature are even known to e-xist. ' “Of culture, even to feel or understand j “ My simplest lay that to their memory “May cling. — Hard fate which haply may not be, “Did justice mould the statutes of the land. I “ A book time-cherished and an honoured name “Are high rewards; but bound they nature’s claim I “Or reason’s] No. — Hopes spun in timid line “ From out the bosom of a modest home, I “ E.xtend through unambitious years to come, “ My careless little one for thee and thine !” May 23n their prey. With sound the least that can be made. They follow, more and more afraid. More cautious as they draw more near; But in his darkness he can hear. And guesses their intent. “ Lci-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 show. Or melt it into air. So all his dreams, that inward light With which his soul had shone so bright. All vanished; — ’t was a heartfelt cross To him, a heavy, bitter loss. As he had ever known. 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 That he is safe at last. And then, when he was brought to land. Full sure they were a happy band, Which, gathering round, did on the banks 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; lie leapt about, and oft did kiss Ills master’s hands in sign of bliss. With sound like lamentation. But most of all, his Mother dear. She who had fainted with her fear. Rejoiced when waking she espies The Child ; when she can trust her eyes. And touches the blind Boy. She led him home, and wept amain. When he was in the house again : Tears flov/ed in torrents from her eyes: She kissed him — how could she chastise? She was too happy far. Thus, after he had fondly braved The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved ; And, though his fancies had been wild. Yet he was pleased and reconciled To live in peace on shore. And in the lonely Highland Dell Still do they keep the Turtle Shell ; And long the Story will repeat Of the blind Boy’s adventurous feat, And how he was preserved.’*' * It is recorded in Dampier’s Voj-ages, that a boy, the .Son of a Captain of a Man-of-War, seated himself in a Turtle Shell, ai:d floated in it from the shore to his Father’s ship, which lay at anchor at the distance of half a mile. In deference to the opini(Jt) of a Friend, I have snbstituterl such a shell for the less eleaani Vessel in which my Blind Voyager did actually entnisl himself to the dangerous current of Loch Leven, as was related to me hv an eye-wiuioss. POEMS OF TFIE IMAGINATION. 249 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1814 . I. 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 lofly 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 ; That 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 : lie, struggling in the net of pride. The future scorned, the past defied ; Still tempering, from the 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, Brought 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. Its warfare’s bourn, its travel’s belt! All, 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 wlio 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 Hel — 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, 250 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! II. COMPOSED AT CORA LINN, IN SIGHT OF WALLACE’S TOWER. “ — How Wallace foiiglil for Scotland, left the name Of Wallace to be ftund, 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, w ith a local soul Of independence and stern liberty.” — 31S. Lord of the Vale ! astounding Flood ! The dullest leaf in this thick wood Quakes — conscious of thy power ; The caves reply W'ith 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 their 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 I To wh?‘ untrodden shore! 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 THE BRAN, NEAR DUNKELD. “The waterfall, by a loud roaring, warned us when vve mur expect it. We were first, however, conducted int'. 4 small apart ment where the Gardener desired us to look at a picture o: Ossian, which, while he was telling the history of the yoiin Artist who executed the work, disappeared, parting in the mid die — flying asunder as by the touch of magic — and lo ! we are at the entrance of a splendid apartment, which xvas almost dizzy and alive with waterfalls, that tumbled in all directions; the great cascade, opposite the window, which faced us, being re- flected in innumerable mirrors upon the ceiling and against the walls.” — Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-Traveller. 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. ‘251 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 tlie mood That loves on sullen thoughts to brood ! 0 Nature, in thy changeful visions. Through all thy most abrupt transitions, Smooth, graceful, tender, or sublime. Ever averse to Pantomime, Thee neither do tliey 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 Tlie 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, Botli hands with rival energy Employed in setting his sword free From its dull slieath — 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, tlie selfish aim Defeating, put the Monks to shame. There where you see his image stand Bare to the sky, with threatening brand \Vhich lingering Nid is proud to show Reflected in the pool below. Thus, like tlie Men of earliest days. Our Sires set forth their grateful praise; ‘ On die banks of the River Nid, near Knarosliorough. Uncouth the workmanship, and rude ! But, nursed in mountain solitude. Might some aspiring Artist dare I’o 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; Mdiile grove and river notes would lend. Less deeply sad, with these to blend ! Yain Pleasures of luxurious life. For ever with yourselves at strife ; Through town and country both deranged By affectations 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 tlie sod Which Caledonian Heroes trod) I mused ; and. thirsting for redress, Recoiled into the wilderness. 252 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. IV. YARROW VISITED, SEPTEMBER, 1814. And is tliis — Yarrow 1 — This the Stream Of which my fancy cherished, So faithfully, a waking dream 7 .\n image that hath perished ! O that some Minstrel’s harp were near. To utter notes of gladness, i And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness ! Yet why? — a silvery current flows With uncontrolled meanderings ; Nor have these eyes by greener hills Been soothed, in all my wanderings. And, through her depths. Saint Mary’s Lake Is visibly delighted; For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted. A blue sky bends o’er Yarrow vale. Save where that pearly whiteness Is round the rising sun diffused, A tender hazy brightness; Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes All profitless dejection ; Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection. Where was it that the famous Flower Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? Ilis bed perchance was yon smooth mound On which the herd is feeding: And haply from this crystal pool, Now peaceful as the morning. The Water-wraith ascended thrice — And gave his doleful warning. Delicious is the Lay that sings The haunts of 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 charms 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 scene;, for childhood’s opening bloom. For sportive youth to stray in ; For manhood to enjoy his strength ; And age to wear away in ! Yon Cottage seems a bower of bliss, A covert for protection Of tender thoughts that nestle there. The brood of chaste affection. How sweet, on this autumnal day. The wild-wood fruits to gather. And on niy 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 Y^arrow, 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. 253 POEMS DEDICATED TO NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE AND LIBERTY. PART FIRST. I. 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 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 shoulds’t wink. Bright Star ! with laughter on her banners, drest In 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, 1802. Is it a Reed that’s shaken by the wind, Or what is it that ye go forth to see 1 Lords, Lawyers, Statesmen, Squires of low' degree. Men knowm, and men unknown, Sick, Lame, and Blind, Post forward all, like Creatures of one kind, With first-fruit offerings crowd to bend the knee In France, before the new-born Majesty. ’T is ever thus. Ye men of prostrate mind ! A seemly reverence may be paid to power ; But that’s a loyal virtue never sown In haste, nor springing with a transient shower : When truth, when sense, when liberty were flown. What hardship had it been to wait an Iiourl Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery prone! III. TO A FRIEND. COMPOSED NE.\R CAt.AIS, ON THE RO.VD LEADING TO ANDRES, AUGUST 7, 1802. .loNEs! while from Calais southward you and I Urged our accordant steps this public Way Streamed with the pomp of a too-credulous day,* * Mill July, 1790. When faith 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. 1801. I GRIEVED for Buonaparte, with a vain And an unthinking grief! for, who aspires To genuine greatness but from just desires. And knowledge such as he could never gain 1 ’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 weak as womanhood. Wisdom doth live with children round her knees : Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk Jlan 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 l.'l, 1802. Festivals have I seen that wore 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 bo 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. 22 254 WORDSWOETH’S POETIC AL 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 Wiio, 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 1 And what to him and his shall be the end? That thought is one which neither can appal Nor cheer him ; for the illustrious Swede hath done Tlie thing which ought 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. Touss/Vint, 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 anconquerable mind. IX. SEPTEMBER 1, 1802. Among the capricious acts of Tyranny that disgraced these times, was the chasing of all Negroes from France by decree of the Govern- ment : 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 afflicted Race ! X. COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY, NEAR DOVER ON THE DAY OF LANDING. Here, on our native soil, we breathe once more. The Cock that crows, the Smoke that curls, that sound Of Bells, — those Boys who in yon meadow-ground In white-sleeved shirts are playing, — and the roar Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore, — All, all are English. Oft have I looked round With joy in Kent’s green vales; but never found Myself so satisfied in heart before. Europe is yet in bonds ; but let that pass, Tliought 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 nearl 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. 255 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.* XII. THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGA- TION 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 rocky shore. And neither awful Voice be heard by thee ! XIII. WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1802. O Friend ! I know not which way I must look For comfort, being, as I arn, 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, expense. This is idolatry; and these we adore: Plain living and high thinking are no more: The homely beauty of tbe good old cause Is gone ; our peace, our fearful innocence. And pure religion breathing household laws.f XIV. LONDON, 1802. Milton! thou should’st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen. Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower. Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men: Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart ; Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea; Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free. So didst thou travel on life’s common way. In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The 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, ’tis strange. Hath brought forth no such souls as we had tlien. Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change! No single Volume paramount, no code. No master spirit, no determined road ; But equally a want of Books and Men ! XVI. 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 tiling 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 1 But when I think of Thee, and what Tliou art. Verily, in the bottom of my heart. Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. But dearly must we prize thee; we who find See Note. t See Note. 256 WORDSWORTH’S P 0 E TI C A L W 0 R K S. 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, I'elt for thee as a Lover or a Child ! XVIII. 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 sucli fell despite: Should come in phrensy and in drunken mirth, Impatient to put out the only light Of Liberty that yet remains on Earth I 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 : ’T is his who walks about in the open air, One of a Nation who, henceforth, must wear Their fetters in their Souls. For who could be. Who, even the best, in such condition, free From self-reproach, reproach 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. M'hat do we gather hence but firmer faith That every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope’s perpetual breath ; That virtue and the faculties within Are vital, — and that riches are akin To fear, to change, to cowardice, and death? XXL 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. I England ! all nations in tliis charge agree. But worse, more ignorant m love and hate. Far, far more abject is thine Enemy: Therefore the wise pray for thee, though the freight Of thy offences be a heavy weight : Oh grief, that Earth’s best hopes rest all with thee ! XXII. OCTOBER, 1803. When, looking on the present state of things, I see one Man, of Men the meanest too ! Rai-sed 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. XXIII. TO THE MEN OF KENT. — OCTOBER, 180S V.ANGU.ARD of Liberty, ye Men of Kent, Ye Children of a soil that doth advance Her haughty brow against the coast of France, Now is the time to prove your hardiment! To France be words of invitation sent! They from their Fields can see the countenance Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering lance. And hear you shouting forth your brave intent. Left single, in bold parley. Ye, of yore. Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath; Confirmed the charters that were yours before; — No parleying now ! In Britain is one breath ; We all are with you now from Shore to Shore : — Ye Men of Kent, ’t is Victory or Death I POEMS OP THE IMAGINATION. 257 XXIV. ANTICIPATION. — OCTOBER, 1803. 5hcut, for a mighty Victory is won ! )n British ground the Invaders are laid low; rhe breath of Pleaven has drifted them like snow, \nd left them lying in the silent sun, 'lever to rise again ! — the work is done ! ilome forth, ye Old Men, now in peaceful show \nd greet your Sons ! drums beat and trumpets blow! Vlake merry, Wives I ye little Children, stun four Grandames’ ears with pleasure of your noise: illap, Infants, clap your hands ! Divine must be Phat triumph, when the very worst, the pain, \nd even the prospect of our Brethren slain, lath something in it which the heart enjoys: — n glory will they sleep and endless sanctity. XXV. NOVEMBER, 1806. Another year I — another deadly blow ! Another mighty empire overthrown ! Vnd We are left, or shall be left, alone; rhe last tiiat dare to struggle with the Foe. r is well ! from this day forward we shall know i’hat in ourselves our safety must be sought; i’hat by our own right hand it must be wrought, i’hat we must stand unpropped, or be laid low. ) Dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer ! Ve shall exult, if They who rule the land ?e Men who hold its many blessings dear. Vise, upright, valiant; not a servile Band, Vho are to judge of danger which they fear, Vnd honour which they do not understand. XXVI. — ODE. Who rises on the banks of Seine, ^nd binds her temples with the civic wreath! Vhat joy to read the promise of her mien ! low 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; ^nd stands on tiptoe, conscious she is fair, Vnd calls a look of love into her face, Vnd spreads her arms — as if the general air \lone could satisfy her wide embrace. — Melt, Principalities, before her melt! ler love ye hailed — her wrath have felt ! 3ut She through many a change of form hath gone, Vnd stands amidst you now, an armed Creature, .Vhose panoply is not a thing put on, 2H 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 ! 2 . 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 tlie mighty Beam in scorn uplield. 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. 3. 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 toll — That Justice seemed to hear her final knell I Faith buried deeper in her own deep breast Her stores, and sighed to find them insecure ! And Hope was maddened by the drops that felt 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! Ye patient Heavens, how long! — Infirm ejaculation ! 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 ! 4. 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 lose, in forest glade. Among the lurking powers Of herbs and lowly flowers. Or seek, from Saints above, miraculous aid ; That Man may be accomplislied for a task Which his own Nature hath enjoined — and why!' 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 left aloft before Men’s sight Since the first framing of societies, 22 * 258 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. Whither, 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 of 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 something hang on musing Fancy’s ear: Ah ! that a Conqueror's word should be so dear : Ah ! that a boon could shed such rapturous joys! A gift of that wliich is not to be given By all the blended powers of Earth and Heaven. II. 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 Altolians 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 effort 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.” HI. TO THOMAS CLARKSON, ON THE FINAL PASSING OF THE BILL FOR THE ABOLI- TION OF 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 Tliou, who, starting in thy fervent prime, Didst first lead forth this pilgrimage sublime. Hast heard the constant Voice its charge repeat. Which, out of thy young heart’s oracular scat, irst 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 I IV. A PROPHECY. — FEBRUARY, 1807. High 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 the 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, extend 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 wage 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 ! See, 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. 2r)0 See the first mighty Hunter leave the brute — To chase mankind, with men in armies packed For his 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 BV 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^istray 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 suflering 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. VIIL COMPOSED AT THE SAME TIME, AND ON THE SAME OCCASION. I DROPPED my pen; — and listened to the wind That 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, I, ike 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. * II OFFER. Of mortal Parents is the Hero born By whom the undaunted Tyrolese are led 1 Or is it Tell’s great Spirit, from the dead Returned to animate an age forlorn 1 He comes like Phoebus through the gates of morn When dreary darkness is discomfited Yet mark his modest state ! upon his head. That simple crest, a heron’s plume, is worn. O Liberty ! they stagger at the shock ; The Murderers are aghast ; they strive to flee. And half their Host is buried : — rock on rock Descends: — beneath this godlike Warrior, sec ! Hills, Torrents, Woods, embodied to bcmock 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 mouiiC And o’er the eternal snows, like Echo, bound, — Like Echo, when the Hunter-train at dawn Have roused her from her sleep: and forest-lawn. Cliffs, 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? 260 WORDSWORTH S POETICAi. WORKS. XIII. And is it among rude untutored Dales, There, and there only, that the heart is true! And, rising to repel or to subdue, Is it by rocks and woods that man prevails ? 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 Palafox, 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 ffeld, 'Vnd neither hope nor steadfast promise yield n these usurping times of fear and pain 1 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 sacriffce, and labour without pause. Even to the death : — else wherefore should the eye Of man converse with immortality 1 XV. ON THE FINAL SUBMISSION OF THE TYROLESE. It was a moral end for which they fought ; Else how, when mighty Thrones were put to shame. Could they, poor Shepherds, have preserved an aim, A resolution, or enlivening thought 1 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 perfeo* triumnh o’er your Enemies. XVI. Hail, Zaragoza ! If with unwet eye We can approach, thy 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 ffowed before thy sight without remorse : Disease consumed thy vitals ; War upheaved Tlie 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 Of justice which the human mind can frame. Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim, And guard the way of life from all offence Suffered 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 Glory, and Triumph. Yet with politic skill Endangered Stales may yield to terms unjust. Stoop their proud heads, but not unto the dust, — A Foe’s most ravourite 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 hearo a strain Of triumph, how the labouring Danube bore A weight of hostile corses; drenched with gore Were the wide fields, the hamlets heaped witn slain. Yet see, the mighty tumult overpast, Austria a Daughter of her Throne hath sold ' And her. Tyrolean Champion we beliold Murdered like one ashore by shipwreck cast. Murdered without relief. Oh ! blind as bold, To lliink that such assurance can stand fast ! • See Note. POEMS OF THE I M AGIN ATIO.N . 2G1 XIX. Brave Scliill ! by death delivered, take thy flight From Prussia’s timid region. Go, and rest With heroes, ’mid the Islands of tlie Blest, Or in the Fields of empyrean light. A meteor wert thou in a darksome night; Yet shall thy name, conspicuous and sublime, Stand in the spacious firmament of time. Fixed as a star : such glory is thy right. Alas ! it may not be : for earthly fiime Is Fortune’s frail Dependant; yet there lives A Judge, who, as man claims by merit, gives ; To whose all-pondering mind a noble aim. Faithfully kept, is as a noble deed ; In whose pure sight all virtue doth succeed. XX. Call 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 !” Hence lives He, to his inner self endeared ; And hence, wherever virtue is revered. He sits a more exalted Potentate, , Throned 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 In thankful joy and gratulation pure.* XXI. Loon, 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. O joyless power that stands by lawless force ! * In this and a former Sonnet, in honour of the same Sovereign, let me be understood as a Poet availing himself of the situation which the King of Sweden occupied, and of the principles avowed 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 class, whose besotted admiration of the intoxicated despot here placed in contrast with him, is the most melancholy evidence if degradation in British feeling and intellect which the times nave furnished. Curses are his dire portion, scorn, and hate. Internal darkness and unqtiiet breath; And, if old judgments keep their sacred course. Him from tliat Height shall Heaven precipitate By violent and ignominious death. XXII. Is there a Pow'er that can sustain and cheer The captive ChieftaifI, 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 the Rage Of rigliteous vengeance side by side appear. Filling from morn to night the heroic scene With deeds of hope and everlasting praise ; Say, can he tliink of this with mind serene And silent fetters! Yes, if visions bright Shine on his soul, reflected from the days When he himself was tried in open light. XXIII. — 1810. Ah ! W’here is Palafox ! Nor tongue nor pen Reports of him, his dw'elling or his grave! Does yet the unheard-of Vessel ride the wave! Or is she swallowed up, remote from ken Of pitying human-nature ! Once again Methinks that we shall liail thee. Champion brave, Redeemed to baffle 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 The lonesome Mother cannot choose but mourn , Yet soon by Christian faith is grief subdued. And joy attends upon her fortitude. 2G2 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 vaiir To gather round the Bier these festal shows. V 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 that issues from our blood. XXVI. THE OAK OF GUERNICA. The ancient oak of Gueniica, says Laborde in his account of Biscay, is a most venerable natural monument. Ferdinand and Isabella, in the year 1476, after hearing mass in the Church of Santa Maria de la Antigua, repaired to this tree, under which they swore to the Biscayans to m.aintain their /uero.'s (privileges.) What other interest belongs to it in the minds of this People will appear from the following SUPPOSED ADDRESS OF THE SAME.— 1810. O.VK 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 hour] 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 T Stroke merciful and welcome would that be Which should extend thy branches on the ground. If never more within their shady round Those lolly-minded Lawgivers shall meet. Peasant and Lord, in their appointed seat, Guardians of Biscay’s ancient liberty. XXVII. INDIGN.\TION OF A HIGH-MINDED SPANIARD.— 1310. We can endure that He should waste our lands. Despoil our temples, and by sword and flame Return us to the dust from which w'e came ; Such food a Tyrant’s appetite demands : And we can brook the thought that by his hands 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 sw'aj', Then, 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.* 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 Spain, Forests of such do at this day remain : Then for that Country let our hopes be bold ; For matched with these shall policy prove vain, Her arts, her strength, her iron, and her gold. XXIX. — 1810. O’erweemng 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 pride To the paternal floor ; or turn aside. In the thronged City, from the walks of gain. As being all unworthy to detain A Soul by 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 Ileaven.f *friie student of English Poetry will call to mind Cowley’s impas-sioned expression of the indignation of a Briton under the depression of disasters somewhat similar : “ L(it rather Roman come again. Or Saxon. Norman, or the Dane ; In all the bonds we ever boro. We grieved, we aigheil, we wept ; me nntr blushed before.'' 'Discourse on the Government of Oliver Cromwell. — H. R.] t See Laltorde’s Character of the Spanish People : from h’tj the sentiment of these last two lines is taken POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 2G3 XXX. niE FRENCH AND THE SPANISH GUERILLAS. Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast From bleak liill-top, and length of march by night Through heavy swamp, or over snow-clad height. These hardsiiips ill sustained, these dangers past, The roving Spanish Bands are reached at last, ( harged, 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 ; \Vdiere now 1 — Their sword is at the Foeman’s heart! And thus from year to year his walk they tliwart. And hang like dreams around his guilty bed. XXXIII. — 1811. Here pause; the poet claims at least this praise. That virtuous Liberty hatli 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 dutij that Heaven lays. For its own honour, on man’s suffering lieart.f Never may from our souls one truth depart. That an accursed thing it is to gaze On prosperous Tyrants with a dazzled eye; Nor, touclied 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 ! XXXI. SPANISH GUERILLAS, 1811. They 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 IMina, 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. 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 gras()ed 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 ine.Yorable 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 ! 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, t[“\Vliat an awful duty, whal a nurse of all other, the faire=l virtues, does not Hope become! We are bad ourselves, becau.se we despair of the goodness of oihers.” 1 COLEUIUGE: ‘The Friend,’ Vol. I. p. 1T2. — 11. R.] ‘Serlorius. 264 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL W^ORKS. And bade the Snow their ample backs bestride, And to the battle ride. No pitying voice commands a halt, No courage can repe the 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 blue sky, A soundless waste, a trackless vacancy ! XXXV. ON TflE 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 I.ooks 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 tlie 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 the main. And to the aerial zephyrs as they pass, That old decrepit Winter — He hath slain That Host, w'hich 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 suffered. Pledges sure Of a deliverance absolute and pure She gave, if Faith miglit tread the beaten ways Of Providence. But now did the Most High E.xalt 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 ! xxxvir. THE GERMANS ON THE HEIGHTS OF HOCKHEIM. Abruitly 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 That through the texture of yon azure dome Cleaves its glad w'ay, 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 Who have seen (themselves delivered from the yoke) The unconquerable Stream his course pursue.* XXXVIII. 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 re^ct 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 ! 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 the 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 was 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 thusreeorded in the joum.alsof theday —“When the Austrians took Hoekheim, in one part of the engagement they got to the brow of the hill, whence they had their first view of the Rhine. They instantly halted — not a gun w .as fired — not a voice heard ; they stood gazing on the river with those feelings which the events of the last fifteen years at once called up. Prince Schwarlzenhet^ nxle up to know the cause of this sudden slop ; they then gave three cheers, rushed aftei the enemy, and drove them iulo the water.” po k:\is of the imagination. 2G.5 XL. occ.\sioni*:d by the battle oe Waterloo. (TVdC last six lines intended for an Inscription.) FEBRUAllY, Intrepid sons of Albion ! not by you Is life despised ; ah no, the spacious earth Ne’er saw a race who held, by rijrht 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 triumpli 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 Filicaia ! With celestial aim It rose — thy saintly rapture to proclaim. Then, wlien 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.* XLII. 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: giiignesti, Guerregiasti, e vincesti ; Si, si, vincesti, o Campion forte e pio. Per Dio vincesti, e per te vinse Iddio. See Filicaia’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 the 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 the blest Angels, from their peacclul clime Beholding, welcomed with a choral shout. XLIII. Emperors and Kings, how oft have Temple.-? 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, from Heaven-sanctioned Victory, Peace is 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 Tlian ever forced unpitied hearts to bleed. XLIV. ODE COAIPOSED IN JANUARY, 1816. Carmina possumus Donare, et pretium dicere muneri. Non incisa notis mannora publicis. Per quE spiritus et vita redit bonis Post mortem ducibus clarius indicant Laudes, quam Pierides ; neque. Si chartE sileant quod bene feceris, Mercedem tuleris. IloR. Car. 8. Lib. 4. I. 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 all this world’s encumbrance did himself assoil.” Spenser 23 266 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 that 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 !” 2 . 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, — L 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 staffs supported, Look round — and by their smiling seem to say, Thus strives a grateful Country to display The mighty debt which nothing can repay ! 3 . 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 beneath 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 effulgence, 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 affections ; 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 effect profound. It was — and it is gone! Victorious England ! bid the silent Art Reflect, in glowing hues that shall not fade. These 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 Fi.xed 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 thoroughly benign! 5 . And ye, Pierian Sisters, sprung from Jcve And sage Mnemosyne, — full long debarred POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 2G7 From your first mansions, — exiled all too long From many a liallowed 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 W’hat ye, celestial Maids ! have often sung Of Britain’s acts, — may catch it witli 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 they to future empires have given birth. So shall the people gather and believe The 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. JANU.'iRY 18, 18!6. 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, unchecked 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 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, tliat the cup of our wealth will be gradually replenished. 'I’here 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, the|| 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 encourage 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 otlier 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) tiirough a scru;)ulous dread lest the tribute due to liie past should prove an injurious incentive for the future. Every man deserv- ing tlie 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 which 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- 268 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 be'en 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 THE DAY APPOINTED FOR A GENE- RAL THANKSGIVING, JANUARY 18, 1816. 1 . 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 unrcjoiced I see thee climb the sky * The Ode wa.s published along with other 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 ! 2 . ’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 ofl 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. 3. Have we not conquered 1 — By the vengeful sword 1 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. POE^fS OF THE IMAGINATION. 2G9 In 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 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. All martial duties to fulfil ; irm as a rock in stationary 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 — VV’oe, 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 — but that we survive. 5. 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 I — 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 ; Bu^he 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 ; M'hile the whole forest of civility Is doomed to perish, to the last fair tree ! 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 disciplined 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! 7. 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 fingerings 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 ? 8 . 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 fife 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 offensive 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 e.xterminating sword is given. Dread mark of approbation, justly gained ! Exalted office, worthily sustained! 6 . A crouching purpose — a distracted will — Opposed to hopes that battened upon scorn. And to desires whose ever-waxing horn Not all the fight of earthly power could fill ; 9. Imagination, ne’er before content. But aye ascending, restless in her pride. ' A discipline the rule whereof is passion.” — L ord Brook 23 270 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 these 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. — The 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 fhe ridge Of Andes — frozen gulfs became its bridge — The vast Pacific gladdens with the freight — Upon the Lakes of Asia ’tis bestowed — The Arabian desert shapes a willing road. Across her burning breast. For this refreshing incense from the West! — Wliere 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 sliades of night — The unwearied arrow hath pursued its flight! The eyes of good men thankfully give heed. And in its sparkling progress read IIovv 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 This 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! — Not work of hands; but trophies that may reach To highest Heaven — the labour of the soul ; Tliat builds, as thy unerring precepts teach, Upon the inward victories ot >ach. 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 Thames — to greet Tlie 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 ! 11 . 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 liope was ploughed His drought consumes, his mildew taints witli death, He springs the hushed Volcano’s mine; He puts the Earthquake on her still design, Darkens tlie sun, hath bade the forest sink, POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 271 And, drinking towns and cities, still can drink Cities and towns — ’tis Thou — the work is Thine! — The fierce Tornado sleeps within thy courts — lie 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 forclieads 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 offering not unworthy to find place. On this high Day of Thanks, before the Throne of Grace ! 272 WORUSWOllTirS POETICAL WORKS. ADDITIONAL PIECES TO POEMS DEDICATED TO NATIONAL INDE- PENDENCE AND LIBERTY. LINES ON THE EXPECTED INVASION. 1803. Come ye — who, if (wiiich Heaven avert!) the land Were vvitli herself at strife, would take your stand, Like gallant F'alkland, by the monarch’s side, And, like Montrose, make loyalty ySwr pride — Come ye — who, not less zealous, might display Banners at enmity with regal sway. And, like the Pyrns and Miltons of that day. Think that a State would live in sounder health If Kingship bowed its head to Commonwealth — Ve too — whom no discreditable fear Would keep, perhaps with many a fruitless tear. Uncertain what to choose and how to steer — And ye — who might mistake for sober sense And wise reserve the plea of indolence — Come ye — whate’er your creed — O waken all, Whate’er your temper, at your country’s call ; Resolving (this a free-born nation can) To have one soul, and perish to a man. Or save this honoured land from every lord But British reason and the British sword. ON THE SAME OCCASION. (a sequel to no. X.vtu., PART I., “TO THE MEN OF KENT.") What if our numbers barely could defy The arithmetic of babes, must foreign hordes. Slaves, vile as ever were befooled by words. Striking through English breasts the anarchy Of terror, bear us to the ground, and tie Our hands behind our backs with felon cords 1 Yields every thing to discipline of swords I Is man as good as man, none low, none high? — Nor discipline nor valour can withstand The shock, nor quell the inevitable rout, When in some great extremity breaks out A people, on their own beloved land Risen, like one man, to combat in the sight Of a just God for liberty and right. THE EAGLE AND THE DOVE. Shade of Caractacus, if spirits love The cause they fought for in their earthly home. To see the Eagle ruffled by the Dove May soothe thy memory of the chains of Rome. These children claim thee for their sire ; the breath Of thy renown, from Cambrian Mountains, fans A flame within them that despises death. And glorifies the truant youth of V’annes. With thy own scorn of tyrants they advance. But truth divine has sanctified their rage, A silver cross enchased with flowers of France, Their badge, attests the lioly fight they wage. The shrill defiance of the young crusade Their veteran foes mock as an idle noise ; But unto faith and loyalty comes aid From Heaven, gigantic force to beardless boys.* SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY AND ORDER. COMPOSED AFTER READING A NEWSPAPER OP THE DAV. “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, tlie 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, .\nd 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. CPON THE LATE GENERAL FAST. March, 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 judgments undismayed By their own daring. But the people prayed [*From “La Petite Chouannerie ou Histoire d' un Col- lege Breton Sous V Empire, par A. F. Rto. Paris 1842,” p. 62. Those stanzas were a contribution by Wordsworth, to M. Rio’s interesting narrative of the romantic revolt of the royalist students of the College of Vannes in 1815, and their battles with the soldiers of the French Empire. — H. R.l POEMS OP THE IMAGINATION. As with one voice; their flinty heart grew soft With penitential sorrow, and aloft Their spirit mounted, crying, “ God us aid !” Oh that with aspirations more intense. Chastised by self-abasement more profound. This people, once so happy, so renowned For liberty, would seek from God defence Against far heavier ill, the pestilence Of revolution, impiously unbound ! Said Secrecy to Cowardice and Fraud, Falsehood and Treachery, in close council met. Deep under ground, in Pluto’s cabinet, “ The frost of England’s pride will soon be thawed ; Hooded the open brow that overawed Our schemes ; the faith and honour, never yet By us with hope encountered, be upset ; — For once I burst my bands, and cry, applaud !” Then whispered she, “ The bill is carrying out !” They heard, and, starting up, the brood of night Clapped hands, and shook with glee their matted locks ; All powers and places that abhor the light Joined in the transport, echoed back their shout. Hurrah for , hugging his ballot-box!* Blest statesman he, whose mind’s unselfish will Leaves him at ease among grand thoughts : whose eye Sees that, apart from magnanimity. Wisdom exists not; nor the humbler skill Of prudence, disentangling good and ill With patient care. What tho’ assaults run high. They daunt not him who holds his ministry. Resolute, at all hazards, to fulfil Its duties; — prompt to move but firm to wait, — Knowing, things rashly sought are rarely found ; [* This sonnet originally appeared in the following note to the separate Volume of Sonnets. “Having in this notice alluded only in general terms to the mischief which, in my opinion, the Ballot would bring along with it, without especially branding its immoral and anti-social tendency, (for which no political advantages, were they a thousand times greater than those presumed upon, could be a compensation,) I have been impelled to subjoin a reprobation of it upon that score. In no part of my writings have I mentioned the name of any cotempo- rary, that of Buonaparte only excepted, but for the pur- pose of eulogy ; and therefore, as in the concluding verse of what follows, there is a deviation from this rule, (for the blank will be easily filled up) I have excluded this sonnet from the body of the collection, and placed it here as a public record of my detestation, both as a man and a citizen, of the proposed contrivance. ’’ Since that time, I may add, that Mr. Grote’s political notoriety as an adyocate for the ballot has been merged in the high reputation he has already acquired, as probably the most eminent modern historian of ancient Greece. -H. R.] That, for the functions of an ancient State — Strong by her charters, free because imbouiul. Servant of Providence, not slave of fate — Perilous is sweeping change, all chance unsound. IN ALLUSION TO VARIOUS RECENT HISTORIES AND NOTICES OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. Portentous change when History can appear As the cool advocate of foul device; Reckless audacity extol, and jeer At consciences perplexed with scruples nice ! They who bewail not, must abhor, the sneer Born of Conceit, Power’s blind Idolater; Or haply sprung from vaunting cowardice Betrayed by mockery of holy fear. Hath it not long been said the wrath of man Works not the rigliteousness of God ? Oh bend. Bend, ye perverse! to judgments from on High, Laws that lay under Heaven’s perpetual ban All principles of action that transcend The sacred limits of humanity. CONTINUEO. Who ponders National events shall find An awful balancing of loss and gain, Joy based on sorrow, good with ill combined. And proud deliverance issuing out of pain And direful throes; as if the All-ruling mind, With whose perfection it consists to ordain Volcanic burst, earthquake, and hurricane. Dealt in like sort with feeble human kind By laws immutable. But woe for him Who thus deceived shall lend an eager hand To social havoc. Is not Conscience ours. And Truth, whose eye guilt only can make dim ; And Will, whose office, by divine command. Is to control and check disordered Powers'? CONCLUDED. Long-favoured England ! be not thou misled By monstrous theories of alien growth. Lest alien frenzy seize thee, waxing wroth,. Self-smitten till thy garments reek dyed red With thy own blood, which tears in torrents shed Fail to v/ash out' tears flowing ere thy troth Bo plighted, not to ease but sullen sloth. Or wan despair — the ghost of false hope fled Into a shameful grave. Among tliy youth. My country! if such warning be held dear. Then shall a veteran’s heart be thrilled with joy One who would gather from eternal truth, For time and season, rules that work to cheer — Not scourge, to save the people — not destroy. 2K 274 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. ]\Ien of the Western World ! in Fate’s dark book \Vhence tliese opprobrious leaves of dire portent? Think ye your British ancestors forsook Their native land, for outrage provident; From unsubmissive necks the bridle shook To give, in their descendants, freer vent And wider range to passions turbulent. To mutual tyranny a deadlier look? Nay, said a voice, soft as the south wind’s breath. Dive through the stormy surface of the flood To the great current flowing underneath ; Explore the countless springs of silent good ; So shall the truth be better understood. And thy grieved spirit brighten strong in faith.* TO THE PENNSVLVANIANS. Days undefiled by luxury or sloth. Firm self-denial, manners grave and staid. Rights equal, laws with cheerfulness obeyed. Words that require no sanction from an oath. And simple honesty a common growth — This high rejHite, with bounteous nature’s aid. Won confidence, now ruthlessly betrayed At will, your power the measure of your troth ! — All who revere the memory of Penn Grieve for the land on whose wild woods his name Was fondly grafted with a virtuous aim. Renounced, abandoned by degenerate men For state-dishonour black as ever came To upper air from Mammon’s loathsome den. * These lines were written several years ago, when re- ports prevailed of cruelties committed in many parts of America, by men making a law of their own passions. A far more formidable, as being a more deliberate mischief, has appeared among those States, which have lately bro- ken faith with the public creditor in a manner so infamous. I cannot, however, but look at both evils under a similar relation to inherent good, and hope that the time is not distant when our brethren of the West will wipe off this stain from their name and nation. ADDITIONAL NOTE. “Men of the Western World." I am happy to add that this anticipation is already partly realized ; and that the reproach addressed to the Pennsyl- vanians in the next sonnet is no longer applicable to them. I I'.rust that those other states to which it may yet apply will soon follow the example now set them in Philadelphia, and redeem their credit with the world. 1850. [This additional note is on a fly-leaf at the end of the fifth volume of the edition, which was completed only a short time before the Poet’s death. It contains probably the last sentences composed by him for the press. It was promptly added by him in consequence of a suggestion from me, that the sonnet addressed “ To Pennsylvanians" was no longer just — a fact which is mentioned to show that the fine sense of truth and justice which distinguishes his writings was active to the last. — H. R.] AT BOLOGNA, IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE LATE IN- SURRECTIONS. 1837. Ah why deceive ourselves ! by no mere fit Of sudden passion roused shall men attain True freedom where for ages they have lain Bound in a dark abominable pit. With life’s best sinews more and more unknit. Here, there, a banded few who loathe the chain May rise to break it: effort worse than vain For thee, O great Italian nation, split Into those jarring fractions. — Let thy scope Be one fixed mind for all ; thy rights approve To thy own conscience gradually renewed ; Learn to make Time the father of wise Hope ; Then trust thy cause to the arm of Fortitude, The light of Knowledge, and the warmth of Love. CONTINUED. n. Hard task! exclaim the undisciplined, to lean On patience coupled with such slow endeavour. That long-lived servitude must last for ever. Perish the grovelling few, who, prest between Wrongs and the terror of redress, would wean Millions from glorious aims. Our chains to sever Let us break forth in tempest now or never ! — What, is there then no space for golden mean And gradual progress? — Twilight leads to day. And, even within the burning zones of earth. The hastiest sunrise yields a temperate ray; The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth : Think not that prudence dwells in dark abodes. She scans the future with the eye of gods. CONCLUDED. III. As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow And wither, every human generation Is to the being of a mighty nation. Locked in our world’s embrace through weal and woe ; Thought that should teach the zealot to forego Rash schemes, to abjure all selfish agitation. And seek through noiseless pains and moderation The unblemished good they only can bestow. Alas ! with most, who weigh futurity Against time present, passion holds the scales : Hence equal ignorance of both prevails, And nations sink; or, struggling to be free. Are doomed to flounder on, like wounded whales Tpssed on the bosom of a stormy sea. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 275 Young England — what is then become of Old Of dear Old England! Think they she is dead, Dead to the very name 1 Presumption fed On empty air ! That name will keep its hold In the true filial bosom’s inmost fold For ever. — The Spirit of Alfred, at the head Of all who for her rights watched, toiled and bled. Knows that this prophecy is not too bold. What — how ! shall she submit in will and deed To beardless boys — an imitative race, The servum pecus of a Gallic breed ! Dear Mother ! if thou must thy steps retrace. Go where at least meek innocency dwells; Let babes and sucklings be thy oracles. Feel for the wrongs to universal ken Daily exposed, woe that unshrouded lies ; And seek the sufferer in his darkest den, Whether conducted to the spot by sighs And meanings, or he dwells (as if the wren Taught him concealment) hidden from all eyes In silence and the awful modesties Of sorrow ; — feel for all, as brother men ! Rest not in hope want’s icy chain to thaw By casual boons and formal charities; Learn to be just, just through impartial law ; Far as ye may, erect and equalise; And, what ye cannot reach by statute, draw Each from his fountain of self-sacrifice 1 SONNETS UPON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. IN SERIES.* I. SUGGESTED BY THE VIEW OF LANCASTER CASTLE (ON THE ROAD FROM THE SOUTH.) This spot at once unfolding sight so fair Of sea and land, with yon grey towers that still Rise up as if to lord it over air — Might soothe in human breasts the sense of ill. Or charm it out of memory ; yea, might fill The heart with joy and gratitude to God For all his bounties upon man bestowed ; Why bears it then the name of “ Weeping Hill!” Thousands, as toward yon old Lancastrian Towers, A prison’s crown, along this way they past For lingering durance or quick death with shame. From this bare eminence thereon have cast Their first look — blinded as tears fell in showers Shed on their chains ; and hence that doleful name. II. Tenderly do we feel by Nature’s law For worst offenders: though the heart will heave With indignation, deeply moved we grieve. In after thought, for him who stood in awe Neither of God nor man, and only saw. Lost wretch, a horrible device enthroned On proud temptations, till the victim groaned Under the steel his hand had dared to draw. But O, restrain compassion, if its course. As oft befals, prevent or turn aside Judgments and aims and acts whose higher source Is sympathy with the unforewarned, who died [* See an excellent commentary on this series of Poems, by Henry Taylor, Esq., author of “Philip Van Arta- velde,” etc., at the close of a Critical Essay from his pen, which appeared in the Quarterly Review for December, >841. No. 137, p. 39. — H. R.] Blameless — with them that shuddered o’er his grave, And all who from the law firm safety crave. III. The Roman Consul doomed his sons to die Who had betrayed their country. The stern word Afforded (may it through all time afford) A theme for praise and admiration high. Upon the surface of humanity He rested not; its depths his mind explored ; He felt; but his parental bosom’s lord Was duty, — duty calmed his agony. And some, we know, when they by wilful act A single human life have wrongly taken. Pass sentence on themselves, confess the fact. And, to atone for it, with soul unshaken Kneel at the feet of Justice, and for faith Broken with all mankind, solicit death. IV. Is Death, when evil against good has fought With such fell mastery that a man may dare By deeds the blackest purpose to lay bare ! Is Death, for one to that condition brought. For him or any one, the thing that ought To be most dreaded ! Lawgivers, beware. Lest capital pains remitting till ye spare The murderer, ye, by sanction to that thought Seemingly given, debase the general mind ; Tempt the vague will tried standards to disown. Nor only palpable restraints unbind. But upon Honour’s head disturb the crown. Whose absolute rule permits not to withstand In the weak love of life his least command. 276 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. V. r^OT to the object specially desigriied, Howe’er momentous in itself it be, Good to promote or curb depravity, Is the wise Legislator’s view confined. His Spirit, when most severe, is oft most kind ; As all Authority in earth depends On Love and Fear, their several powers he blends. Copying with awe the one Paternal mind. Uncaught by processes in show humane. He feels how far the act would derogate From even the humblest functions of the State ; If she, self-shorn of Majesty, ordain That never more shall hang upon her breath The last alternative of Life or Death. VI. Ye brood of conscience — Spectres! that frequent The bad Man’s restless walk, and haunt his bed — Fiends in your aspect, yet beneficent In act, as hovering Angels when they spread Their wings to guard the unconscious Innocent — Slow be the Statutes of the land to share A laxity that could not but impair Your power to punish crime, and so prevent. And ye. Beliefs! coiled serpent-like about The adage on all tongues, “ Murder will out,” How shall your ancient warnings work for good In the full might they hitherto have shown. If for deliberate shedder of man’s blood Survive not Judgment that requires his owni VII. Before the world had past her time of youth While polity and discipline were weak. The precept eye for eye, and tooth for tooth. Came forth — a light, though but as of day-break. Strong as could then be borne. A Master meek Proscribed the spirit fostered by that rule. Patience his law’, long-suffering his school. And love the end, which all through peace must seek. But lamentably do they err who strain His mandates, given rash impulse to controul And keep vindictive thirstings from the soul. So far that, if consistent in their scheme. They must forbid the State to inflict a pain. Making of social order a mere dream. VHI. Fit retribution, by the moral code Determined, lies beyond tlie State’s embrace. Yet, as she may, for each peculiar case She plants well-measured terrors in the road Of wrongful acts. Downw’ard it is and broad. And, the main fear once doomed to banishment. Far oftener then, bad ushering worse event, I Blood would be spilt that in his dark abode Crime might lie better hid. And, should the change Take from the horror due to a foul deed. Pursuit and evidence so far must fail. And, guilt escaping, passion then might plead In angry spirits for her old free range. And the “ wild justice of revenge ” prevail. IX. Though to give timely warning and deter ' Is one great aim of penalty, extend j Thy mental vision further and ascend ' Far higher, else full surely shaft thou err. What is a State I The wise behold in her A creature born of time, that keeps one eye Fixed on the statutes of Eternity, To w’hich her judgments reverently defer. Speaking through Law’s dispassionate voice the State Endues her conscience with external life And being, to preclude or quell the strife Of individual will, to elevate The grovelling mind, the erring to recal. And fortify the moral sense of all. Our bodily life, some plead, that life the shrine j Of an immortal spirit is a gift I So sacred, so informed w'ith light divine, i That no tribunal, though most wise to sift I Deed and intent, should turn the being adrift Into that w'orld where penitential tear May not avail, nor prayer have for God’s ear A voice — that world whose veil no hand can lift I I For earthly sight. “ Eternity and Time” They urge, “ have interwoven claims and rights Not to be jeopardised through foulest crime : The sentence rule by mercy’s heaven-born lights.” Even so ; but measuring not by finite sense Infinite Power, perfect Intelligence. : Ah, think how one compelled for life to abide Locked in a dungeon needs must eat the heart Out of his own humanity, and part With every hope that mutual cares provide; And, should a less unnatural doom confide In life-long exile on a savage coast. Soon the relapsing penitent may boast Of yet more heinous guilt, with fiercer pride. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 277 Hence thoughtful Mercy, Mercy sage and pure, Sanctions tlie forfeiture that Law demands, Leaving the final issue in Ills hands Whose goodness knows no change, whose love is sure, W'iio sees, foresees ; who cannot judge amiss, And wafts at will the contrite soul to bliss. XII. See the Condemned alone within his cell And prostrate at some moment when remorse Stings to the quick, and, with resistless force. Assaults the pride she strove in vain to quell. Then mark him, him who could so long rebel, The crime confessed, a kneeling penitent Before the Altar, where the Sacrament Softens his heart, till from his eyes outwell Tears of salvation. Welcome death ! while Heaven Does in this change exceedingly rejoice; While yet the solemn heed the State -hath given Helps him to meet the last Tribunal’s voice In faith, which fresh offences, were he cast On old temptations, might for ever blast. XIII. CONCLUSION'. Yes, though he well may tremble at the sound Of his own voice, who from the judgment-seat Sends the pale convict to his last retreat In death; though listeners shudder all around, They know the dread requital’s source profound ; Nor is, they feel, its wisdom obsolete — (Would that it were !) the sacrifice unmeet For Christian Faith. But hopeful signs abound ; The social rights of man breathe purer air; Religion deepens her preventive care; Then, moved by needless fear of past abuse. Strike not from Law’s firm hand that awful rod. But leave it thence to drop for lack of use: Oh, speed the blessed hour. Almighty God ! XIV. APOLOGY. The formal world relaxes her cold chain For one who speaks in numbers; ampler scope His utterance finds; and, conscious of the gain. Imagination works with bolder hope The cause of grateful reason to sustain ;* And, serving Truth, the heart more strongly beats Against all barriers which his labour meets In lofty place, or humble life’s domain. Enough: — before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love From Wisdom’s heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe’er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day. im. 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 tlie hues Of living Nature ; no — though free to choose The greenest bowers, the most inviting ways, Tlie 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. Wordsworth. Rydal Mount, January, 1822. I. 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, I low 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-nymphs 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 I 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. Whose overburthened hand could scarcely hold The glittering crowns and garlands which it brought Hovered in air above the far-famed Spot. 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 zea Sank in our hearts, W’e felt as Men should feel With such vast hoards of hidden carnage near And horror breathing from the silent ground ! * See Note. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 271) V. SCENERY BETWEEN NAMUR AND LIEGE. What lovelier home could gentle Fancy choose 1 Is this the Stream, whose cities, heights, and plains. War’s favourite playground, are with crimson stains Familiar, as the Morn with pearly dews'? The Morn, that now, along the silver Meuse, Spreading her peaceful ensigns, calls the Swains To tend their silent boats and ringing wains, Or strip the bough whose 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-CIIAPELLE. Was it to disenchant, and to undo. That we approached the Seat of Charlemaine? 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 ! If from a Traveller’s fortune I might claim A palpable memorial of that day. Then 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.* VU. IN THE CATHEDRAL AT COLOGNE. O FOE 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, ’t were an office meet 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 ns fancy this wall curved like a crescent, with its convexity towaixls 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 Roland, and we may have a good idea of what the mountaineers call the ‘ BaECHE de Rola.nd.’ ” 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 crowm 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 the 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, w’hile 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; Aliserere Domine !* '‘See the beaiilifiil Song in Mr. Coleridge’s Tragedy, “Tns Re.morse.” Why is the Harp of Quantock silent I 280 WORDSWOKTH’S POETICAL WORKS. X. THE SOURCE OF THE DANUBE.* Not, like his great compeer.®, indignantly Doth Danube spring to life! The wandering Stream (Who loves the Cross, yet to the 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. Mounts on rapt wing, and with a moment’s flight Hath reached tlie encincture of that gloomy sea Whose waves the Orphean lyre forbad to meet (n 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 fix in heaven her shape distinct with stars. XI. MEMORIAL, NEAR THE OUTLET OF THE LAKE OF THUN. "DEM ^MDEMKKM MEIMES FREUMDES jiLOrS REDIMO MDCCCXVIII." Aloys Rodinj. it will be remembered, was Captain-General of tlie Swiss forces, which, with a courage and perseverance worthy of the cause, opposed the flagitious and too 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 haply with a finer care Of dutiful affection. The Sun regards it from the West; And, while in summer glory He sets, his sinking yields 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 de- scribed ; at present, the contrast is most striking. The spring appears in a capacious stone basin in front of a Ducal palace, with a pleasure-ground opposite ; then passing under the pavement, takes the form of a little, clear, bright, black, vigorous rill, barely wide enough to tempt the agility of a child five years old to leap over it, — and enter- ing the garden, it joins, after a course of a few hundred yards, a stream much more considerable than itself. The copiousttess of the spring at Doneschingen must have pro- cured for it the honour of being named the Source of the Danube. 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. XII. COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE CATHOLIC CANTONS. Doomed as we are our native dust To wet with many a bitter shower, It ill befits us to disdain The altar, to deride the fane. Where simple Sufferers bend, in trust To win a happier hour. I love, where spreads the village lawn. Upon some knee-worn cell to gaxe; Hail to the' firm unmoving cross. Aloft, where pines their branches toss ! And to the chapel far withdrawn. That lurks by lonely ways! Where’er we roam — along the brink Of Rhine — or by the sweeping Po, Through Alpine vale, or champain wide, W'hate’er we look on, at our side Be Charity! — to bid us think. And feel, if we would know. AFTER-THOUGHT. Oh Life ! without thy chequered scene Of right and wrong, of weal and woe. Success and failure, could a ground For magnanimity be found ; For faith ’mid ruined hopes, serene 1 Or whence could virtue flow I Pain entered through a ghastly breach — Nor while sin lasts must effort cease; Heaven upon earth ’s an empty boast ; But, for the bow'ers of Eden lost, Mercy has placed within our reacli A portion of God’s peace. XIH. ON APPROACHING THE STAUB-BACH LAUTER-BRUNNEN. Uttered by whom, or how inspired — designed For what strange service, does this concert reach Our ears, and near the dwellings of mankind ! ’JMid fields familiarized to human speech? — No Mermaids warble — to allay the wind Driving some vessel toward a dangerous beach — More thrilling mekxlies; Witch answering Witcli, To chaunt a love-spell, never intertwined Notes shrill and wild with art more musical ! Alas! that from the lips of abject Want POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. £81 And Idleness in tatters mendicant The strain should flow — free fancy to enthral, And with regret and useless pity haunt This bold, this pure, this sky-born Watkrfall !* 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 astonishment 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: 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 1” 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 w'as 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.” 2L Upon a Sister’s shoulder laid, — To chant, as glides the boat along, A sitnple, but 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"! 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 Mountaineers has con- ferred upon it. t Mount Righi. 24* 282 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. On mortal succour, all distrest That of human hope bereft, Nor wiih for earthly friend. And hence, O Virjrin Mother mild ! Tliough plenteous flowers around thee blow. Not only from the dreary strife Of Winter, but the storms of life. Thee have thy Votaries aptly styled Our Lady of the Snow. Even for the Man who stops not here. But down the irriguous valley hies. Thy very name, O Lady! 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, l\Iore sweetly breathes the wind. But on! — a tempting downward way, A verdant path before us lies ; Clear shines the glorious sun above ; Tlien give free course to joy and love. Deeming the evil of the day Sufficient for tlie wise. XVIII. EFFUSION iN PRESENCE OF THE PAINTED TOWER OF TELL, AT ALTORF. Tliis Tower is said to stand upon the spot where grew the Linden Tree against wliich his Son w'as placed, when the Fath- er’s archery was put to proof under circumstances so famous 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 wliat ye behold ; Heroes before your time, in frolic fancy bold ! But when that calm Spectatre.ss from on high Looks down — the bright 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 s 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 tops, 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 SCIIWYTZ. By antique Fancy trimmed — though lowly, bred To dignity — in thee, O Schwytz! 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 steeo. 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 Schwytz, in happy freedom keep !* XX. ON HEARING THE “RANZ DES VACHES,” ON THE TOP OF THE PASS OF ST. GOTHARD. I LISTEN — but no faculty of mine Avails those modulations to detect. Which, heard in foreign lands, the Swiss affect With tenderest passion ; leaving him 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 (says Ebel, speaking of the French In\a- sron,I had elai>sed, when, for the first time, foreign soldiers were seen upon the frontiers of this small Canton, to impose upon I the laws of their governors. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION 2 S3 XXI. THE CHURCH OF SAN SALVADOR, SEEN FROM THE LAKE OF LUGANO. This Church was almost destroyed by lightning a few years ago, but the Altar and the Image of the Patron Saint were un- touched. 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 condnement of view contrasted with sea- like extent of plain fading into the sky ; and this again, in an opposite 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, Ilis 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 shock.s. Of fainting hopes and backward wills. Did mighty Tell repair of old — A Hero 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.* XXII. FORT FUENTES. The Ruins of Fort Fueutes 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 melancboly sublimity. We rejoiced at being favoured with a distinct view of those Alpine heights; not, as vve laid ex peeled 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 ma.*s and in detail. An Inscription, upon elaborately-sculptured mar- ble lying on the ground, records that the Fort had been erected by Count Fuentes in the year IGOO, 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 smooth green turf has taken place of the pavement, and w e could see no tnice of altar or image ; but everj'W here something to remind one of former splendour, and of deviistation and tumult. In our ascent we had passed abundance of wild vines intermingled with bushes: near the ruins were some ill-tended, but grovxing willingly; and rock, turf, and fragments of the pile, are alike covered or adorned with a variety of flowers, among which tl-.o 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 cxiilosion that had driven it so far down the hill. “How little,” vve 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 w'as 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 w ith leaves. ’Arnold Winkelried, at the battle of Sempaeh, 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 throughout the country 284 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Fuentes once harboured the good and the brave, Nor to her was tlie 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 tlie 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. PART I 1 . 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 w’eight. For him who bore the world ! Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy; The wages of thy travel, joy ! 2 . 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 bright-haired Boy ! a 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 drest Like Foresters in leaf-green vest. The Helvetian Mountaineers, on ground For Toll’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 Astraea from the earth. — A gentle Boy (perchance with blood 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 check) Heart-deaf to those rebounding notes, Sate watching by his silent Goats, POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. £85 Apart within a forest shed, Palo, 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 deed 1 What liberty I 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. XXIV. THE LAST SUPPER, BV LEONARUO DA VINCI, IN THE REFECTORY OF THE CONVENT OF MARIA DELLA GRAZIA— MIL,\N. 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 board 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 Tower 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, Througn 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 Morghen, are both admirable; but in the original is a power which neither of those works has attain- ed, or even approached. t “The hand Sang with the voice, and this the argument.” Milton. Where’er was dipped the toiluig oar. The waves danced round us as before 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 ; ’T was 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 SLahies ranged round the Spire and along the roof ot the Cathedral of Milan, have been found fault with by Persons whose exclusive taste is unCirtunate for themselves. It is true that the same expense and labour, judiciously directed to pur- poses more strictly architectural, might have much heighicned the general effect of the building ; for. seen from the ground, the Statues appear diminutive. But the cotip d'ceil, from the liest point of view, which is halfway 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, during 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 ’ 286 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Sees long-drawn files, concentric rings Each narrowing abo\e 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 Ilis 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! 0 ye, who guard and grace my Home While in far-distant Lands we roam. What countenance hath this day put on for you I Do clouds surcharged with irksome rain. Blackening the Eclipse, take hill and plain From your benighted view ? Or was it given you to behold Like vision, pensive though not cold. Of gay Winandermere I Saw ye the soft yet awful veil Spread over Grasmere’s lovely dale, Ilelvellyn’s brow severe 1 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. Her simple cares to magnify ; Whom Labour, never urged to toil. Hath cherished on a healthful 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 I 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 ownl) 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, 3 . How blest (if truth may entertain Coy fancy with a bolder strain) The Helvetian Girl — who daily braves, In her light skiff, the tossing waves. And quits the bosom of the deep Only to climb the rugged steep ! — Say whence that modulated shout I From Wood-nymph of Diana’s throng 1 Or does the greeting to a rout Of giddy Bacchanals belong! Jubilant outcry! — rock and glade Resounded — but the voice obeyed The breath of an Helvetian Maid. 4 . 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 INIother’s weight of anxious cares ! 5 . 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 tlie highest circle of figures is a zone of metallic stars. t See Address to a Highland Girl. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 287 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 BT BUONAPARTE FOR A TRIUMPHAL 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 : ^V’hat groans ! what shrieks ! what quietness in death ! XXVIII. STANZAS, COMPOSED IN THE SIMPLON PASS. Vallombuosa ! 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 P.estum, 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 birth ! The beauty of Florence, the grandeur of Rome, Could I leave them unseen, and not yield to regret I With a hope (and no more) for a season to come. Which ne’er may discharge the magnificent debt I 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. WiiAT Beast of Chase hath broken from the cover! 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 CIIAMOUNY. 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 from 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 J 288 WORDSWORTPrS 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? 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 En wrapt — 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 e.xalted 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 vaults 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. * This Procession is a part of the sacramental service perform- ed once a month. In the Valley of Engelberg we had the good fortune to be present at the Grand Festival 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 (notwithstanding the sublimity of the surr.iunding sceneiy): it wanted both the simplicity of the otlier .and the accompaniment of the Glacier-columns, whose sis- terly resemblance to the moving Figures gave it a most beauti- ful and solemn peculiarity. 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 abyss! XXXI. ELEGIAC STANZAS. The lamented Youth whose untimely death gave occasion to these elegiac verses, was Frederic William Goddard, from Bos- ton in North America. He was in his twentieth year, and had 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 a Swiss tour when it was his misfortune to fall in with a friend of mine who was hastening to join our party. The travellers, after spending a day together on the road from Berne and at 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 informed 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. Wo 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 m.ore. Our parly descended through the valley of our Lady of the Snow, and our late companions, to Art. We had hoped to meet in a few weeks at Geneva ; but on tbe third succeeding day (on the 21st of August) Mr. Goddard perished, being overset in a boat while cro.ssing 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 east ashore on the estate of the same gentleman, who generously performed all the rites of hospitality which could be rendered to the dead as well as to the living. He caused a handsome mural monu- ment to be erected in the church of Kiisnacht, which records the premature fate of the young American, and on the shores too of the lake, the traveller may read an inscription pointing out the spot where the body was deposited by the waves. IjUlled by the sound of pastoral bells, Rude Nature’s Pilgrims did we go. From the dread summit 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 sweetly smiled. The face of summer-hours. t Mount Righi — Regina Montium. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATIOxN. 280 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 ! Calm 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 ! Oh Goddard ! what art thou 1 — 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 slios, 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 Far-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 ot Uie villages desolated by the fall of part of the Moun- tain Kossberg. 2M 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 that which marks thy bed. And, when thy Mother weeps for Thee, Ix)st 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 XXXII. SKY-PROSPECT — FROxM THE PL.-UN OF FR.WCE. 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 ! XXXIII. ON BEING STRANDED NEAR THE HARBOUR OF 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, w ho 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, w ho 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 Caesar, and pointing tow'ards the white cliffs, upon which their standards were tojlnat. He recommended also a subscription to be raised among the Soldierj' to erect on that Ground, in memo- ry of the Foundation of the “ Legion of Honour,” a Column — which was not completed at the time we were there. 25 29C WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Ilis project crowned, his pleasant travel o’er 1 Well — let him pace this noted beach once more, That^ve 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 behold, 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 ; Sucli ground I from my very heart enjoy ! XXXIV. AFTER LANDING — THE VALLEY OF DOVER.— NOV. 1820. 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 disowned. 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. t'PUN RECEIVING THE PRECEDING SHEETS FROM THE PRESS. 1 . Is then the final page before me spread. Nor further outlet left to mind or heart 1 Presumptuous Book ! too forward to be read — How can I give thee license to depart 1 One tribute more; — unbidden feelings start Forth from their coverts — slighted objects rise — iMy 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 that I heard comes back upon my ear. All that I felt this moment doth renew ; And where the foot with no unmanly fear Recoiled — and wings alone could travel — there * Tills is a most grateful .sight for an Englishman returning to his native land. Everywhere one misses, in the cultivated grounds abroad, the animated and soothing accompaniment of animals ranging and selecting their 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 might v 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 1 — 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 branchy vales, and all tliat lurks \Vithin 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 than that awful sound ! 6 . Is not the Chamois suited to his place 7 The Eagle worthy of her ancestry 7 — 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, tAt the head of the Vallais. Les Focrciies, the point at which the two chains of mountains part, that enclose the Val- lais, which terminates at St. Maurice. t Samen, one of the two Capitals of the Canton of L'nder- walden : the sprt here alluded to is close to the town, and is called the LanJenbcrg, from the tyrant of that name, who.se chateau formerly stood there. On the 1st of January, 1308, the great day which the confederated Heroes had chosen for the deliverance of their Countrj', all the Castles of the Go- vernors were taken by force or stratagem ; and tlie Tyrants themselves conducted, with their creatures, to the frontiers, after having witnessed the destruction of their Strong-holds. From that lime the Landenberg has been the place where the I Legislators of this division of the Canton assemble. The site, which is well described by Ebel, is one of the most beautiful in Switzerland. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 201 In siimpie democratic majesty; Soft breezes flinning your rough brows — the might ^nd purity of nature spread before your sight ! 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. a Volumes of sound, from 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 . Our 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 w'hisper stifled, if it say That treasures, yet untouched, may grace some future Lay. Ji * The Bridges of Lucerne are roofed, and open at the sides, so that the Passenger has, at the same time, the benefit of shade, and a view of the magnificent country. Tlie pictures are attached to the rafters ; those from Scripture History, on the Cathedral-bridge, amount, according to my notes, to 210. Sub- jects from the Old Testament face the Passenger as he goes towards the Cathedral, and those from the New as he returns. T'he Pictures on these Bridges, as well as those in most other parts of Switzerland, are not to be spoken of as works of art ; but they are instruments admirably answering the purpose for w hich they were designed. XXXVI. TO ENTERPRISE.t Keep for the Young the impassioned smile Shed from 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 exulting 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 away From One who, in the evening of his day. To thee would offer no presumptuous hymn! 1 . Bold Spirit ! who art free to rove Among the starry courts of Jove, And oft in splendour dost appear Embodied to poetic eyes. While traversing this 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 furf with gore ; Thee winged Fancy took, and nursed On broad Euphiates’ 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 W'as shown. Did incense-bearing Altars rise, Which caught the blaze of sacrifice. From Suppliants panting for the skies! 2. What though this ancient Earth be trod No more by step of Demi-god Mounting from glorious deed to deed As thou from clime to clime didst lead, t This Poem having risen out of the “ Italian Itinerant.” &c is here annexed. 292 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 t!ie hallowed veil, A soft and lender 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 flight? How they in bells of crystal dive. Where winds and waters cease to strive. For no unholy visitings. 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 ! 3 . 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. 4 . 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! 5 . Back flows the willing current of my Song : If to provoke such doom the Impious dare. Why should it daunt a blameless prayer ? — 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 fi.xed 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.” Dr. Darwim POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 293 And cheerful songs, and suns that shine On busy days, with thankful nights, be mine. 7 . But thou, O Goddess ! in thy favourite Isle (Freedom’s impregnable redoubt. The wide Earth’s store-house fenced about With breakers roaring to tlie 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 RIVER 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 the serenade For infant in the cradle laid. Ah ! not for etnerald 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 law’s ; 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. 25 * 294 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS, Yes, they can make, who fail to find, Short leisure even in busiest days ; IMoments, to cast a look behind. And profit by those kindly rays That through the clouds do sometimes steal, And all the far-off past reveal. Hence, while the 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 ! I. Nor 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 ; 1 seek the birth-place of a native Stream. — All hail, ye mountains! hail, thou morning light! Better to breathe 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 Duddon, is my theme ! H. 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 1 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* Through paths and alleys roofed with sombre green. Thousands of years before the silent air Was pierced by whizzing shaft of hunter keen ! HI. How shall I paint thee 1 — Be this naked stone My seat while I give way to such intent ; Pleased could my verse, a speaking monument, Make to the eyes of men thy features known. *The deer alluded to is the Leigh, a gigantic species long since e.\tinct. 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 caie; Yet thou thyself hast round thee shed a gleam Of brilliant moss, instinct with freshness rare ; Prompt offering 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, Seekmg less bold achievement, where he will ! V. Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played With thy clear voice, I caught the fitful sound Wafted 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 warbled to their paramours And, earlier still, was heard the hum >f bees; 1 saw them ply their harmless robberies, POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 295 And caught the fragrance which the sundry flowers, Fed by the stream with soft perpetual showers, Plenteously yielded to the vagrant breeze. There bloomed the strawberry of the wilderness ; The trembling eyebright showed her sapphire blue,* The thyme her purple, like the blush of even; And, if tlie breath of some to no caress Invited, forth they peeped so fair to view. All 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 On Laura’s breast, in e.xquisite repose; Or he would pass into her Bird, that throws The darts of song from out its wiry cage ; Enraptured, — could he for himself engage The thousandth part of what the Nymph bestows. And what the little careless Innocent Ungraciously 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. First of his tribe, to this dark dell — who first In this pellucid Current slaked his thirst 1 What hopes came with him 1 what designs were spread Along his path 1 His unprotected bed What dreams encompassed ! 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 ; And Thou, blue Streamlet, murmuring yield’st no more Than a soft record that, whatever fruit Of ignorance thou might’st wutness heretofore, Thy function was to heal and to restore. To soothe and cleanse, not madden and pollute ! IX. THE STEPPING.STONEa 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! wliat 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. Without restraint. — Ilow swiftly have they flown. Succeeding — still succeeding! Here the Child Puts, when the high-swoln Flood runs fierce and wild. 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 SA.ME SUBJECT. Not so that Pair whose youthful spirits dance With prompt emotion, urging them to pass ; A sweet confusion checks the Sheplierd-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 witii piteous utterance ! Chidden she chides again ; the thrilling touch Both feel when he renews the wished-tbr 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 ! XL 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 wuth 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 ? XII. HINTS FOR THE FANCY. On, loitering Muse — The swift stream chides us — on! Alheit his deep-worn ciiannel doth immure Objects immense portrayed in miniature. Wild shapes for many a strange comparison ; Niagaras, Alpine passes, and anon 296 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 ! XIII. 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 I 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 e.xclude 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 ! w ith 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 ! 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 tlie flight of timid Yesterday ! Was it by mortals sculptured 1 — weary 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 XVI. AMERICAN 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 cliff’s undreaded side. Sun, moon, and stars, and beast of chase or prey ; Whate’er they sought, shunned, loved, or deified !”* X\TI. 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 Ilardknot’s height,+ Whose Guardians bent the knee to Jove and Mars : Or, near that mystic Round of Druid frame Tardily sinking by its proper W'eight Deep into patient Earth, from whose smooth breast it came ! XVIII. SE ATI! WAITE CHAPEL. Sacred Religion, “ mother of form and fear,” Dread Arbitress of mutable respect. New rites ordaining when the old are wrecked. Or cease to please the fickle w’orshipper; If one strong wish may be embosomed here, ♦ See Humboldt’s Personal Narrative. t See Note. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 297 Mother of Love ! for this deep vale, protect Truth’s holy lamp, pure source of bright effect, Gifted to purge the vapoury atmosphere That seeks to stifle it ; — as in tliose 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. My frame hath often trembled with delight When hope presented some far-distant good. 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 depth 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 ! ’mid these flowery plains. The still repose, the liquid lapse serene. Transferred to bowers imperishably green. Had beautified Elysium ! But these chains 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 1 — A whisper from the heart. That told of days long past, when here I roved With friends and kindred tenderly beloved ; * See Note, and Appendix. 2N 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 air? Desperate alternative ! what fiend could dare To prompt the thought ? — 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. XXIV. 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 ! 208 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. This Nook, with woodbine hung and straggling weed, Tempting 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 awhile exempt F'rom new incitements friendly to our task. There wants not stealthy prospect, that may tempt Loose Idless to forego her wily mask. XXV. RIetiiixks ’ t were no unprecedented feat. Should some benignant Minister of air Lift, and encircle with 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 which 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. xxvr. 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 V''ague minds, while men are growing out of boys ; Maturer Fancy owes to their rough noise Impetuous thoughts that brook not servile reins. XXVII. Fallen, and diffused into a shapeless lieap. Or quietly self-buried in earth’s mould. Is tha embattled House, whose massy Keep Flung from yon cliff 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 tlirough 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. All other strength the weakest may withstand, All worse assaults may safely be defied. XXVIII. JOURNEY RENEWED. I ROSE while yet the 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 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 ; 1 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 victor}', 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 high. And glad acknowledgment of lawful sway. XXX. Who swerves from innocence, who makes divorce Of that serene companion — a good name. Recovers not liis loss; but walks with shame, POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 2D9 With doubt, with fear, and haply with remorse: And ofl-times he, who, yielding to the force Of chance-temptation, ere his journey end. From chosen comrade turns, or faithful friend, In v.ain 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 peaceful 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 tlie 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. A FTLR-THOUGIIT. 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 faith’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 selling Sun displays Ilis visible great round, between yon towers, 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.” — Miltox. The allusion to the Greek Poet will be obvious to the classi- cal reader. 300 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 wliich 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, murmur in concert with “The Duddon.” But, asking pardon for thi» 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 amcm sylvasque inglorius” of Virgil, down to the sublime apostrophe to the great river.s of the earth, by Armstrong, and the simple ejaculation of Burns, (chosen, if I recollect right, by Mr. Coleridge, as a motto for his embryo “ Brook,”) “ The Muse nae Poet ever fand her, Till by himsel’ he learned to wander, Adown some trotting bum’s meander. And na’ think lang.” YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS, COMPOSED (TWO EXCEPTED) DURING A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, AND ON THE ExNGLISII BORDER, IN THE AUTUxMN OF 1831. TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. AS A TESTIMONY OF FRIENDSHIP, AND AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF INTELLECTUAL OBLIGATIONS, THESE POEMS ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Rydal Mount, Dec. 11, 1834. YARROW REVISITED. [The following Stanzas are a memorial of a day passed with Sir Walter Scott, and other Friends visiting the Banks of the Yarrow under his guidance, immediately before his departure from Abbotsford, for Naples. The title Yarrow Revisited will stand in no need of explana- tion, for Readers acquainted with the Autnor’s previous poems suggested by that celebrated stream See pp. 202 and 210.] The gallant Youth, who may have gained, Or seeks, a “Winsome Marrow,” Was but an Infant in the lap When first I looked on Yarrow ; Once more, by Newark’s Castle-gate Long left without a Warder, I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee, Great Minstrel of the Border ! Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day. Their dignity installing In gentle bosoms, 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 liours. 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. 301 Past, present, future, all appeared In harmony united. Like guests that meet, and some from far. By cordial love invited. And if, as Yarrow, through the woods And down the meadow ranging. Did meet us with unaltered face. Though we were changed and changing ; If, then, some natural shadows spread Our inward prospect over. The soul’s deep valley was not slow Its brightness to recover. Eternal blessings on the Muse, And her divine employment ! The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons For hope and calm enjoyment ; Albeit sickness lingering yet Has o’er their pillow brooded And Care waylay their steps — a sprite Not easily eluded. For thee, O Scott ! compelled to change Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot For warm Vesuvio’s vine-clad slopes ; And leave thy Tweed and Teviot For mild Sorento’s breezy waves; May classic Fancy, linking With native Fancy her fresh aid. Preserve thy heart from sinking ! O ! while they minister to thee. Each vying with the other. May Health return to mellow Age, With Strength, her venturous brother; And Tiber, and each brook and rill 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, ' Hast shed the power of Yarrow; And streams unknown, hills yet unseen. Where’er thy path invite thee. At parent Nature’s grateful call. With gladness must requite Thee. A gracious welcome shall be thine. Such looks of love and honour As thy own Yarrow gave to me When first I gazed upon her; Beheld what I had feared to see. Unwilling to surrender Dreams treasured up from early days. The holy and the tender. And what, for this frail world, were all That mortals do or suffer Did no responsive harp, no pen. Memorial tribute offer? Yea, what were mighty Nature’s self? Her features, could they win us. Unhelped by the poetic voice That hourly speaks within us? Nor deem that localized Romance Plays false with our affections ; Unsanctifies our tears — made sport For fanciful dejections: Ah, no ! the visions of the past Sustain the heart in feeling Life as she is — our changeful Life, With friends and kindred dealing. Bear witness. Ye, whose thoughts that day In Yarrow’s groves were center’d ; Who through the silent portal arch Of mouldering Newark entered. And clomb the winding stair that once Too timidly was mounted By the “ last Minstrel,” (not the last) Ere he his Tale recounted Flow on for ever. Yarrow Stream ! Fulfil thy pensive duty. Well pleased that future Bards should chant For simple hearts thy beauty. To dream-light dear while yet unseen. Dear to the common sunshine. And dearer still, as now I feel. To memory’s shadowy moonshine! ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FRO.M ABBOTSFORD, FOR NAPLES. A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain. Nor of the setting sun’s pathetic light Engendered, hangs o’er Eildon’s triple height : Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain For kindred Power departing from their sight ; While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, Saddens his voice again, and yet again. Lift, up your hearts, ye mourners! for the might Of the whole world’s good wishes with him goes ; Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue Than sceptred King or laurelled Conqueror knows, Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true. Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea. Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope ! 302 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 ROSLIN 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, Rosi.in ! to a blank Of silence, how it thrilled thy sumptuous roof. Pillars, and arches, — not in vain time-proof. Though Christian rites be wanting ! From what bank Came those live herbs 1 by what hand were they sown Where dew falls not, where rain-drops seem unknown 1 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. V. THE TROSACHS. There ’s not a nook within this solemn Pass, But were an apt confessional for One Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone. That Life is but a tale of morning grass. Withered at eve. From scenes of art that chase That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes Feed it ’mid Nature’s old felicities. Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass 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. VI. 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 should range Among the conquests of civility. Survives imagination — to the change Superior 1 Help to virtue does it give 7 If not, O Mortals, better cease to live ! VII. COMPOSED IN THE GLEN OF LOCH ETIVE. 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. Of tuneful caves and playful waterfalls, Of mountains varying momently their crests — Proud be this Land ! whose poorest Huts are Halls WTiere Fancy entertains becoming guests ; While native song the heroic Past recalls. Thus, in the net of her own wishes caught. The Muse e.vclaimed ; 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-conquering Roman feared to tread. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. XI. AT TYNDRUM. VIII. COMPOSED AFTER READING A NEWSPAPER OF THE DAY. 303 “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. Dishonoured Rock and Ruin ! that, by law Tyrannic, keep the Bird of Jove embarred Like a lone criminal whose life is spared. 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. Flew high above Atlantic waves, to draw 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 His rank ’mong freeborn creatures that live free, His power, his beauty, and his majesty. X. IN THE SOUND OF MULL. Tr.\dition, 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 I”* Enough of garlands, of the Arcadian crook, ; And all that Greece and Italy have sung Of Swains reposing myrtle groves among ! I Ours couched on naked rocks, will cross a brook 1 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 1 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. XTI. 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. XIII. 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. In Gaelic, Vuachaill Eite. 304 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. XIV. HIGHLAND HUT. See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built Cot, Whose smoke, forth-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 1 If rightly trained and bred. Humanity is humble, — finds no spot Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to tread. Tlie walls are cracked, sunk is the 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 the head of Loch Lomond, are some remains of an ancient building, which was for several years the abode of a solitary Individual, one of the last survivors of the Clan of Macfarlane, once powerful in that neighbourhood. 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 “ TAe Brownie.” (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 choice — 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. In the gray sky hath left 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 Tlie mountain borders of this seat of care. Can question that thy countenance is bright. Celestial Power, as much with love as light? XVII. . BOTHWELL CASTLE. Immured in Bothwell’s Towers, at times the Brave (So beautiful is Clyde) forgot to mourn The liberty they lost at Bannockbourn. Once on those steeps I 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 thank a dear and long-past day For joy its sunny hours were free to gwe Than blame the present, that our wish hath crost. Memory, like Sleep, hath powers which dreams obej, 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 w’ith rivers, well doth it become The Ducal Owner, in his Palace-home To naturalize this tawny Lion brood ; Children of Art, that claim strange brotherhood. Couched in their Den, with those that roam at largo Over the burning wilderness, and charge The wind with terror while they 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 loused : Man placed him here, and God, he knows, can save See Note. See Note. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 30r> XIX. Tllli AVON {a feeder of the Annan.) Avon — a precious, an immortal name! Yet is it one tliat other Rivulets bear Like 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, vvliere’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 ofl where innocent blood Has mixed its current with the limpid flood. Her heaven-ofiending trophies Glory rears ; Never for like distinction may the good Shrink from thy name, pure Rill, with unplcased 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 ; Yet 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 bestrewn; 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. XXL HART’S-HORN TREE, NEAR PENRITH. Here 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 And chaser bursting here with one dire smart. Mutual the Victory, mutual the Defeat ! High was the trophy hung with pitiless pride; 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. 20 XXII. COUNTESS’S PILLAR. On the road-side between Penrith and Appleby, there stands a pillar with the following inscription ; — “This pillar w'as erected, in the year 105G, 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, ICIG; in memory whereof she hath left an annuity of 4/. to be distributed to the poor of the parish of Brougham, 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 vernal 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, for ever ! "Laus Deo Many a Stranger passing by Has with that parting mi.xed 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 !” XXIII. 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 Fibulse 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 26* 806 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 King; 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 took — that sorrow-stricken door, Whence, as a current from its fountain-head. Our thoughts have issued, and our feelings ffowed. 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. 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 thou? 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 Iligliland Broach. If to Tradition faith be due. And echoes from old verse speak true. Ere the meek Saint, Columba, bore Glad tidings to Iona’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 W’anderers 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, thonirh rarely met with, among the Highlanders) bears to the Roman Fibula, must strike every one, and eoncurs with the plaid and kilt to recall to mind the eommunication which the ancient Romans had with this remote country. 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 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 IVIight 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 was left. As generations come and go. Their arts, their 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 own hut, who, wishing to make a return, said to her daughter, in Frse, in a tone of plaintive earnesmess, “ I would give any thing I have, but I hope she docs not wish for my Broach!” and, uttering these words, she put her h.and upon the Broach which fastened her kerchief, and which, she ima gined, had attracted the eye of her benefactress. POEMS OF TPIE IMAGINATION. 307 Tokens, once kept as boasted wealth, If saved at all, are saved by stealth. IjO ! ships, from seas by nature barred. Mount alontr 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 Entonab.s, 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 18.33. Having been prevented by the lateness of the season, in 1831, from visiting Stafla and Iona, 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 Whitehaven; thence (by the Isle of Man, where a few days were past) up the Frith of Clyde to Greenock, then to Oban, Staflii, Iona ; 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 Ullswaler. L Adieu, Rydalian Laurels I 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. II. Why should the Enthusiast, journeying through this Isle, Repine as if his hour were come too late I Not unprotected in her mouldering state, Antiquity salutes him with a smile, ’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. III. 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 fliou 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 : 308 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. But if thou (like Cocytus* from the moans Heard on his rueful margin) thence vvert named The Mourner, thy true nature was defamed, And the habitual 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. V. TO THE RIVER DERVVENT.t 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 Nemffian 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 author was born, and ms 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. tThis sonnet has already appeiiroen from (^ean, 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 For her mute Powers, fixed Forms, and transient Shows. * The «ummit of tliis mounlain is well chosen by Cowley, as the scene of the “ V'ision,” 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.” It is not to be denied that the changes now in pn)grcss, and the passions, and the way in which they work, strikingly resemble those which led to the disasters the philosophic writer so feel- ngly bewails. God grant that the resemblance may not become Kill more striking as month? and yerrs advance ! XXIII. ON THE FRITH OF CLYDE. (IN A STEAM-BOAT.) Arran! a single-crcstcd 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 wish ! which reason would despise If the mind knew no union of extremes. No natural bond between the boldest schemes Ambition frames, and heart-humilitie.s. 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 : Him found we not; but, climbing a tall tower, There sav\% 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 1) 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 him ! Thou, saucy Cockatoo, t This ingenious piece of workmanship, as the author after wards learned, liad been executed for their ovvn amusement by some labourer.? employed about the place. 312 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 STAFF A. We saw, but surely, in the motley crowd. Not One of us has felt, the far-famed sight ; IIow could we feel it? 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. With imdistracted reverence, the effect Of those proportions where the almighty hand Tliat made tlio worlds, tlie sovereign Architect, Has deigned to work as if with human Art! xxvir. CAVE OF STAFFA.* I Thanks for the lessons of this Spot — fit school I For the presumptuous thoughts that would assign I Mechanic laws to agency divine ; I And, measuring heaven by earth, would overrule I Infinite Power. The pillared vestibule, I E.xp»anding 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, “ IIow came this and the two following sonnets to be written, after the dissatisfaction expressed in the preceding one?” In litct, 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 favoumblc to 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 oi 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 sw’orn vassals of belief. Yon light shapes forth a Bard, that shade a Chief. XXIX. FLOWERS ON THE TOP OF THE PILLARS AT THE ENTRANCE OF THE CAVE. Hope smiled when your nativity was cast. Children of Summer !+ 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, bright flowers, on frieze and architrave Survive, and once again the Pile stands fast. Calm as the Universe, from spiecular Towers Of heaven contemplated by Spirits pore — Suns and their systems, diverse yet sustained In symmetry, and fashioned to endure, Dnhurt, the assault of Time with all his hours. As the supreme Artificer ordained. XXX. On to Iona ! — What can she afford To us save matter for a thoughtful sigh, Heaved over ruin with stability In urgent contrast? To diffuse 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 w’hen, subjected to a common doom Of mutability, those far-famed Piles Shall disappear from both tlie sister Isles, Iona’s Saints, forgetting not past days. Garlands shall wear of amaranthine bloom, While heaven’s vast sea of voices chants their praise. + Upon the lieail of the columns xvhieh form the front of the enve, rests a bwiy of decomposeti basaltic matter, which was richly decorated with that large briglit flower, the ox-eyed daisy. The author liad noticed the same flower growing with [irofusion among the bold rocks on tlve western coast of the Isle of Man ; making a brilliant contrast with their black and gloomy surfaces. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 313 XXXI. IONA. (UPON 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 nnn 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 Pliilosopher ! Fallen though she be, this Glory 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 IONA. [See Martin’s Voyage among the W’estern Isles.] Here on their knees men swore : 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 1 What differ night and da}'- 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 I No — but farewell to thee, beloved sea-mark For many a voyage made in Fancy’s bark. When, wiih more hues than in the rainbow dwell. Thou a mysterious intercourse dost hold ; Extracting from 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 his own could do. 2P 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 I These crowded streets resound no plaintive ditty : As from the hive where bees in summer dwell. Sorrow seems here excluded ; and that knell, I 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 TRADITIOxY. 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 tlie Linnet only sings : Thus everywhere to truth Tradition clings, 27 314 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. XXXVII. THE KIVER 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, Riglitfully 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, beiaies too near, is seldom gained. XXXVIII. MONUMENT OF MRS. HOWARD, {By NolleJiins,) IN WETIIER.AL CHURCH, NEAR CORBY, 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 sound etymologist in this derivatioi\of the name Eden. On the western coast of Cumberland is a rivulet which enters the sea at Moresby, known also in the neighbourhood by the name of Eden. May not the latter syllable come from the word Dean, a valleij ? 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 Cartmcl 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 fountains 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 ; Down 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 the 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 Jiappen next to Nunnery Delll Canal, and Viaduct, and Railway, tell 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 embra''e tThe chain of Crossfell, w hich parts Cumberland and West- moreland from Northumberland and Durham. t .At Corby, a few miles below Numier}’, the Eden is crossed by a magnificent viaduct ; and another of these works is thrown over a deep glen or ravine at a verj- short distance froii; the main stream. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION 815 Her lawful offspring in Man’s art ; and Time, Pleased with your triumphs o’er his brother Space, Accepts from your bold 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 backvvard-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 ! XLiir. TO THE EARL OF LONSDALE.* “ 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 snows 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 tong 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 tn one case ; and in the others, the prosecutions were with3; 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 stale 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 afiother 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 power of Time defies. And Trajan still, through various enterprise. Mounts, in this fine illusion, toward 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, • Here and infra, see Forsyth. 328 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE; THE FATE OF THE NORTONS. "They that deny a God, destroy 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 own cou.ld never attain. So Man, when he resteth and assureth himself upon Divine protection and favour, gathereth a force and faith which human Nature in itself could not obtain.” Lord B.voon. Duri.ng the Summer of 1807, the Author visited, for the first time, the beautiful scenery that surrounds Bolton Priory, in Yorkshire ; and the Poem of tlte 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 Wliose current answers to the heart’s desire. Did we together read in Spenser’s Lay How Una, sad of soul — in sad attire, • The gentle Una, born of heavenly birth. To seek her Knight W'ent 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. 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 comes 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, Wliere anguish, strange as dreams of restless sleep. Is tempered and allayed by sympathies Aloft 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 e.xample 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 Rydal Mount, Wk.stmorel.\nd. Afril 20 . 1815 . POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 32G 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 lasses and of shepherd grooms, That down the steep hills force their wa}^ Like cattle through the budded brooms; Path, or no path, what care they 1 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. 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. 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. 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 !}: And scarcely have they disappeared Ere the prelusive hymn is heard ; — With one consent the people rejoice. Filling the church with a lofty voice ! * It is to be regretted that at the present day Bolton Abbey wants this ornament ; but the Poem, according to the imagina- tion of the Poet, is composed in Queen Elizabeth’s time. “ For- merly,” says Dr. Wliitaker, “over the Transept was a tower. This 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 the choir, which must have terminated west- ward, in some building of superior height to the ridge.” t “ 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 Cathedral.” J “ At a small distance from the great gateway stood the Pri- or’s Oak, which was felled about the year 1720, and sold for 70Z. According to the price of wood at that time, it could scarcely have contained less than 1400 feet of timber.” 2R They sing a service which they feel; For ’t is the sunrise now of zea.. And faith and liope 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 wliich 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 bowers 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; 830 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 thus assiduously she paces. Comes she with a votary’s task. Rite to perform, or boon to ask ] Fair Pilgrim ! harbours she a sense Of sorrow, or of reverence! 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 1 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 I 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 e.xpress 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 w’ay Over the hills this sabbath-day ; Her work, whale’ er it be, is done. And she will depart wdien 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? He asks with insecure delight. Asks of himself — and doubts — and still The doubt returns against his will : Though he, and all the standers-bv, Could tell a tragic history POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 331 Of facts divulged, wherein appear Substantial motive, reason clear, Why thus the milk-white Doe is found Couchant beside that lonely mound And why ohe duly loves to pace The circuit of this hallowed place. Nor to the Ci.ild's inquiring mind Is such peiplex'ty confinved : For, spite of sober truth, that sees A world of fixed remembrances Which to this mystery beloiig. If, undeceived, my ckil! can trace The characters of every face, There lack not strange delusion here, Conjecture vague, and idle fear, 4nd superstitious fancies strong, Which do the gentle Creature wrong. That bearded, staff-supported Sht, ;\Vho in his youth hath often fed f’nil cheerily on convent bread. And heard old tales by the convent-nrs-. And lately hath brought home the soara 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 gras.' 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 tliat doth come a-d In the beautiful form of this innocent Doe : Which, though seemingly doomed in its breast U 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 detail of this tradition may be found in Dr. Whitaker’s book, and in a Poem at page 412, 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 Bethmesly 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 ferocious act is recorded, was a man of great note in this time: “he was a vehement partisan of the bouse of Lancaster, in whom the spirit of its chieftains, the Cliffords, seemed to survive.” 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 rutliless 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 Oxford come to his native vale, He also hath his own conceit: It i.s, thinks he, the gracious Fairy, Who loved the Sliepherd Lord to meet! In his wanderings solitary: Wild notes she in his hearing sang, A song of Nature's liidden powers; That whistled like the wind, and rang Among the rocks and holly bowers. ’T w'as said that she all shapes could wear; And oftentimes before him stood. Amid the trees of some thick wood. In semblance of a lady fair; And taught him signs, and showed him sights, In Craven’s dens, on Cumbrian heights; Whan under cloud of fear he lay, A E-hepherd clad in homely gray, Noi left him at his later day. And hence, when he, with spear and shield, Kodfi fui! cf years to Flodden field, IJis eye co:ild 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 thougi.ts did elev.ate, — IMost happy in ths ohy 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. t See Note. 332 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 works 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 Doc ! 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 behold, — 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 w’as 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 333 Then seized the staff, and thus did say: “ Thou, Richard, boar’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; — Ana 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 Sons 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, Kind Heaven, this pair severely tried ! He saw her where in open view She sate beneath the spreading yew, — Her head upon her lap, concealing In solitude her bitter feeling; How could he choose but shrink or sigh I 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 misied ; 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 con.scientious 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, W’hich I myself could scarcely brook. Then be 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, Meek 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 efforts 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: 334 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. On kind occasions I may wait, See, hear, obstruct, or mitigate. Bare breast 1 take 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 left 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 bower.s. 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 the 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 ; And down the Valley he pursued. Alone, the armed Multitude. 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 the eily of Durham. It formerly belonged to the Nevilles Earls of Westmoreland. See Dr. Percy’s account POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 335 Whom I have left, tlie mildest birth, Tlie meekest Child on this blessed earth, I had — but these are by my side. 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 wortli 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 flxed, at this demand. 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 suffering State complains. And ye must raise her from the dust. 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 offered to tlie 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-apjeointed 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. And 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 the old Ballad. 836 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Stood by their Sire, on ClifFord-moor, To guard tlie Standard which he bore. — With feet that firmly pressed the ground They stood, and girt their 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 tlie most ; and, sootli 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 1 — many see, and One With unparticipated gaze; Who ’mong these thousands Friend hath none. And treads in solitary ways. He, following wheresoe’er 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 chosen 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 an.xiety, 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 oflen hath the strength of heaven To few triumphantly been given ! Still do our very children boast Of mitred Thurston, what a Host He conquered If — Saw we not the Plain, (And flying shall behold again) Where faith was proved 1 — 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 Name? 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 Durham with holy hand Saint Cuthbert’s Relic did uprear Upon the point of a lofty spear, ‘From the old Ballad. rSee the Historians for the account of this memorable battle usually denominated the Battle of the Standard. jSee Note 17. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. And God descended in his power, While the Monks prayed in Maiden’s Bower. 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. Tills 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 that imagery once more: But the familiar prospect shed Despondency unfelt before: 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 spirit 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: 2S 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 May 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] My Father ! I would help to find A place of shelter, till the rage 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, ray bane and blight ! Oh ! bold to fight the Coward’s fight Against all good” — but why declare, At length, the issue of this prayer? 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. 338 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. The briglit Moon sees that valley small Where Rylstone’s old sequestered Kail A venerable ima^e yields Of quiet to the neighbouring 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 1 or pain, or fearl 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 Tliat 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, W^hen 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 cirque and crescent framed by wall Of close-dipt 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 ! I Yet the meek Creature was not free, Erewhile, from some perplexity : For thrice hath she approached, this day The thought-bewildered Emilv ; 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 ; — ’t is 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. ’T is flown — the vision, and the sense Of that beguiling influence! “ But oh ! thou Angel from above. Thou Spirit of maternal love. That stood’st before my eyes, more deaf 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, j ‘ That he must cast despair away !’ ” I Then from within the embowered retreat i Where she had found a grateful seat. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 3.^9 Perturbed she issues. — She will go ; Herself will follow to the war, And clasp her father’s knees ; — aJi, no ! She meets the insuperable bar, The injunction by her Brother laid ; Ilis 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 duty is to stand and wait ; In resignation to abide The 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 appe.ared. Approaching her with grave respect. Dowr 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 che time — a woeful day ! Dear daughter of affliction, say How can I serve you ! 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: Far 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; “1 will not counsel nor exhort, — 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!” She spake — and from the Lady’s sight The Sire, unconscious of his age. 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 lligiit !” 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-heaven, 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 Must 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 — “ ’T is 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 840 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. The 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 ! She turned to him, who 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 had 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. But now, his Child, with anguish pale. Upon the 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 so called to this day, and is thus described by Dr. Whit- ] aker: — “Rylstone 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 the remains of a square tower, expressly said by Dodsworth to have been built by Richard Norton. The walls are of strong grout-work, alx)ut 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 for large companies of archers. “ The place is savagely wild, and admirably adapted to the uses of a watch-tower.” I “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 liappiness. Me did a reverent pity move And privilege of ancient love; POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 341 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 — lie was commanding and entreating. And said, ‘We need not slop, my Son! But 1 will end what is begun ; ’T is 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: [ 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. My Sou, 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 ? — Bear it to Bolton Priory, And lay it on Saint Mary’s shrine, — To wither in the sun and breeze ’Mid those decaying Sanctities. 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 Phis fair unrivalled Brotherhood, I And turned away from thee, my Son ! And left— ^ but be the re.^^t unsaid, I The name untouched, the tear unshed, — 1 My wish is known, and I have done: I Now promise, grant this one request, j This dying prayer, and be thou blest I” I “ Then Francis answered fervently, j ‘ If God so will, the same shall be.’ j “ Immediately, this solemn word I’hus 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 hearl They rose — embraces none were given — They stood like trees when eartli and heaven Are calm ; they knew each other’s worth. And reverently the Band went forth : They met, w’hen 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, j The unhappy Banner Francis saw. And, with a look of calm command Inspiring universal awe lie 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 sight 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 ; WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. C42 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. Why comes not Francis 1 — Joyful cheer In that parental gratulation. And glow of righteous indignation. Went with him from the doleful City : He fled — yet in his fliglit could hear The death-sound of the Minster-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 hurries 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 suffering heart was dead, For him abandoned to blank awe. To vacancy, and horror strong: And the first object which ho saw, W^ith 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 betrajmd : W'hat hath he done 1 what promise made ! Oh weak, weak moment ! to what end Can such a vain oblation tend. And he the Bearer! — Can he go Carrying this instrument of woe. And find, find any where, a right To excuse him in his Country’s sight? No, will not all Men deem the change A downward cour.«e, 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 wTong. 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 effort 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 pow’er, 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. ’T is 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 (wdiich had quelled Thus far the Opposer, and repelled All censure, enterprise so bright That even bad men had vainly striven Against that overcoming light) 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 ncight Where Francis stood in open sight. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. ?>4fj Tliey hem liim round — “Behold the proof, Behold tlie Ensign in his hand ! He did not arm, he walked aloof! For why? — to save his Father’s Land; — Worst Traitor of tliem all is he, A Traitor dark and cowardly !” — 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 sight 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 ? 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 truth ! CANTO SEVENTH. Thoc 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 head ? What mighty forest in its gloom Enfolds her ! — is a rifted tomb Within the Wilderness her seat 1 Some island which tlie wild waves beat Is that tlie Sufferer’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! “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 suffering 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: There 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. 344 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS ’T is 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 liave given way to slow mutation, While, in their ancient habitation The Norton name hath been unknown. The lordly Mansion of its pride Is stripped ; tlie ravage hath spread wide Through park and held, 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 tliis Maid be seen. Among the ruins of a wood, Erewhile a covert briglit and green, And where fall 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 -\nd 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 bath 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 extracteil by Dr. \V. It appears that the mansion-house was then in decay. Immediately adjoining is a close, called the Vivery, so catleil, undoubtedly, from the French Vivier, or modem Latin Vivarium ; for there are near the house large remains of a pleasure-ground, such as were introduced in the earlier part of Elizabeth’s time, with topiary works, fish-ponds, an island, d, To live and die in a shady bower. Single on the gladsome earth. Wlien, with a noise like distant thunder, A troop of Deer came sweeping by ; And, suddenly, behold a wonder ! For, of that Kind of rushing Deer, j A single One in mid career ' Hath stopped, and fixed his large full eyo I Upon the Lady Emily, ! A Doe most beautiful, clear-white, A radiant Creature, silver-bright t Thus checked, a little while it stayed; A little thoughtful pause it made; And then advanced with stealtli-like pace. Drew softly near her — and more near Stopped once again ; — but, as no trace Was found of any thing to fear, Even to her feet the Creature cam--. And laid its liead upon her knee And looked into tlie Lady’s face. A look of pure benignity. And fond unclouded memory ; P is, thought Emily, the same, POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 345 The very Doe of other years ! The pleading look the lady viewed, 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 departi 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 Which was to teem with high communion. That day of balmy April weather, They tarried in the wood together. And when, ere fall of evening dew. 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, A habitation she had found. The Master of whose humble board Once owned her Father for his Lord ; A Hut by tufted trees defended. Where Rylstone Brook with Wharf is blended. When Emily by morning light Went forth, the Doe was there in sight. She shrunk: — with one frail shock of pain. Received and followed by a prayer, Did she behola’ — 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 Herself, in spots unseen before. * “ At the extremity of the parish of Burnsal, the valley of Wharf 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 concealment.” — Dr. Whitaker. 2T Why tell of rnos.sy rock, or tree, By lurking Dernbrook’s pathless side, Ilautits of a strenglliening amity That calmed her, clieered, 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 b}% 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. Whe#the Bells of Rylstone played Their Sabbath music — “ ®ct> uS apbc !* *On one of the bells of Rylstone church, which seems coeval with the building of the tower, is this cypher, 3. 9i. for John Norton, and the motto, “ ©ol’ ftijte.’' 34G 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 meek 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, “ @cb u» apbo ;” And all the Hills w'ere 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. [f 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 the plain pummit of the hill are the foundations of a strong wall stretching 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, I several hundred yards long, runs south to another deep and rugged ravine. On the N. and W. 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 bein^ 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 ns 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 opjiosite 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 reascent in sanctity! From fair to fairer day by day A more divine and loftier way ! Even such this blessed Pilgrim trod. By sorrow lifted tow’rds her God ; Uplifted to the piiNJst sky Of undisturbed mortality. Her owm thoughts loved she; and could bend A dear look to her lowly Friend, — probably taken that these enclosures should contain bettet I feed than the neighbouring parks or forest.s ; and whoever is acquainted with the habits of these sequacious animals, will easily conceive, that if the leader was once tempted to descend into the snare, an herd would follow,” POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 347 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 tlieir prayers. At length, thus faintly, faintly tied T’o earth, she was set free, and died. Thy sou], 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; W’ho, 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 Sabbatli 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 Sabbatii-day ; Here walks amid the mournful waste Of prostrate altars, slirines defaced. And floors encumbered witli rich show Of fret-work imagery laid low ; Paces sofl.ly, 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 srpile, that seems to say, “ Thou, thou art not a Child of Time, But Daughter of tlie Eternal Prime !”* ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES, IN A SERIES OF SONNETS. “ A verse may catch a wandering Soul, that flics Profounder Tracts, and by a blest surprise Convert delight into a Sacrifice.” ADVERTISEMENT. Dcring the month of December, 1820, I accompa- nied a much-loved and honoured Friend in a walk through diflTerent 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 our purpose, we were naturally led to look back upon past events with wonder and gratitude, and on the future with hope. Not long afterwards, some of the .Sonnets which will be found towards the close of this 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 recommending to the notice of al lovers of beautiful scenery — Bolton Abbey and its 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 0|)ened out its features; and, in whatever he has added, has done justice to the place, by worlting with an invisible hand of art in the very spirit of nature. 348 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. Rvdal Mount, January 24, 1822. ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. PART I. FROM THE INTRODUCTION OF CHRISTIANITY INTO BRITAIN, TO THE CONSUMMATION OF THE PA- P.VL DOMINION. I. INTRODUCTION. I, WHO accompanied with faithful pace Cerulean Duddon from his cloud-fed spring, And loved with Spirit ruled by his to sing 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 Holv 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. II. 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 pas.sing from one point of the subject to another without shocks of abruptness, tliis work has taken tlie shape of a Scries of Sonnets; but tlie Reader, 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 slanza 10 v.'hicli there is no objection but one that bears upon the Poet only — its difficulty 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? 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 ? TREPIDATION OF THE DRUIDS. Screams round the Arch-druid’s brow the Seamewl — white As Menai’s foam ; and tow’rd the mystic ring Where 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, pnd 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. DRUTDICAL 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 unavailing ruth. t Stillingfleet adduces many arguments in support of this opinion, but they are unconvincing. The latter part of tliis Sonnet refers to a favourite notion of Catholic M’riters, that Joseph of Arimathea and his companions brought Christianity into Britain, and built a rude Church at Glastonbury; alluded to hereafler, in a passage upon the dissolution of Monasteries. J Tliis water-fowl was, among the Druids, an emblem of those trailitions eonneited with the deluge that made an important part of their mysteries. The Cormorant was a bird of bad omea POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 349 V. UNCERTAINTY. Darkness surrounds us; seeking, we are lost On Snowdon’s wilds, amid Brigantian coves. Or wnere 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 Iona’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. 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 afford : Against the Followers of the incarnate Lord It rages ; — some are smitten in the field — Some pierced beneath the ineffectual 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-offered 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 Tlieir 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 fioribus depictus imo usquequaque vestitus, in quo nihil repente arduum, nihil pra;ceps, nihil abruptum, quern lateribus longe lateque deductum in modum atquoris natura complanat, dignum videlicet eum pro insita sibi specie venus- totis iain olim reddens, qui bead martyris cruore dicaretur.” 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 cotintenancc Even in her own despite, both feed and cheer; For all things arc less dreadful than they seem. VIII. TEMPTATIONS FROM ROMAN REFINEMENTS. Watch, and be firm ! foi soul-subduing vice. Heart-killing luxury, on your steps await. Fair houses, baths, and banquets delicate. And temples flashing, bright as polar ice. Their radiance through the wood.s, may yet suffice To sap your hardy virtue, and abate Your love of Him upon whose forehead sate The crown of thorns; whose life-blood flow'ed, 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 fareweh 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 frienas . 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 30 350 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 ! XI. SAXON CONQUEST. Nor wants the cause the panic-striking aid Of hallelujahs* * tost from hill to hill — For instant victory. But Heaven’s high will Permits a second and a dai-ker 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 ;f 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. XII. blONASTERY OF OLD BANGOR, t The oppression of the tumult — wrath and scorn — The tribulation — and the gleaming blades — Such is the impetuous spirit that pervades 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 sweive From their known course, or vanish like a drear' ; 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 lest XIII. 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 AIlla — they shall sing Glad IlALLElujahs to the eternal King! XIV. * Alluding to the victory gained under Germanus. — See Bede. t The last six lines of this Sonnet are ehiefly from the prose of Daniel ; and here I will state (though to the Readers whom this Poem will chiefly interest it is unnecessary) that my obliga- tions to other Prose Writers are frequent, — obligations 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 Wicliffe 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 tlie Memoirs of the first Lord Lonsdale. * Ethelforlh reached the convent of Bangor, he perceived the Monks, twelve hundred in number, offering prayers for the success of their countrj’men : ‘ 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 Brocrnail wavered, and he fled from the field in dismay. Thus abandoned by their leader, nis army soon gave way, and Ethelforth obtained a decisive conquest. Ancient Bangor 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 eollection of ages, tne repository of the most precious monu- ments of the ancient Britons, was consumed ; half-ruined walls. 1 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 bear ; The Cross preceding Him who floats in air. The pictured Saviour! — By Augustin fed. 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 magnificent edifice.” — Pee 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 was present at the battle wliich preceded this desolation. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 3M XV. PAULINUS.* But, to remote Northumbria’s royal Hall, Where thouglitful 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 ffeature 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. Repeatedly his own deep mind he sounds 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 “ While 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 (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, * Tne person of Panlinus is thus described by Bede, from the memory of an eye-witness; — “Longs statunc, paululum in- ciirvus, nigro capillo, facie maeilenta, naso adunco, pertenui, venerabilis simul et terribiUs aspectn.” tSce Note 18. “ Ye heavy laden !" such the inviting voice Heard near fresh streamsf, — and thousands, who lo joice In the new Rite — the pledge of sanctity. Shall, by regenerate life, the promise claim. XVIII. APOLOGY. Nor scorn the aid which Fancy cfl 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 imuerfect faith to Man affords 1 XIX. PRIMITIVE SAXON CLERGY.? How beautiful your presence, how benign. Servants of God ! w'ho 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. Might 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 benediction from his voice or hand ; Whence grace, through which the heart can under stand ; And vows, that bind the will, in silence made. tTlie early propagators of Christianity were accustomed to preach near rivers, for the convenience of baptism. ? Having spoken of the zeal, disinterestedness, and temper- ance of the clergy of those times, Bede thus proceeds: — “ I'nde et in magna erat veneratione tempore illo religionis habitus, i»a ut ubicunqtie clericus aliquis, aut monachus adveniret, gauden ter ab omnibus tanquam Dei famulus exciperetur. Etiam si in itinere pergens inveniretur, accurrebant, et flexa cervice, vel manu signari, vel ore illius se benedici, gaudebant- Verbiti quoque horum exhortatoriis diligenter auditum pnEbobant.” Lib. iii. cap. 36 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. 3ci: XX. OTHER INFLUENCES. Ah, when the Frame, round which in love we clung, Is chilled by death, does mutual service fail? Is tender pity then of no avail ? Are intercessions of the fervent tongue A waste of hope? — 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 fixed ! 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 ! XXL 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 cro.ik. 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. Ho 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. XXII. CONTINUED. Metiiinks that to some vacant Hermitage My 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 the 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 Tliy diligence, thy unrelaxing use Of a long life; and, in the hour of death. The last dear service of thy passing breath 1* XXIV. SAXON MONASTERIES, AND LIGHTS AND SHADES OF THE RELIGION. By such examples moved to unbought pain.s. 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 ; 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 Truth — their immortal Una? Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, *IIe expired dictating the last words of a translation of St. John’s Gospel. t See, in Turner’s History, x'ol. iii. p. 526., the account of the erection of Ramsey Monastery. t Penances were removable by the performance of acts of charity and benevolence. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 35a Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her ; — Mempliis, Tyre, are gone With all their Arts, — but classic Lore glides on. By these Religious saved for all posterity. XXVI. ALFRED. Behold a Pupil of the Monkish gown. The pious Alfred, King to Justice dear! Lord of tl.e harp and liberating spear ; Mirror of Princes! Indigent Renown Might range the starry ether for a crown Equal to his deserts, who, like the year. Pours forth his bounty, like the day doth cheer. And awes like night with mercy-tempered frown. Ease from this noble Miser of his time No moment steals ; pain narrows not his cares.* Though small his kingdom as a spark or gem. Of Alfred boasts remote Jerusalem, And Christian India, through her wide-spread clime. In sacred converse gifts with Alfred shares. XXVII. ms DESCENDANTS. Can aught survive to linger in the veins Of kindred bodies — an essential power That may not vanish in one fatal hour. And wholly cast away terrestrial chains 7 The race of Alfred covet glorious pains When dangers threaten, dangers ever new ! Black tempests bursting, blacker still in view ' But manly sovereignty its hold retains ; The root sincere, the branches bold to strive With the fierce tempest, while, within the round Of their protection, gentle virtues thrive ; As ofl, ’mid some green plot of open ground. Wide as the oak extends its dewy gloom. The fostered hyacinths spread their purple bloom. XXVIII. INFLUENCE ABUSED. Urged by Ambition, who with subtlest skill Changes her means, the Enthusiast as a dupe Shall soar, and as a hypocrite can stoop. And turn the instruments of good to ill. Moulding the credulous People to his will. Such Du.nstan ; — from its Benedictine coop Issues the master Mind, at whose fell swoop The chaste affections tremble to fulfil Their purposes. Behold, pre-signified. The Might of spiritual sway ! his thoughts, his dreams, * Through the whole of his life, Alfred was subject to grievous malad’CE. 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. V/oE to the Crown that doth the Cowl obey !f 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 w'e 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. I 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 ci Dunstan, for strengthening the Benedictine Order, were a lead- ing cause of the second series of Danish Invasions. — .See Turner. t Which is still extant 354 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. To twinkle after that dull stroke of thine, Emblem and instniment, 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 1 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 wtLLETH 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 tby Bride decline *The decision of this council was believed to be instantly lmov\ n in remote parts of Europe. Her blushing cheek, love-vows upon her lip. And see love-emblems streatning from thy ship. As thence she holds her way to Palestine. My Song, (a fearless Homager) would attend Thy thundering 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 powei She arrogates o’er heaven’s eternal door, Closes the gates of every sacred place. Straight from the sun and tainted air’s embrace All sacred things are covered ; cheerful morn Grows sad as night — no seemly garb is w'orn. 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 wuth 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 1 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 VE.NTCE. Black Demons hovering o’er his mitred head. To Caesar’s Successor the Pontiff spake ; “ Ere I absolve thee, stoop ! that on thy neck “ Levelled with Earth this foot of mine may tread." Then, he, who to the Altar had been led, POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. He, whose strong arm the Orient could not check, He, who had held the Soldan at his beck, Stooped, of all glory disinherited. And 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 From outraged Nature; but the sense of most In abject sympathy with power is lost. xxxvni. PAPAL DOMINION. Unless to Peter’s chair the viewless wind Must come and ask permission when to blow, What further empire would it have 1 for now A 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 ! Resist — the thunder quails thee ! — crouch — rebuff Shall be thy recompense ! from land to land The ancient thrones of Christendom are stuff For occupation of a magic wand. And ’t is the Pope that wields it ; — whether rough Or smooth his front, our world is in his hand ! ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. PART II. TO THE CLOSE OF THE TROUBLES IN THE REIGN OF CHARLES I. I. CISTERTIAN MONASTERY. ' Here Man more purely lives, less oft doth fall,* More •promptly rises, walks loith nicer heed, " More safely rests, dies happier, is freed ' Earlier from cleansing fires, and gains withal “A brighter crownf — On yon Cistertian wall That confident assurance may be read ; And, to like shelter, from the world have fled Increasing multitudes. The potent call Doubtless shall cheat full oft the heart’s desires ; Vet, while the rugged Age on pliant knee Vows to rapt Fancy humble fealty, A gentler life spreads round the holy spires ; Where’er the}^ rise, the sylvan waste retires. And aery harvests crown the fertile lea. * “ Bonum esf nos hie esse, qnia homo vivit puriiis, caditrariiis, surgif velocius, incedit cautiiis, qniescit seeiiriiis, moritur felicius, purgatur citius, pr^mialur copiosiiis.” Bernard. “This sen- tence,” says Dr. Widtaker, “ is tisually inscribed on some con- spicuous part of the Cistertian houses.” II. RELAXATIONS OF THE FEUDAL SYSTEM. ' Deplorable his lot who tills the ground. His whole life long tills it, with heartless toil Of villain-service, passing with the soil I 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 ]\Iercy, uttering, through their voice, a sound Echoed in Heaven, cries out, “ye Chiefs, abate These legalized oppressions! Man whose name And Nature God di.sdained 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. Who teach the intrepid guardians of the plare. 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 ! 356 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. V. (CONTINUED. And wliat melodious sounds at times prevail ! And, ever and anon, how brig-ht 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 this River’s margin, blow Those flowers of Chivalry, to bind the brow Of hardiliood 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. VI. CRUSADERS. Nor can Imagination 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 effigy. Devoutly stretched upon their chancel floors. Am I deceived 1 Or is their requiem chanted By voices never mute when Heaven unties Her inmost, softest, tenderest harmonies ; Requiem which 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 ! VII. TRANSUBSTANTIATION Enough! for see, w’ith dim association The tapers burn ; the 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. VIII. 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 Shouting 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 welcomings 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 midniglit gloom w’as dark These Harbingers of good, whom bitter hate In vain endeavoured to exterminate. Fell Obloquy pursues with hideous bark ;* * The list of foul names bestowed upon those poor creatures is long and curious; — and, as is, alas! too natural, most of the opprobrious appellations are drawn from circumstances into which they were forced by their persecutors, who even consult, dated their miseries into one reproachful term, calling them Pa- tarenians or Paturins, from pall, to suffer. Dwellers with wolves, she names them, for the Pine ,\nd green Oak are their covert ; as the gloom Of night oft foils their Enemy’s design. She calls them Riders on the ffying broom ; Sorcerers, whose frameand aspect have become One and the same through practices malign POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 3.57 But they desist not; — and tlie sacred fire, Rekindled thus, from dens and savage woods Moves, handed on with never-ceasing care, Through courts, through camps, o’er limitary floods; Nor lacks this sea-girt Isle a timely share Of tlie new Flame, not suffered 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 “ That to the towering Lily doth not yield I “ 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 wiold, “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 saj', 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. Thus 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 itselfj the avenging draught Of civil slaughter. Yet, while Temporal power Is by these shocks exhausted. Spiritual truth Maintains the else endangered gift of life ; Proceeds from infancy to lusty youth ; And, under cover of this woeful strife. Gathers unblighted strength from hour to hour. XIII. W I C L I F F E. Once more the Church is seized with sudden fear. And at her call is Wicliffe disinhumed : Yea, his dry bones to ashes are consumed And flung into the brook that travels near ; Forthwith, that ancient Voice which Streams can hoar. 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 to 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 ’Tis 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. Mortification 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 ? 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 others builds his own ! XVI. MONASTIC VOLUPTUOUSNESS. Yet more, — round many a Convent’s blazing hre 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. WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Like ships before wliose 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 p:iss The threshold, whither 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. 358 Sparkling, until it cannot choose but run Over the bowl, whose silver lip hath won An instant kiss of masterful desire — To stay 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 new t Lead unmolested lives, and die of age.* The owl of evening and the woodland fo.N 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 s.eps 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 vaies lie hushed in sober light t XIX. CONTINUED. Yet some. Noviciates of the cloistral shade. Or chained by vows, with undissembled glee The warrant hail — exulting to be free ; * These two lines are adopted from a IMS., written about the year 1770, which accidentally fell into my possession. The "lose of the preceding Sonnet on monastic voluptuonsncss is taken from the same source, as is the verse, “ Where Venus •its,” &C. [ 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 proffered it — the servile heart ; And therefore are ye summoned to depart, Michael, and thou, St. George, whose flaming brand The Dragon quelled ; and valiant Margaret 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 ! whose virgin bosom was uncrost With the least shade of thought to sin allied ; Woman ! above all women glorified. Our tainted nature’s solitary boast ; Purer than foam on central Ocean tost Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak strewn With fancied roses, than the unblemished moon Before her wane begins on heaven’s blue coast; Thy Image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween. Not iinforgiven 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 ! XXII. APOLOGY. Not utterly unworthy to endure Was the supremacy of crafty Rome ; Age after age to the arch of Christendom Aerial keystone haughtily secure; Supremaev from Heaven transmitted pure, POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. r,n!) As many hold ; ami, tlierefore, to the tomb Pass, some through fire — and by the scaffold some — Like saintly Fisher, and unbending More. “ Liglitly 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. xxm. IMAGINATUT REGRETS. Deep is the lamentation ! Not alone From Sages justly honoured by mankind, But from the ghostly Tenants of the vvind. Demons and Spirits, many a dolorous groaii 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 the 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, ’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. And airy bonds are hardest to disown ; 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. With understanding spirit now may Jook Upon her records, listen to her song. And sift lier laws — much wondering that tlie 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. XXVII. EDWARD VI. “ Sweet is the holiness of Youth” — so felt Time-honoured Chaucer, when he framed the 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 fore.seen 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 ! XXVIII. EDWARD SIGNING THE WARRANT FOR 'IHE EXE- CUTION OF JOAN OF KENT. The tears of man in various measure gush From various sources ; gently overflow From blissful transport some — from clefts of woe Some with ungovernable impulse rush ; And some, coeval with the earliest blush 360 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 TJie noblest drops to admiration known. To gratitude, to injuries forgiven. Claim Heaven’s regard like waters that have wet The innocent eyes of youthful Monarclis driven To pen the mandates, nature doth disown. XXIX. REVIVAL OF POPERY. 'f'nE 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; The 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 the social stake:” Earth never witnessed object more sublime In constancy, in fellowship more fair ! XXXI. C R A N M E R . OuTSTnETCHiNG flame-ward his upbraided hand (O God of mercy, may no earthly t^eat Of judgment such presumptuous doom repeat !) Amid the shuddering throng doth Cranuier 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 ly XXXII. GENERAL VIEW OF THE TROUBIJIS OF THE REFORMATION. Aid, 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. ENGLISH REFORMERS IN EXILE. Scattering, like Birds escaped the Fowler’s net, Some seek with timely flight a foreign strand IMost happy, re-assembled in a land By dauntless Luther freed, could they forget Their Country’s w'oes. 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 1 XXXIV. ELIZABETH. Hail, Virgin Queen I o’er many an envions 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 thy voice ! But quickly from afar See Note 20. t For the belief in tliis fact, see tlie contemporary Historians. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 361 Defiance breathes with more malignant aim ; And alien storms with home-bred ferments claim Portentous fellowship. Her silver car, By 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. Methinks that I could trip o’er heaviest soil. Light as a buoyant Bark from wave to wave. Were mine the trusty Staff that Jewel gave To youthful Hooker, in familiar style The gift e.xalting, 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 1 Jlore sweet than odours caught by him who sails Near spicy shores of Araby the blest, A thousand times more e.xquisitely sweet. The 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. Spotless in life, and eloquent as wise. With what entire affection do they prize Their new-born Church ! labouring with earnest To baffle all that may her strength impair ; That Church — the unperverted Gospel’s seat; In their afflictions a divine retreat; Source of their liveliest hope, and tenderest prayer ! The Truth exploring with an equal mind. In doctrine and communion they have sought Firmly between the two extremes to steer ; But theirs the wise man’s ordinary lot. To trace right courses for the stubborn blind. And prophesy to ears that will not hear. XXXVII. DISTRACTIONS. Me.n, who have ceased to reverence, soon defy Their Forefathers; lo! Sects are formed — and split With morbid restlessness, — the ecstatic fit * See Nole 21. 2V 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. xxxvni. 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 b( 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 NE.tR SCHAFFIIAUSEN. (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 wnde 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 W'rithe, Deafening the region in his ireful mood. t A common device in religious and political conflicts. — See Strj/pe in support of this instance. t The Jung-frau. 362 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! 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 ; then, 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. ♦ See Note 22. ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. PART III. FEOM THE RESTORATION TO THE PRESENT TIMES I. 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 while I gazed in tender reverie (Or was it sleep that with my Fancy played!) The bright corporeal presence, 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. HI. 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. 3G3 Or is remembered only to give zest To wantonness. — Away, Circean revels ! Already stands our Country on the brink Of bigot rage, that all distinction levels Of truth and falsehood, swallowing the good name. And, with that drauglit, tlie life-blood : misery, shame. By Poets loathed ; from which Historians shrink ! IV. LATITUDINAKIANIS.M. Yet Truth is keenly .sought for, and the wind Charged with rich words poured out in thought’s de- fence ; Whether tlie Church inspire that eloquence. Or a Platonic Piety confined To the sole temple of tlie 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 tlie 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 To poverty, and grief, and disrespect. 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 whose inward sense Outweighs the world ; whom self-deceiving wit I.ures not from what they deem the cause of God. VI. PERSECLTION OF THE SCOTTISH COVENANTERS. When Alpine Vales threw forth a suppliant cry. The majesty of England interposed And the sword stopped ; the bleeding wounds W'ere 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, Mountain, and moor, and crowded street, where lie The headless martyrs of the Covenant, Slain by Compatriot-proteslants that draw From councils senseless as intolerant Their warrant. Bodies fall by wild sword-law; But who w'ould force the Soul, tilts willi a stratv Against a Champion cased in adamant. VH. 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 wliole City rings like one vast quire. The Fathers urge the People to be still, W’ith 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. WILLI A. M THE THIRD. Calm as an under cuirent — 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 Svvayed, and thereby enabled to contend Witli the wide world’s commotions) from its end Swerves not — diverted by a casual law. Had mortal action e’er a nobler scope 7 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 REUGIOUS 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 364 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. 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 stars on high. Satellites burning in a lucid ring Around meek Walton’s heavenly memory. 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 How widely spread the interests of our theme. XIII ASPECTS OF CHRISTIANITY IN AMERICA.* I. — THE PILGRIM FATHERS. Well worthy to be magnified are they Who with sad hearts, of friends and country took A last farewell, their loved abodes forsook. And hallowed ground in which their fathers lay ; Then to the new-found World explored their way, That so a Church, unforced, uncalled to brook Ritual restraints, within some sheltering nook Her Lord might worship and his word obey In freedom. Men they were who could not bend; Blest Pilgrims, surely, as they took for guide A will by sovereign Conscience sanctified ; Blest while their Spirits from the woods ascend Along a Galaxy that knows no end. But in His glory who for Sinners died. XI. SACHEVEREL. 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 « W’ho loudest rang his pulpit ’larum bell. Stands at the Bar, absolved by female eyes Mingling 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 extremes her life, — Not to the golden mean, and quiet flow Of truths that soften hatred, temper strife. XTI. 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; Secs spires fast sinking — up again to start! And strives the towers to number, that recline O’er the dark steeps, or on the horizon line Striding with shattered crests his eye athwart. So have we hurried on with troubled pleasure: Henceforth, as on the bosom of a stream XIV. II. CONTINUED. From rite and ordinance abused they fled To wilds where both were utterly unknown; But not to them had Providence foreshown What benefits are missed, what evils bred. In worship neither raised nor limited Save by self-will. Lo ! from that distant shore, For rite and ordinance. Piety is led Back to the Land those Pilgrims left of yore, Led by her own free choice. So Truth and Love By Conscience governed do their steps retrace. — Fathers ! your Virtues, such the power of grace, Their spirit, in your Children, thus approve. Transcendent over time, unbound by place, Concord and Charity in circles move. * American episcopacy, in union with the church in England, strictly belongs to the general subject ; and I here make my acknowledgments to my American friends. Bishop Doane, and Mr. Henry Reed of Philadelphia, for having suggested to me the propriety of adverting to if, and pointed out the virtues and intellectual qualities of Bishop White, which so eminently fitted him for the great work he undertook. Bishop White was consecrated at Lambeth, Feb. 4, 1787, by Archbishop Moore ; and before his long life was closed, twenty-six bishops had been con- secrated in America, by himself. For his character and opinions, see his own numerous Works, and a “Scimon in commemoration of him, by George Washington Doane, Bishop of New Jersey.” POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 3G.5 XV. XVlll. 1 III. CONCLUDED. —AMERICAN EPISCOPACY. \ PASTORAL CHARACTER. Patriots informed with Apo.«tolic light Were they, who, when their Country had been freed, Bowing with reverence to the ancient creed, Fixed on the frame of England’s Church their sight, And strove in filial love to reunite Wliat force had severed. Thence they fetched the seed Of Christian unity, and won a meed Of praise from Heaven. To thee, 0 saintly White, Patriarch of a wide-spreading family. Remotest lands and unborn times shall turn Whether they would restore or build — to thee. As one who rightly taught how zeal should burn. As one who drew from out Faitli’s holiest urn The purest stream of patient Energy. A OE.MAL hearth, a ho.spitablc 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 lifts his awful hand ; Conjures, implores, and labours all he can For re-subjecting to divine command The stubborn spirit of rebellious man? XVI. XIX. THE LITURGY. Bishops and Priests, blessed are ye, if deep (As yours above all offices is high) Deep in your hearts the sense of duty lie; Charged as ye are by Christ to feed and keep From wolves your portion of his chosen sheep: Labouring as ever in your Master’s sight. Making your hardest task your best delight. What perfect glory ye in Heaven shall reap! — But, in the solemn Office which ye sought And undertook premonished, if unsound Pour practice prove, faithless though but in thought. Bishops and Priests, think what a gulf profound Awaits you then, if they were rightly taught Who framed the Ordinance by your lives disowned ! Yes, if the intensities of hope ana fear Attract us still, and passionate exercise Of lofty thoughts, the way before us lies Distinct with signs, through which in set career. As through a zodiac, moves the ritual year Of England’s Church; stupendous mysteries! Which whoso travels in her bosom eyes. As he approaches them with solemn cheer. Upon that circle traced from sacred story We only dare to cast a transient glance, Trusting in hope that others may advance With mind intent upon the King of Glory, From his mild advent till his countenance Shall dissipate the seas and mountains hoary. XVII. XX. BAPTISM. PLACES OF WORSHIP. Dear be the Church, that, watching o’er the needs Of Infancy, provides a timely shower 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-groves shaded at wide intervals. Whose fruit around the sun-burnt Native falls Of roving tired or desultory war — Such to this British Isle her cliristian 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. ' Whose virtue changes to a Christian Flower i A Growth from sinful Nature’s bed of weeds! — 1 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 j With what man hopes from Heaven, yet fears from 1 Earth. 31 366 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. XXI. 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 ! XXII. CATECHISING. From Little down to Least, in due degree, 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 I wore, with faithful tie: Sweet flowers! at whose inaudible command Her countenance, phantom-like, doth re-appear: O lost too early for the frequent tear. And ill requited by this heartfelt sigh ! XXIII. CONFIRMATION. The Young-ones gathered in from hill and dale, W^ith 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. XXIV. CONFIRMATION — CONTINUED. I SAW a Mother’s eye intensely bfent Upon a Maiden trembling as she knelt; In and for whom the pious Mo6>er 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 through the Mother went That tears burst forth amain. Did gleams appear 1 Opened a vision of that blissful place Where dwells a Sister-child 1 And was power given Part of her lost one’s glory back to trace Even to this rite 1 For thus She knelt, and, ere The summer-leaf had faded, passed to Heaven. XXV. SACRAMENT. By chain yet stronger must the Soul be tied : One duty more, last stage of this ascent, Brings to thy food, mysterious Sacrament! The oflspririg, haply at the parent's side; 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. Ye, who have duly weighed the summons, pause No longer; 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 ! XXVI. THE MARRIAGE CEREMONY. The vested priest before the Altar stands; Approach, come gladly, ye prepared, in sight Of God and chosen friends, your troth to plight With the symbolic ring, and willing hands Solemnly joined. Now sanctify the bands O Father! — to the espoused thy blessing give, That mutually assisted they may live Obedient, as here tauglit, to thy commands. So prays the Cliurch, to consecrate a vow “The which would endless matrimony make;” Union that shadows forth and doth partake A mystery potent human love to endow Witli heavenly, each more prized for the other’s sake; i Weep not, meek Bride! uplift, thy timid brow POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 367 XXVII. THANKSGIVING AFTER CHILDBIRTH. Woman! the Power who left his throne on high, And deigned to wear the robe of flesh we wear, The power that through the straits of infancy Did pass dependent on maternal care, Ilis own humanity with tliee will share. Pleased with tlie thanks that in his people’s eye Thou offerest up for safe delivery From childbirth’s perilous throes. And should the heir Of thy fond hopes hereafter walk inclined To courses fit to make a mother rue Tliat ever he was born, a glance of mind Cast upon this observance may renew A better will ; and, in the imagined view Of tiiee thus kneeling, safety he may find. XXVIII. VISITATION OF THE SICK. The Sabbath bells renew the inviting peal ; Glad music ! yet there be that, worn with pain And sickness, listen where they long have lain. In sadness listen. With maternal zeal Inspired, the Church sends ministers to kneel Beside the afflicted ; to sustain with prayer. And soothe the heart confession hath laid bare — That pardon, from God’s throne, may set its seal On a true penitent. When breath departs From one disburthened so, so comforted. His Spirit Angels greet; and ours be hope That, if the sufferer rise from his sick-bed, Hence he will gain a firmer mind, to cope With a bad world, and foil the Tempter’s arts. XXIX. THE COMMINATION SERVICE. Shun not this rite, neglected, yea abhorred. By some of unreflecting mind, as calling Man to curse man, (thought monstrous and appalling.) Go thou and hear the threatenings of the Lord; Listening within his Temple see his sword Unsheathed in wrath to strike the offender’s head, Thy own, if sorrow for thy sin be dead. Guilt unrepented, pardon unimplored. Two aspects bears Truth needful for salvation; Who knows not that? — yet would this delicate age Look only on the Gospel’s brighter page : Let light and dark duly our thoughts employ ; So shall the fearful words of Commination Yield timely fruit of peace and love and joy. XXX. FORMS OF PRAYER AT SEA. To kneeling worshippers no earthly floor Gives holier invitation than the deck Of a storm-shattered vessel saved from wreck (When all that Man could do avail'd no more) By him who raised the tempest and restrains; Happy the crew who this have felt, and pour Forth for his mercy, as the Cliurch ordains. Solemn thanksgiving. Nor will ihcij implore In vain who, for a riglitful cause, give breatli To words the Church prescribes aiding the lip For the heart’s sake, ere sliip with hostile ship Encounters, armed for work of pain and death. Suppliants! the God to wliom your cause ye trust Will listen, and ye know that He is just. XXXI. FUNERAL SERVICE. From the Baptismal hour, thro’ weal and woe. The Church e.xtends her care to thought and deed; Nor quits the body when the soul is freed. The mortal weight cast off’ to be laid low. Blest rite for him who hears in faith, *• I know That my Redeemer liveth,” — hears each word [ That follows — striking on some kindred chord Deep in the thankful heart; — yet tears will ffow. Man is as grass that springeth up at morn. Grows green, and is cut down and withereth Ere nightfall — truth that well may claim a sigh. Its natural echo ; but hope comes reborn i At Jesu’s bidding. We rejoice, “ O Death , Where is thy Sting — O Grave where is thy Victory P XXXII. RURAL CEREMONY.* Closing the sacred Book which long has fed I Our meditations, give we to a day Of annual joy one tributary lay ; This day, when forth by rustic music led. The village children, while 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 off’erings which their fathers bore For decoration in the papal time, I The innocent procession softly moves : — The spirit of Laud is pleased in heaven’s pure clime. And Hooker’s voice the spectacle approves! * This is still continued in many churches in Westmore- land. It takes place in the month of July, when the floor of the stalls is strewn with fresh rushes ; and hence it is ; called the “• Rush-bearing.” 368 WOEDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. XXXIII. 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 to Memory help when she would weave A crown for Hope! — I dread the boasted lights That all too often are but fiery bliglits, 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 tlirush might sing. Merry and loud and safe from prying search, Strains offered only to the genial Spring. XXXIV. MUTABILITY. From low to high doth dissolution climb, And sink from high to low, along a scale Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail; A musical but melancholy chime, ^\dlich they can hear who meddle not with crime. Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care. Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear Tlie longest date do melt like frosty rime, Tliat in the morning whitened hill and plain And is no more ; drop like the tower sublime Of yesterday, which royally did wear His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain Some casual shout that broke the silent air, Or the unimaginable touch of Time. XXXV. OLD ABBEYS. Mo.nastic Domes! following my downward way, Untouched by due regret I marked your fall ! Now, ruin, beauty, ancient stillness, all Dispose to judgments 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. So with our own the mild Instructor deals. Teaching us to forget them or forgive.* Perversely curious, then, for hidden ill Why sliould we break Time’s charitable seals? Once ye were holy, ye are holy still ; Your spirit freely let me drink, and live? * This is borrowed from an affecting passage in Mr. George Dyer’s history of Cambridge. XXXVL EMIGRANT 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 Britisli 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 shore? Give to their Faith a fearless resting-place. XXXVII. CONGRATULATION. Thus all things lead to Charity, 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 Sore stress of apprehension,! with a mind Sickened by injuries, dreading worse designed. From month to month trembling and unassured. How had we then rejoiced ! But we have felt. As a loved substance their futurity : Good, which they dared not hop>e 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. XXXVIII. NEW CHURCHES. But liberty, and triumphs on the Main, And laurelled armies, not to be withstood — What serve they ? if, on transitory good Intent, and sedulous of abject gain. The State (ah, surely not preserved in vain !) 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? I hear their sabbath bells’ harmonious chime Float on the breeze — the heavenliest of all sounds That vale or hill prolongs or multiplies! t See Burnet, who is unusually animated on this subject ; the east wind so anxiously expected and prayed for, wa* called the “ Protestant wind.” POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 3Gi) XXXIX. CHURCH TO BE ERECTED. Be tliis 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 clieerfully ; 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, there let the holy altar stand For kneeling adoration ; — while — above. Broods, visibly portrayed, the mystic Dove That shall protect from blasphemy the Land. XL. CONTINUED. Mine ear has rung, my spirit sunk subdued. Sharing the strong emotion of the crowd. When each pale brow to dread hosannas 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 ashamed : 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. XLI. 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 nigged 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 Sexton’s spade Shall wound the tender sod. Encincture small. But infinite its grasp of weal and woe ! Hopes, fears, in never-ending ebb and flovv; — The spousal trembling, and the “dust to dust,” The prayers, the contrite struggle, and the trust That to the Almighty Father looks through all. * The Lutherans have retained the Cross within their churches : it is to be regretted that we ha.ve not done the same. 2 W XLII. 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 j By a bright ladder to the world above. I Open your gates, ye Monuments of love I Divine ! thou Lincoln, on thy sovereign hill ! ! Thou, stately York! and Ye, whose splendours cheer Isis and Cam, to patient Science dear XLIII. INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE. Tax not the royal Saint w'ith vain expense. With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned — Albeit labouring for a scanty band Of white-robed Scholars only — this immense 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. XLIV. 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 ! 370 WORDSWOKTirS POETICAL WORKS. XLV. 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 ; Where 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 tc 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, when She hath also seen her breast Filled with mementos, satiate with its part Of grateful England’s overflowing Dead. XLVI. 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 * S’rom 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 light. 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. xLvn. CONCLUSION. Why sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled. Coil within coil, at noontide! For the Word Yields, if with unpresumptuous faith explored. Power at whose touch the sluggard shall 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 ! ADDITIONAL ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. I. (SEQDEL TO NO. XXII., PART II.) Coldly we spake. The Saxons, overpowered By wrong triumphant through its own excess. From fields laid waste, from house and home devoured By flames, look up to heaven and crave redress From God’s eternal justice. Pitiless Though men be, there are angels that can feel For wounds that death alone has power to heal. For penitent guilt, and innocent distress. And has a Champion risen in arms to try His Country’s virtue, fought, and breathes no more; Him in their hearts the people canonize ; And far above the mine’s most precious ore The least small pittance of bare mould they prize Scooped from the sacred earth where his dear relics lie. * Some say that Monte Rosa takes its name from a belt of rock at its summit — very unpoetical and scarcely a ptt-bable suppoiition. II. (to precede no. 1., PART II.) How soon — alas! did man created pure — By Angels guarded, deviate from the line Prescribed to duty: — woeful forfeiture He made by wilful breach of law divine. With like perverseness did the Church abjure Obedience to her Lord, and haste to twine, ’Mid Heaven-born flowers that shall for aye endure, Weeds on whose front the world had fixed her sign. O Man, if with thy trials thus it fares. If good can smooth the way to evil choice. From all rash censure be the mind kept free : He only judges right who weighs, compare.s And, in the sternest sentence which his voice Pronounces, ne’er abandons Charity. POEMS OF THE IMAGINTION. 371 III. (to follow the foregoino.) From false assumption rose, and fondly hail’d By superstition, spread the Papal power ; Yet do not deem the Autocracy prevail’d Thus only, even in error's darkest hour. She daunts, forth-thundering from her spiritual tower Brute rapine, or with gentle lure she tames. Justice and Peace through her uphold their claims And Chastity finds many a sheltering bower. Realm there is none that if control’d or sway’d By her commands partakes not, in degree. Of good, o’er manners, arts, and arms, diffused : Yes, to thy domination, Roman See, Tho’ miserably, oft monstrously, abused By blind ambition, be this tribute paid. IV (to follow no. VI., P.IRT II.) As faith thus sanctified the warrior’s crest While from the Papal Unity there came, \V hat feebler means had failed to give, one aim Diffused through all the regions of the West ; So does her Unity its power attest By works of Art, that shed on tlic outward frame Of worsliip, glory and grace, which who shall blame Tliat ever looked to heaven for final rest? Hail countless Temples ! that so well befit Your ministry ; that as ye rise and take Form, spirit, and character from holy writ. Give to devotion, wheresoe’er awake. Pinions of high and higher sweep, and make The unconverted soul with awe submit. V. (to follow the above.) Where long and deeply hath been fixed the root In the blest soil of gospel truth, the Tree, (Blighted or scathed tho’ many branches be. Put forth to wither, many a hopeful shoot) Can never cease to bear celestial fruit. Witness the church that oft times, with effect Dear to the saints, strives earnestly to eject Her bane, her vital energies recruit. Lamenting, do not hopelessly repine When such good work is doomed to be undone, The conquests lost that were so hardly won : — All promises vouchsafed by Heaven, will shine In light confirmed while years tlieir course shall run, Confirmed alike in progress and decline. — -rV •■'■- il^»' ■<»^;,iV'i^'‘ e«<»#j^»mjiateijiiiaj. li,.44 F POEMS OF THE IMAGIxNATION. 373 NOTES TO rOEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. Note 1, p. 166. *'Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle." Henry Lord Clifford, &c. &c., who is the subject of (his Poem, was the son of John Lord Clifford, who was slain at Towton Field, which John Lord Clifford, as is known to the Reader of English History, was the person who after the battle of Wakefield slew, in the pursuit, the young Earl of Rutland, son of the Duke of York, who had fallen in the battle, “ in part of re- venge” (say the Authors of the History of Cumberland and Westmoreland); “ for the Earl’s Father had slain his.” A deed which worthily blemished the author (saith Speed) : but who, as he adds, “ dare promise any thing temperate of himself in the heat of martial fury 1 chiefly, when it was resolved not to leave any branch of the York line standing; for so one maketh this Lord to speak.” This, no doubt, I would observe by the by, was an action sufficiently in the vindictive spirit of the times, and yet not altogether so bad as represented ; “for the Earl was no child, as some writers would have him, but able to bear arms, being sixteen or seven- teen years of age, as is evident from this, (say the Memoirs of the Countess of Pembroke, who was laud- ably anxious to wipe away, as far as could be, this stigma from the illustrious name to which she was born,) that he was the next Child to King Edward the Fourth, which his mother had by Richard Duke of York, and that King was then eighteen years of age : and for the small distance betwixt her Children, see Austin Vincent, in his Book of Nobility, page 622., where he writes of them all.” It may further be ob- served, that Lord Clifford, who was then himself only twenty-five years of age, had been a leading Man and Commander, two or three years together, in the army of Lancaster, before this time; and, therefore, would be less likely to think that the Earl of Rutland might be 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 after the Battle of Towton there was no hope for them but in flight and concealment. Henry, the subject of the Poem, was deprived of his estate and honours during the space of twenty-four years; all which time he lived 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 tlie country, where he repaired several of his Castle.s, which had gone to decay during the late troubles.” Thus far is chiefly collected from Nicholson 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 lire 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 Cliffords 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 w'ars of Charles the First they were again laid wasti*, 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 : “ Anti they that shall he of thee shall build the old waste places : thou shalt raise up the founda- tions of many generations ; and thou shalt he 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. 331, 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 374 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. ot repetition, I am induced to enlarge these notices of his career by the insertion of a passage from Mr. Hartley Coleridge’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 1 lie that in his childhood w'as placed among lowly men for safety, found more in obscurity than he souglit, — 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 nurture must needs have been good. II is mother Margaret, with whom came in the barony of Vescy, was married to Sir Lancelot Threlkeld who extended his protection over the offspring of her former husband. Much of Henry Clifford’s boyhood is said to have been passed in the village named after his kind step-father, which lies under Blencathara, on the road between Keswick and Penrith The ‘ Shepherd Lord’ was restored to all his estates and titles in the first year of Henry VII. He was a lover of study and retirement, w’ho 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 watch the motions of the heavenly bodies from the hill-tops, when lie kept sheep: for in those days, when clocks and almanacs were few, every shepherd made acquaintance witli 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 ; but it does not follow that he was iq-nnrant. He might know many things well worth knowing, without being able to write his name. He might le.arn a great deal of Astronomy by patient observation. He might know w'here each native flower of the hills was grown, what real qualities it possessed, and wdiat occult powers the fancy, the fears, or the wishes of men had a.scribed to it. The haunts, habits, and instincts of ani- mals, the notes of birds, and their wondrous architec- ture, were to him instead of books; but above all, he learned to know something of what man is, in that condition to which the greater number of men are born, and to know himself better than he could have done in his hereditary sphere. Moreover, the legendary lore, the floating traditions, the wild superstitions of that age, together with the family history, which must have been early instilled into him, and the romantic and his- j torical ballads, which were orally communicated from generation to generation, or published by the voice and harp of the errant minstrel, if they did not constitute j sound knowledge, at least preserved the mind from j unidead vacancy. The man ‘ whose daily teachers had I been woods and rills,’* must needs, when suddenly I called to the society of ‘ Knights and barons bold,’ have j found himself defleient in many things ; and that want W'as exceeding great gain, both to his tenantry and neighbours, and to his own moral nature. He lived at Barden with what W'as then a small retinue, though his household accounts make mention of sixty servants on that establishment, whose wages were from five to five-and-twenty shillings each. But the state of his revenues, after so many years of spoliation, must have required rigorous economy, and he preferred abating something of ancestral splendour, to grinding the faces of the poor. This peaceful life he led, with little inter- ruption, from the accession of the house of Tudor, till 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 on that bloody day. He survived the battle ten years, and died April 23, 1523, aged about 70.” II.\RTLEY Coleridge's ‘Lives of Distinguished Northerns' : Life of Anne Clifford. — H. R.] Note 2, p. 189. “ French Revolution.” I I [The passage in ‘ The Friend’, introductory to this extract on the French Revolution is here annexed, with a view 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 I* See Wordsworlh's “ Song at the Feast of Brougham Cas- tle,” a strain of triumph snpixised to be chanted by a minstrel of the day of rejoicing for the “good Lord's restoration, in which 1 the poet has almost excelled himself. Had he never written ' another Oile, this alone would set him decidedly at the head of ! the lyric poets of Kngland.”] POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. of human perfectibility on the banks of the Susque- hannah ; where our little society, in its second gene- ration, was to have combined the 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 dirgefiil wind, Muso on the sore ills I had 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 their tcelfare and inherent strength. Nor wmre 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 sense from the gradually exhausted balloon of youthful enthusiasm, though the air-built castles, which we had been pursuing, had vanished with all their pageantry of shifting forms and glowing colours, we were yet free from the stains and impurities which might have remained upon us, had we been travelling with the crowd of less imaginative malcontents, through the dark lanes and foul bye-roads of ordinary fanaticism. But oh! there were thousands as young and as in- nocent 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 ! IVIany there were, young men of loftiest minds, yea the prime stuff out of which manly wisdom and practica- ble greatness is to be formed, who had appropriated their hopes and the ardour of their souls to mankind at large, to the wide expanse of national interests, which then seemed fermenting in the French Republic as in the main outlet and chief crater of tlie revolutionary torrents ; and who confidently believed, that these tor- rents, like the lavas of Vesuvius, were to subside into a soil of inexhaustible fertility on the circumjacent lands, the old divisions and mouldering edifices of which they had covered or swept away. — Enthusiasts of kindliest temperament, who, to use tlie words of the Poet (having already borrowed the meaning and the metaphor) 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 metal which they saw.” My honoured friend has permitted me to give a value and relief to the present Essay, by a quotation from one of his unpublished Poems, the length of which I 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, wlio will throw themselves back into the state of thought and feeling in which they were, when France was rei^rted 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. — II. R.] Note 3, p. 240. “ Ellen Irwin." [This is affectionate Service to the old Jlinstrelsy. 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 where Helen lies, Night and day on me she cries; O that 1 were where Helen lies On fair Kirconnell Lee ! Curst be the heart that thought the thought. And curst the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropt. And died to succour me ! 0 think na ye my heart was sair, When my love dropt down and spak nae mair! There did she swoon wi’ mickle care. On fair Kircontiell I.ee ; As 1 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, 1 hacked him in pieces sma’, 1 hacked him in pieces sma’. For her sake that died for me 0 Helen fair, beyond compare! 1 ’ll make a garland of thy hair. Shall bind my heart for evermair, Until the day I die. O that 1 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 1 were with thee, 1 were blest. Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest. On fair Kirconnell Lee. 376 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. I wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn ovver 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 IVbris, III. p. 103. — H. R.] Note 4, p. 255. Sonnet XI. [The concluding lines of this sonnet are thus quo- ted by Coleridge : “Effects will not immediately disappear with their causes; but neitlier 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. 7’he narrow seas that form our boundaries, what were they in times of old 1 The convenient highway for Danish 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 I Even so doth God protect us, if we be Virtuous and Wise. Winds blow and Waters roll. Strength to the Brave, and Power and Deity ; Yet in themselves are nothing ! One Decree Spake laws to them, and said that by the Soul Only the Nations shall be great and free !’ — Wordsworth.” ‘ The Friend,’ VoL I p. 106. Again, in tlie ‘ Sibylline Leaves’ : *' Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile, O Albion ! O my mother Isle ! Thy valleys, fair as Eden’s bowers. Glitter green with sunny showers.; Thy grasisy uplands’ gentle swells Echo to the bleat of flocks; (Tliose grassy hills, those glittering dells Proudly ramparted with rocks) And Oce.vn ’MtD nis upro.vr wild S l’E.'lKS SAFETV TO Ills ISLAND-CHILD; Hence for many a fearless 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.’— II. R.] Note 5, p. 255. Sonnet XIII. [This Sonnet appears to have been composed in a state of feeling different from that which pervades the Series, of which one distinguishing trait is a placid but ronstant confidence in the cause of Truth, — a relying upon a rational love of freedom and of country as a means of security — a hope which resulting from alook- ing up to Providence is not lastingly impaired by either fear or distrust — in a word, that mood of mind 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 song did not shrink from hope in the worst moments of evil days,” (Sonnet XXXllI. p. 263.) It is true, indeed, there may be traced apprehensions — momentary mis- givings — an.xieties, but only while clouds floating over a gentle sky, adorning rather than darkening it. The peculiarity of this Sonnet seems to be simply this; that after the expression of heart-sinking, it does not, as is usual with him, express also the self-recovery of the Poet’s spirit, a beautiful instance of which occurs in Sonnet XVII. p. 255. At the same time the feeling which is expressed is perfectly natural, especially if we consider the locality of the Sonnet; nor is it, if we regard it as a transitory feeling, at all at variance with the general tenor of the poems of the Series. In inserting in this Note the affectionate expostulation of one of the Poet’s most zealous admirer-s, Mr. Hart- ley Coleridge, it will, I hope, be perceived that it is designed not for a corrective comment, but to guard against a probable over-estimate of tlie despondency which darkened the Poet’s thought in the conception of the Sonnet alluded to. “ Mr. Wordsworth will, I doubt not, excuse me, if, admiring above measure the poetry of this sublime Sonnet, I venture to object to the querulous spirit which it breathes. That we are much worse than wo ought to be is unfortunately a standing truism, but that the ‘stream of tendency’ is recently diverted from good to evil, I confidently deny. Having said this much, it is better to give the Sonnet at once, for I am afraid that some one of my readers may not have a copy of Wordsworth’s poems in his pocket, or even in his parlour window.” (After quoting the Sonnet, he proceeds :) “ Seldom has the .=ame feeling, which is expressed so often, been expressed so beautifully ; but is not the feeling itself a delusion, or rather in minds like Wordsworth’s a voluntary r7/«s/on Greater virtues were rendered visible by the trials of the past, than by the security of the present ; but it was not the good- ness of the times that called those virtues into act. Had there been no persecutors, there would liave been no martyrs: war and oppression make patriots and he- roes; and wherever we hear of much almsgiving, we may be sure that there is much poverty. If Anne Clifford had not had a bad father and two bad hus- bands, and a long weary widowhood, and lived in days of rebellion, usurpation, and profligacy, she perhaps would have obtained no other record than that of a sensible, good sort of a s’oman, upon whose brow the rOEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 377 corohet sat with graceful ease. Nay, it is possible, that the same disposition which her adversities disci- plined to steady purpose, meek self-command, consi- derate charity, and godly fortitude, might under belter circumstMices have produced a most unamiable degree of patrician haughtiness. From reading the memoirs of her, and such as her, an imaginative mind receives a strong impression of the superior sanctity of former generations; but a little examination will prove that these high examples have always been elect exceptions, called out of the world — no measures of the world’s righteousness. No period produced more saintly ex- cellence than that in which Anne Clifford lived : in none were greater crimes perpetrated ; and if we look to her later years — never, in a Christian age, was the average of morals so low. But the age was charac- terised more by the evil than the good, as Rochester’s poems were much more characteristicul of Charles the Second’s time than Milton’s. One thing is obvious, that if we are not better than our ancestors, we must be much worse — if we are not wiser than the ancients, we must be incorrigible fools. God forbid that I should glory, save in the glory of God. God forbid that I should flatter the men of my own generation, or detract one atom from the wise or good of ages past. Wliat we are we did not make ourselves ; whatever truth perfumes our atmosphere, is the flower of a seed planted long ago. We do not, we need not do more than cultivate and improve our pater- nal fields. But to deny that we are benefiting by the labours of our forefathers, morally as well as physical- ly, would be impious ingratitude to that Great Power which hath given, and is giving, and will give the wish, and the will, and the power, and the knowledge, and the means to do the good which he willeth and doeth. Much, very much remains to do. It is no time to sit down self-complacently and count our gains ; but neither is it a time to stretch out our arms vainly to catch the irrevocable past. We can neither stand still nor go backward, but striving to go backward, we may go lamentably astray. There is one line in Mr. Words- worth’s sonnet, against which, for his own sake, I must enter my protest : ‘ No grandeur now in nature or in book Delights us.’ If by ‘us,’ he means the numerical majority of the population, I answer, that many more are awake to the grandeur and beauty of nature now than at any former era: if he means that the mind and soul of England is insensible to the sublime, in the visible or in the in- tellectual world, let him only consider the number of yoting, and pure, and noble hearts, that have joyfully acknowledged the grandeur of his book, and let him unsay the slander.” Hartley Coleridge’s ‘ Lives of distinguished Northerns:' — Life of Anne Clif- ford.— II. R.] Note 6, p. 200. 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 ‘ iinpa-ssioned 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. 259; 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 that 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, I To perish never. 2X 32 II. R.] 378 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Note 7, p. 278. “ Bmges." This is not the first poetical tribute wliich in our times has been paid to this beautiful City. Mr. Southey, in tlie “ 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 ruin sougiit Rudely her splendid structures to destroy, Save in those recent days, with evil fraught. When Mutability, in drunken joy Triumphant, and from all restraint relea.sed. 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, to her, benignant stars may bring, ^Vhat fate denies to man, — a second spring. “ When I may read of lilts in days of old. And tourneys graced by Chieftains of renown. Fair dames, grave citizens, and warriors bold. If fancy would pourtray some stalely town Which for such pomp fit theatre should be. Fair Bruges, 1 shall then remember thee.” In this City arc 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 passages 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. j 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. I Had we chanced to espy the hostess of the hotel in this quaint rural retreat, the e.xhibition would have j been complete. She was a true Flemi.sh figure, in the dress of the days of Holbein, her symbol of office, a weighty 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 ine.xprcssibly soothing; a pen- sive grace seems to be cast over all, even the very children. Extract from Journal. Note 8, p. 295. Sonnet VI. “ There bloomed the strawberry of the wilderness, The trembling eyebright 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 in the vale of Grasmere, and at Hawkshead school : his poems are little known, but they contain passages of splendid description; and the versification of his “ Vis- I ion of Alfred,’ is harmonious and animated. In descri- bing the motions of the Sylphs, that cons'ilute the strange machinery of his Poem, he uses the f illotving illustrative simile : — “ Glancing from their plumes A changeful light the azure vault illumes. Less varying hues beneath the Pole adorn The streamy glories of the Boreal morn. That wavering to and fro their radiance shed On Bothnia’s gulf with glassy ice o’erspread, 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 curvei 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 faculties of mind, particularly his memory, were extraordinary. Brief notices of his life ought to find a place in the History of Westmoreland. Note 9, p. 29G. Sonnet XVII. The E.vgle requires a large domain for its support, but several pairs, not many years ago, were constantly resident in tins country, building their nests in tlw steeps of Borrowdale, Wastdale, Ennerdale, and on th eastern side of Helvellyn. Often have I heard anglei speak of the grandeur of their appearance, as the) hovered over Red Tarn, in one of the coves of this 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 species of fowl, particularly tlie herons, was e.xpressed by loud screams. The horse also is naturally afraid of the pagle. — There were several Roman stations among these mountains ; the most considerable seems to have been in a meadow at the head of Windermere, estab- lished, undoubtedly, as a check over the passes of Kirkstone, Dunmail-raise, and of Hardknot and Wry- POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. nose. On the margin of Rydal Lake, a coin of Trajan was discovered very lately. — The Roman Fort here alluded to, called by tlie country people “ Ilardknot Castle,” is most impressively situated half-way down the hill on the right of the road that descends from Ilardknot into Eskdale. It has escaped the notice of most antiquarians, and is but slightly mentioned by Lysons. — The Duuidical 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 “ Simken 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, Broughton 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 ruffled, and the current thrown into every variety of foam which the rocky channel of a river can give to water.” — Vide Green's Guide to the Lakes, vol. i. pp. 98 — 100. After all, the traveller would bo most gratified who should 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 stilt 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 hermitagc.s, 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 trees, 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 from 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 ; hut, at evening, when the sun is set, and a pearly light 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 w’here 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-barrow 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 W’as preparing, and at his return, being asked by his host, “ What way he had been wandering 1” replied, “As far as it is finished! The bed of the Duddon is here strewm 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 380 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS immense mass of rock fell upon the very spot w'here, 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 day sat e.xposed for a still longer time to the same peril,) “ was heard, not without alarm, by the neighbouring shepherds.” But to return to Seathwaite Church-yard : it contains the following inscription. “Ill memory of the Reverend Robert Walker, who died the 25th of June, 1802, in the 93d year of his age, and 67th 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. He was curate of Seathwaite si.xty-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 Coun- 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 the ground ; — ” and some account of his life, for it is worthy of being recorded, will not be out of place here. [See Appen- dix IV., 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. 304. “ 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 habita- 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 dosvn in the 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 sat 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- fuse 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, with a smile and a stare more of kindness than wonder, she replied, “Ye’ll get that,” bringing each article separately. We caroused over our cups of coffee, laugh- ing like children at the strange atmosphere in which w'e 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 sky. 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, w-here the firelight fell upon them, they had become as glossy as blqck 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 the 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 my 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 unplastered; 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 beginning of the roof, so that there was a free passage POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 381 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, whicli 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 efiecl 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 tlie 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 !” — MS. Note 11, p. 304. “ Bolhwell Castle." The following 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 tliat 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 the possessor's miserable conception of adorning such a venerable ruin ; but it is so very near to the house, tliat of necessity the pleasure-grounds must have extended beyond it, and perhaps the neatness of a shaven lawn and the complete desolation natural to ruin might have made an unpleasing contrast; am!, besides being witliin 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 boar 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 not 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 different 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 the 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 tlie river Clyde flows on smooth and unruffled 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 tlieir 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 the 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 them.selves. 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 tiian now ; though going in search of scenery, as it is called, had not then been thought of. I had previously heard no- 382 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. thing of Bothwell Castle, at least nothing that I re- I meinbered ; therefore, perhaps, my pleasure was greater, compared with what I received elsewhere, than others might feel.” MS. Joxirnal. Note 12, p. 305. ‘ The Hart' s-horn Tree.' “ In the lime of the first Robert de Clifford, in the year 13.33 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 Whinfell 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 kill’d Hart a greese And Hart a greese kill'd Hercules.’ 3’he 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 Burns's History of Westmoreland and Cumherla?id. 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 Tlastles ; 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 Meg and her Daughters, near Eden, &c. &-C. Note 13, p. 308. 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, tlia* “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. Whitaker has derived it from the word of common occurrence in the north of England, ^'to greet;" signifying to lament aloud, mostly witli weeping: a conjecture rendered more probable from the stony and rocky channel of both the Cumberland and Yorkshire rivers. Tlie Cumberland Greta, though it does not, among the 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 TJiirlmere, 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 immense stones wliich, 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 refluitque fluitque, Occurrensque sibi venturas aspicit undas.’ Note 14, p. 317. 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 w'ould 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 w'hole, the safest guide that we can take in judging our fellow-men, whether of past ages, or of the present time. Note 15, p. 328. “ The White Doe of Rylstone." The Poem of the lYhite 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. 38.3 tradition is as follows: — “About this time,” not long after the Dissolution, “ a White Doe, say the aged people of the neighbourhood, long continued to make a weekly pilgrimage from Rylstone over the fells of Bolton, and was constantly found in the Abbey Church- yard during divine service; after the close of which she returned home as regularly as tlie rest of the con- gregation.” — Dr. Whitaker’s History 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 Ball.ad. “Bolton Priory,” says Dr. Whitaker in his excellent book. The History and Antiquities of the Deanery of Craven, “ stands upon a beautiful curvature of the Wharf, on a level sufficiently 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 W'ashes the foot of a rock nearly perpendicu- lar, and of the richest purple, where several of tlie 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 sun, and the bounding hills beyond, neither too near nor too lofty to exclude, even in winter, any portion of his rays. “ But, after all, the glories of Bolton are on the North. Whatever the most fastidious taste could re- quire to constitute a perfect landscape is not only found here, but in its proper place. In front, and immedi- ately under the eye, is a smooth e.xpanse 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 forw'ard, are seen the aged groves of Bolton Park, the growth of centuries ; and farther yet, the barren and rocky distances of Simon-seat and Barden Fell contrasted with the warmth, fertility, and luxuriant foliage of the valley below. “ About half a mile above Bolton the valley closes, and either side of the Wharf is overhung by solemn woods, from which huge perpendicular masses of gray rock jut out at intervals. “This sequestered scene was almost inaccessible till of late, that ridings have been cut on both sides of the River, and the most interesting points laid open by judicious thinnings in the wmods. Here a tributary stream rushes from a waterfall, and bursts through a woody glen to mingle its waters with the Wharf; there the Wharf itself is nearly lost in a deep cleft in the rock, and next becomes a horned flood enclosing a woody island — sometimes it reposes fora moment, and 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, arnid.st the silence of tlie 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. 331. “ Who loved the Shepherd Lord to meet.” At page 186 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, wlio had lived to tlie 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 arc dated at Barden. “His early habits, and the want of those artificial measures of time which even shepherds now possess, had 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 w'hom 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, 384 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. they must have been the work of those Canons whom he almost exclusively conversed with. “ In these peaceful employments Lord Clifford spent tlie 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 Flotlden, 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, 1523, 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 ap|X)inted 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 thera Note 17, p. 33S. “ In that other day of Neville's Cross. “ In the night before the battle of Durham was striick- en and begun, the 17th day of October, amio, 1346, 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 the 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 Rlaid’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 for the victory in the said battle : (a groat 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 such holy persons, so occupied in prayer, being protected and defended by the mighty Providence of AlmigTity 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 tlie Scots, their enemies: And then the said Prior and monks accompanied witli 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 the 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 tlie 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 brought home victory ; which banner-cloth, after the dissolution of the abbey, fell into the posses- sion of Dean Whittingham, whose wife, called Ka- therine, being a French woman, (as is most credibly reported by eye-witnesses,) did most injuriously burn the same in her fire, to the open conten)pt 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. 351. "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 accom- 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 worshipjHjd ? Immediate- ly, casting away vain superstition, he besought the King to grant him, what the laws did not allow to a Priest, arms and a courser (equum emissariuin) ; which POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 385 •lounting, and furnished with a sword and lance, he proceeded to destroy the Idols. The crowd, seeing’ tliis, thought him mad — he however halted not, but, approaching, he profaned the Temple, casting against it the lance wliich 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 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, polluit ac destruxit eas, quas ipse sacraverat aras.” The last expression is a pleasing proof that the venerable Monk of Wearmouth was familiar with the poetry of Virgil. Note 19, p. 357. Sonnet XIII. “ Wiclije.” [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. Wicklrffe’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 his 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 disj.!>rsed all the world over.”— F ci.ler. —''The Church History of Britain." — 'Rook 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 Cmsar 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 itl 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. 360. “ 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 loi ke 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 386 WORDSWORTFPS POETICAL WORKS. comely a father as one might lightly behold. * * * * Tlipn they brought a fagotto, 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 tlie above passage in Dr. Words- worth’s Ecclesiastical Biography, for an example in an humble Welsh fisherman. Note 21, p. 381. “ 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 Ox- ford. And I do now give you ten groats to bear your charges to Exeter ; and here is ten groats more, which 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 jmu on foot to the college ; and so God bless you, good Richard.’ ” See Walton's Life of Rich- ard Hooker. Note 22, p. 362. “ Laud." 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 tlie House of Peers: — ‘‘Ever since I came in place, I have laboured nothing more, than that the external publick worship of God, so much slighted in divers parts of this kingdom, miglit be preserved, and that with as much decency and uni- formity as might be. For I evidently saw, that the publick neglect of God’s service in the outward face 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. 365. ‘‘ A genial hearth, And a refined rusticity, belong To the 7ieat Mansion," Among the benifits arising, as Mr. Coleridge has well observed, from a Church Establishment of endow- ments corresponding with the wealth of the Country to which it belongs, may be reckoned, as eminently important, the examples of civility and refinement which the Clergy, stationed at intervals, afford to the whole people. The established Clergy in many parts of England have long been, as they continue to be, the principal bulwark against barbarism, and the link which unites the sequestered Peasantry with the in- tellectual advancement of the age. Nor is it below the dignity of the subject to observe, that their Taste, as acting upon rural Residences and scenery, often furnishes models which Country Gentlemen, who are tnore 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 from prudence and necessity. I remember being much pleased, some years ago, at Rose Castle, the rural 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 swept away. A Parsonage-house .generally stands not far from the Church ; this proximity imposes favourable restraints, and sometimes suggests an affecting 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 and 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 see p. 228. POEMS OF THE I M A G I N A T 1 0 887 ADDITIONAL NOTES. Page 164. “ Yew Trees” [Mr, Ruskin in his chapter on “Imagination Con- templative” refers to — “ the real and high action of the Imagination in Wordsworth’s Yew Trees” (perhaps the most vigorous and solemn bit of forest landscape ever painted) : — “Each particular trunk a growth Of intertwisted fibres serpentine, Up coiling and inveterately convolved, Nor uninformed with phantasy, and looks That threaten the profane.” It is too long to quote, but the reader should refer to it : let him note, especially if painter, that pure touch of colour, “ by sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged.” “ Modern Painters” Vol. II., p. 189. Part III., Sect, ii.. Chap. iv. Coleridge in quoting this poem, in his ‘ Biographia Lileraria' substituted the word Spinal' for Opining umbrage,’ and his daughter remarks, “I have left my father’s substitution, as a curious instance of a possible different reading. ‘Piny shade’ and piny ‘verdure’ we read of in the poets, but ‘pinal’ I believe is new. Pining, which has quite a different sense, is doubtless i still better; but, perhaps my father’s ear shrunk from it after the word ‘ sheddings' at the beginning of the line. S. C.” — (Sara Coleridge.) “ Biographia Lileraria,” Vol. II., p. 177, Note: Chap, ix. — H. R.] Page 167. “T/ie Horn of Egremont Castle.” This story is a Cumberland tradition. I have heard it also related of the Hall of Hutton John, an ancient residence of the Huddlestons, in a sequestered valley upon the river Dacor. Page 186. “Son^ at the Feast of Brougham Castle.” [“The transitions and vicissitudes in this noble lyric, I have always thought, rendered it one of the finest specimens of modern subjective poetry which our age has seen. Tlie ode commences in a tone of high gratu- lation and festivity — a tone not only glad, but, com- paratively, even jocund and light-hearted. The Clif- ford is restored to the home, the honours, and estates of his ancestors. Then it sinks and falls away to the re- membrance of tribulation — times of war and bloodshed, flight and terror, and hiding away from the enemy — times of poverty and distress, when the Clifford was brought, j a little child to the shelter of the northern valley, i 1 After a while it emerges from those depths of sorrow— gradually rises into a strain of elevated tranquillity aii.l contemplative rapture ! I’hrough the power of the imagination, the beautiful and impressive aspects of nature are brought into relationship with the spirit of him, whose fortunes and character form the subject of the piece, and are represented as gladdening and e.\- alting it, whilst they keep it pure and unspotted from the world. Suddenly the Poet is carried on with greater animation and passion; — he has returned to the point whence he started — flung himself back into the tide of stirring life and moving events. All is to come over again, struggle and conflict, chances and changes of war, victory and triumph, overthrow and desolation. I know nothing, in lyric poetry, more beautiful or affecting than the final transition from this part of the ode, with its rapid metre, to the slow elegiac stanzas at the end ; when, from the warlike fervour and eagerness, the jubilant menacing strain which has just been described, the Poet passes back into the .sub- lime silence of Nature gathering amid her deep and quiet bosom a more subdued and solemn tenderness than he had manifested before ; — it is as if from the heights of the imaginative intellect, his spirit had retreated into the recesses of a profoundly thoughtful Christian I heart. — S. C.” (Sara Coleridge.) Biographia Lile- raria of S. T. Coleridge, Vol. II., p. 152, Note: Edit, 1847. — H. R.] Page 215. “ Mild content.” “ Something less than joy, but more than dull content.” Countess of Wi.nchelse.v. Page 221. “The world is too much with us; late and soon.” [See Dr. Arnold’s comment on this sonnet as quoted by him: “Miscellaneous Works of Thomas Arnold, D. D.,” p. 311 : and also that of Mr. Henry Taylor, in the Quarterly Review, Vol. LXIX., p. 25., No. 1-37, now reprinted in Mr. Taylor’s “ Notes from Books.”— H. R.] Page 229. “ Strange visitation,” cj-c. This Sonnet, as Poetry, explains itself, yet the scene of the incident having been a wild wood, it may be doubted, as a point of natural history, whether the bird was aware that his attentions were bestowed upon a human, or even a living creature. But a Redbreast will perch upon the foot of a gardener at work, and 388 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. alight on the handle of the spade when his hand is half upon it — this I have seen. And under my own roof I nave witnessed affecting instances of the creature’s friendly visits to the chambers of sick persons, as de- scribed in tlie verses to the Redbreast, page 127. One of these welcome intruders used frequently to roost upon a nail in the wall, from which a picture had hung, and was ready, as morning came, to pipe his song in the hearing of the invalid, who had long been confined to her room. These attachments to a particular person, when marked and continued, used to be reckoned ominous; but the superstition is passing away. Page 237. “ At Furness Abbey.” [The subject of tliese four sonnets (Nos. XXII. to XXV.), was also handled by the author in his “Two Letters on the Kendal and Windermere Railway” — published in tlie “ Morning Post,” (London,) and after- wards reprinted in a pamphlet, in 184.5. The following is an extract from the second letter : “It will be felt, by those who think with me on this occasion, that I have been writing on behalf of a social condition which no one, who is competent to judge of it, will be willing to subvert; and that I have been en- deavouring to support moral sentiments and intellectual pleasures of a high order against an enmity wdiich seems growing more and more formidable every day ; 1 mean ‘Utilitarianism,’ serving as a mask for cupidity and gambling speculations. My business with this evil lies in its reckless mode of action by Railways — now its favourite instruments. Upon good authority, I have been told that there was lately an intention of driving one of these pests, as they are likely too often to prove, through a part of the magnificent ruins of Furness Abbey — an outrage which was prevented by some one pointing out how easily a deviation might be made; and the hint produced its due effect upon the engineer. “ Sacred as that relic of the devotion of our ancestors deserves to be kept, there are temples of Nature — tem- ples built by the Almighty, which have a still higher claim to be left unviolated. Almost every reach of the winding vales in this district might once have pre- sented itself to a man of imagination and feeling under that aspect; or, as the Vale of Grasmere appeared to the Poet Gray, more than seventy years ago. ‘No flaring gentleman’s house,’ says he, ‘ nor garden-walls, break in upon the repose of this little unsuspected para- dise, but all is peace,’ &c., &c. Were the poet now living, how would he have lamented the probable intru- sion of a railway, with its scarifications, its intersections, its noisy machinery, its smoke, and swarms of pleasure- hunters, most of them thinking that they do not fly fast enough through the country which they have come to see. Even a broad highway may, in some places, greatly impair the characteristic beauty of the country, as will be readily acknowledged by those who remem- ber what the Lake of Grasmere was before the new road that runs along its eastern margin had been con- structed. Quanto prasstantius essei Numen aquae viridi si margine clauderet undas Herba As it once was, and fringed with wood, instead of the breastwork of bare wall that now confines it. In the same manner has the beauty, and still more the sub- limity of many Passes in the Alps been injuriously affected.” After citing the sonnet entitled “ Steamboats, Via- ducts and Railways,” written some years before, and contained in the “Poems Suggested during a Tour in 1833,” to show that he was “far from undervaluing the benefit to be expected from railways in their legitimate application,” the writer concluded as follows: “ I have now done with the subject. The time of life at which I have arrived may, I trust, if nothing else will, guard me from the imputation of having written from any selfish interest, or from fear of dis- turbance which a railway might cause to myself. If gratitude for what repose and quiet in a district hitlierto, for the most part, not disfigured but beautified by liuman hands, have done for me through the course of a long life, and hope that others might be benefited in the same manner and in the same country, be selfishness; then, indeed, but not otherwise, I plead guilty to the charge. Nor have I opposed this undertaking on account of the inhabitants of the district merely, but as hath been intimated, for the sake of every one, however humble his condition, who coming hither shall bring with him an eye to perceive, and a heart to feel and worthily to enjoy. And as for holiday pastimes, if a scene is to be chosen suitable to them, for persons thronging from a distance, it may be found elsewhe. ^ at less cost of every kind. But, in fact, we have too much hurrying about in these islands; much for idle pleasure, and more from over-activity in the pursuit of wealth, without regard to the good or happiness of others.” — II. R.] Page 239. The following is extracted from the journal of my fellow-traveller, to which, as persons acquainted with my poems will know, I have been obliged on other occasions ; — “ Dumfries, August, 1803. “On our way to the church-yard where Burns is buried, we were accompanied by a bookseller, who showed us the outside of Burns’s house, where he had lived the last three years of his life, and where he died. It has a mean appearance, and is in a bye situation ; the front whitewashed ; dirty about the doors, as most Scotch houses are; flowering plants in the window. Went to visit his grave ; he lies in a corner of the church-yard, and his second son, Francis \5'allace, be- side him. There is no stone to mark the spot; but a hundred guineas have been collected to be expended upon some sort of monument. ‘ There,’ said the book- POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 380 seller, pointing to a pompous monument, ‘ lies Mr. (t have forgotten the name) — a remarkably clever man; he was an attorney, and scarcely ever lost a cause he undertook. Burns made many a lampoon upon him, and there they rest as you see.’ We looked at Burns’s grave with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other his own poet’s epitaph : — Is there a man,’ &,c. “The church-yard is full of grave-stones and ex- pensive monuments, in all sorts of fantastic shapes — obelisk-wise, pillar-wise, &.c. When our guide had left us we turned again to Burns’s grave, and afterwards went to his house, wishing to inquire after Mrs. Burns, who was gone to spend some time by the sea-shore with her children. We spoke to the maid-servant at the door, who invited us forward, and we sate down in the parlour. Tlie walls were coloured with a blue wash ; on one side of the fire was a mahogany desk ; opposite the window a clock, which Burns mentions, in one of his letters, having received as a present. The house was cleanly and neat in the inside, the stairs of stone scoured white, tlie kitchen on the right side of the passage, the parlour on the left. In the room above the parlour the poet died, and his son, very lately, in the same room. The servant told us she had lived four years with Mrs. Burns, who was now in great sorrow for the death of Wallace. She said that Mrs. B.’s youngest son was n-:w at Christ’s Hospital. We were glad to leave Dumfries, where we could think of little but poor Burns, and his moving about on that unpoetic ground. In our road to Brownhill, the next stage, we passed Ellisland, at a little distance on our right — his farm-house. Our pleasure in looking round would have been still greater, if the road had led us nearer the spot. ****** “ I cannot take leave of this country which we passed through to-day, without mentioning that we saw the Cumberland mountains within half-a-mile of Ellisland, Burns’s house, the last view we had of them. Drayton has prettily described the connexion which this neigh- bourhood has with ours, when he makes Skiddaw say, — ‘ Scruffel, from the sky That Annandale doth crown, with a most amorous eye Salutes me every day, or at my pride looks grim. Oft, threatening me with clouds, as I oft threaten him.’ “ These lines came to my brother’s memory, as well as the Cumberland saying, — ‘ If Skiddaw hath a cap, Scruffel wots well of that.’ “We talked of Burns, and of the prospect he must have had, perhaps from his own door, of Skiddaw and his companions; indulging ourselves in the fancy that we might have been personally known to each other, and he have looked upon those objects with more plea- sure for our sakes.” [The fellow-traveller, whose admirable Journal is here and elsewhere quoted, was the poet’s sister, whose genius and influence upon his character have been jKirtly made known by the Tintern Abbey Lines, and now will become more so by his beautiful tribute.s of gratitude to her in “ The Prelude," particularly in Book XI., and in the fine passage in Book XIV., beginning : “Child of my parents! Sister of my soul I” Wordsworth’s opinion of the character of Burns, and of the proper mode of treating it in biograpliy, has been given also in prose, in his “ Letter to a Friend of Robert Burns,” (James Gray, Esq., Edinburgh,) published in pamphlet in 181G. — II. R.] Page 253. “Jones! as from Calais southward." (See Dedication to “Descriptive Sketches,” p. 29.) This excellent Person, one of my earliest and dearest friends, died in the year 1835. We were under-gra- duates together of the same year, at the same college; and companions in many a deliglitful ramble Ibrough his own romantic Country of Nortli Wales. Mucii of the latter part of his life he passed in comparative solitude; which I know was often cheered by remem- brance of our youthful adventures, and of tlie beautiful regions which at lioine and abroad, we had visited to- gether. Our long friendship was never subject to a moment’s interruption, — and, while revising these volumes for the last time, I have been so often reminded of my loss, with a not unpleasing sadness, that 1 trust the Reader will excuse this passing mention of a IMan W'ho well deserves from me something more than so brief a notice. Let me only add, that during the middle part of his life he resided many years (as In- cumbent of the Living) at a Parsonage in Oxfiirdshire, which is the subject of the 33d of the “ Miscellaneous Sonnets,” Part IL, p. 228. Page 2.57. Sonnet xxvii. “ Danger which they fear, and honour which they understand not," Words in Lord Brooke’s Life of Sir P. Sidney. Page 259. “Tract occasioned by the Convention of Cintra." [Of this prose work, Southey writing to William Taylor, of Norwich, says with a confident anticipation which was realized: “ Wordsworth’s pamphlet upon the cursed Cintra Convention will be in that strain of political morality to which Hutchinson, and Milton, and Sidney could have set their hands.” “ Keswick, December G, 1608.” Life of Taylor, Vol. II. p. 232. The title “pamphlet,” it may be added, does not adequately name this philosophical and eloquent 33* 390 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. treatise on the principles of government and nationality as applied to the affairs of Spain and Portugal during the Peninsular War. — H. R.] Page 260. men, they have no wings to fly from God : war is his beadle, war is his vengeance.'" Act IV., Scene 1. — H. R.] Page 273. '•'Perilous is sweeping change, all chance unsound." “ O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain." [Tliat thoughtful -and eloquent writer, the younger Aubrey De Vere, in quoting tliis sonnet, lias accom- panied it with the following classical comment : “ The fact that defensive wars are religious wars, and assisted by religious sanctions, is in no instance more remarkably illustrated than in the glorious de- 1 fence of Greece against Persia. Among the instances of supernatural aid by which the righteous cause was supposed to have been vindicated, perhaps the most re- markable was the interference of the god Pan, wiio had promised to leave his Arcadian retreats, and to help tlie Athenians at Marathon. It was in commemoration of such aid that the Athenians dedicated to that pastoral, and not less mystical divinity, the cave in tlie rocky foundations of the Acropolis, which still bears his name. As I gazed on that cave, I could not but call to mind that the support which the Athenians believed they had received, was no other than that to which Wordsworth appealed on behalf of the Tyrolese. The circumstance is a singular instance of that analogy of thought which is to be found in all places and at all times, when great minds are moved by great events. The deepest poet of modern times uttering, in his ‘ Sonnets Dedicated to Liberty,’ his solemn and authoritative protest against the aggressive tyranny of Buonaparte, and exhorting each nation of Europe, in turn, to withstand that ag- gression to the death, admonishes them likewise that ‘The power of armies is a visible thing. Formal and circumscribed in time and place.’ And bids them place their trust in that universal prin- ciple of Strength, Justice and Immortality, of which the soul of man is the special abode, and of which Pan was a Pagan type.” Aulrrey De Vere's Picturesque Sketches of Greece and Turkey, Vol. I., p. 204, Chap. viii. — II. R.] “All change is perilous, and all chance unsound.” Spen.ser. Page 278. Sonnet i. If in this Sonnet I should seem to have borne a little too hard upon the personal appearance of the worthy Poissards of Calais, let me take shelter under the autho- rity of my lamented friend, the late Sir George Beau- mont. lie, a most accurate observer, used to say of them, that their features and countenances seemed to have conformed to those of the creatures they dealt in; at all events the resemblance was striking. Page 321. " Aquapcndente." It would be ungenerous not to advert to the religious movement that, since tlie composition of these verres in 1837, has made itself felt, more or less strongly, through- out the English Church; — a movement that takes, for its first principle, a devout deference to the voice of Christian antiquity. It is not my office to pass judgment on questions of theological detail ; but my own i ejuig- nance to the spirit and system of Romanism ha.s been so repeatedly and, I trust, feelingly expressed, that I shall not be suspected of a leaning that way, if I do not join in the grave charge, thrown out, perhaps in the heat of controversy, against the learned and pious men to whose labours I allude. I speak apart from controversy ; but, with strong faith in the moral temper which would elevate the present by doing reverence to the past, I would draw cheerful auguries for the English Clinrch from this movement, as likely to restore among us a tone of piety more earnest and real, than that produced by the mere formalities of the understanding, refusing, in a degree, which I cannot but lament, that its own temper and judgment shall be controlled by those of antiquity. [1842.] Page 321. Page 260. “ Zaragoza." In this Sonnet I am under some obligations to one of an Italian author, to which I cannot refer. Page 270-1. "Thanksgiving Ode." Stanza xii. [The poetical figures, which once were objected to as expressing too strongly the idea of this stanza, are not without a parallel in Shakspeare, in that passage of “Henry the Fifth,” where the king is represented saying, “ * * if tliese men have defeated law, and outrun native punishment, though they can outstrip Within a couple of hours of my arrival at Rome, I saw from Monte Pincio, the Pine tree as described in the sonnet; and, while expressing admiration at the beauty of its appearance, I was told by an acquaintance of my fellow-traveller, who happened to join us at the moment, that a price had been paid for it by tlie late Sir G. Beaumont, upon condition tliat tlie proprietor should not act upon his known intention of cutting it down. Page 325. “ Camaldoli." This famous sanctuary was the original establish- ment of Saint Romualdo, (or Rumwald, as our ancestors saxonised the name) in the 11th century, the ground POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. sni (cainpo) being given by a Count Maldo. The Camaldo- lensi, liowever, have spread wide as a branch of Bene- dictines, and may therefore be classed among the ^en- tlcmen of the monastic orders. The society compre- hends two orders, monks and hermits; symbolised by their arms, two doves drinking out of the same cup. The monastery in which the monks here reside, is beautifully situated, but a large unattractive edifice, not unlike a factory. The hermitage is placed in a loftier and wilder region of the forest. It comprehends between 20 and 30 distinct residences, each including for its single hermit an inclosed piece of ground and three very small apartments. There are days of in- dulgence when the liermit may quit his cell, and when old age arrives, he descends from the mountain and takes his abode among the monks. My companion had, in the year 1831, fallen in with the monk, the subject of these two sonnets, who showed him his abode among the hermits. It is from him that I received the following particulars. He was then about 40 years of age, but his appearance was that of an older man. He had been a painter by profession, but on taking orders changed his name from Santi to Raffaello, perhaps with an unconscious reference as well to the great Sanzio d’Urbino as to the archangel. He assured my friend that he had been 13 years in the hermitage and had never known melancholy or ennui. In the little recess for study and prayer, tliere was a small collection of books. “I read only,” said he, “ books of asceticism and mystical theology.” On being asked the names of the most famous mystics, he enume- rated Scaramelli, San Giovanni della Croce, Si. Diony- sius the Areopagite (supposing the work which bears his name to be really his), and with peculiar emphasis Ricardo di San Vittori. The works of Saint Theresa are also in high repute among ascetics. These names may interest some of my readers. We heard that Raffaello was then living in the con- vent ; my friend sought in vain to renew his acquaint- ance with him. It was probably a day of seclusion. The reader will perceive that these sonnets were sup- po.sed to be written when he was a young man. Page 325. “H7mt aim had they the pair of Monks?’' In justice to the Benedictines of Camaldoli, by whom strangers are so hospitably entertained, I feel obliged to notice, that I saw among them no other figures at all resembling, in size and complexion, the two Monks de- scribed in this Sonnet. What was their office, or ihe motive which brought them to this place of mortifica- tion, which they could not have approaclicd williout being carried in this or some other way, a feeling of delicacy prevented me from inquiring. An account has before been given of the hermitage they were about to enter. It was visited by us toward the end of the month of May; yet snow was lying thick under tlie pine-trees, within a few yards of the gate. Page 325. “At Vallombrosa." The name of Milton is pleasingly connected witn Vallombrosa in many ways. The pride with which tlie Monk, without any previous question from me, pointed out his residence, I shall not readily forget. It may be proper here to defend the Poet from a charge which has been brought against him, in respect to the passage in “ Paradise Lost,” where this place is mentioned. It is said, that he has erred in speaking of the trees there being deciduous, whereas they are, in fact, pines. The fault-finders are themselves mistaken; the natural woods of the region of Vallombrosa are deciduous, and spread to a great extent; those near the convent are, indeed, mostly pines; but they are avenues of trees planted within a few steps of each other, and thus com- posing large tracts of wood ; plots of which are pe- riodically cut down. The appearance of those narrow avenues, upon steep slopes open to the sky, on account of the height which the trees attain by being forced to grow upwards, is often very impressive. My guide, a boy of about fourteen years old, pointed this out to me in several places. 392 WORDSWORTirS P 0 E T I C A L W 0 R K S. SUPPLEMENTARY NOTE. [The Author’s political Work on “ The Relations of j Great Britain, Spain and Portugal," (referred to at p. 259, and in the Notes, pp. 377 and 389,) has become 60 rare a volume that I insert here the two following extracts, not only on account of the valuable truths expressed in them, but also as having an especial interest for the American reader. Treating of the qualifications needed by military men, as “ heads of an army,” Wordsworth speaks of, — “ # * * intellectual courage * * * that higher quality, which is never found witliout one or other of the three accompaniments, talents, gCHius, or principle; — talents matured by experience, without which it cannot exist at all; or the rapid insight of peculiar genius, by which the fitness of an act may be instantly determined, and which will supply higher motives than mere talents can furnish for encountering difficulty and danger, and will suggest better resources for diminishing or overcoming them. Thus, through the power of genius, this quality of intellectual courage may exist in an eminent degree, tho.ugli the moral character be greatly perverted ; as in those personages who are so conspicuous in history, conquerors and usurpers, the Alexanders, the Caesars and Cromwells; and in that other class still more perverted, remorseless and energetic minds, the Catilines, and Borgias, whom poets have denominated “bold bad men.” But though a course of depravity will neither preclude nor destroy this quality, nay, in certain circumstances will give it a peculiar promptness and hardihood of decision, it is not on this account the less true, that to consummate tins species of courage, and to render it equal to all occasions (especially when a man is not acting for him- self, but has an additional claim on his resolution from the circumstance of responsibility to a superior), princi- ple is indispensably requisite. I mean that fixed and habitual principle, which implies the absenceof all selfish anticipations, whetiier of hope or fear, and tlie inward disavowal of any tribunal higher and more dreaded than the mind’s own judgment upon its own act. The ex- istence of such principle cannot but elevate the most confmanding genius, add rapidity to the quickest glance, a wider range to the most ample comprehension; but without this principle, the ordinary powers must, in the trying hour, be found utterly wanting. Neither with- out it can the man of excelling powers be trust-worthy, or have at all times a calm and confident repose in himself. But he. in whom talents, genius, and principle are united, will have a firm mind, in whatever em- barrassments he may be placed ; will look steadily at the most undefined shapes of difficulty and danger, of possible mistake or mischance ; nor will they appear to him more formidable than they really are. For his attention is not distracted — he has but one business, and that is with the object before him. Neither in general conduct nor in particular emergencies, are his plans subservient to considerations of rewards, estate or title : these are not to have precedence in his thoughts, to govern his actions, but to follow in the train of his duty. Such men in ancient times, were Pliocion, Epaminondas, and Philopoemen; and such a man was Sir Philip Sidney, of whom it has been said, that he first taught his country the majesty of honest dealing. With these may be named the honour of our own age, Washington, the deliverer of the American Continent ; with these, though in many things unlike. Lord Nelson, whom we have lately lost. Lord Peterborough, who fought in Spain a hundred years ago, had the same e.x- cellence with a sense of exalted honour, and a tinge of romantic enthusiasm, well suited to the country which was the scene of his exploits.” — Pages 54-5-6. fi* * * Our duty is — our aim ought to be — to employ the true means of liberty and virtue for the ends of liberty and virtue. In such policy, thoroughly under- stood, there is fitness and concord and rational subordina- tion ; it deserves a higher name — organization, health, and grandeur. Contrast, in a single instance, the two processes; and the qualifications which they require. The ministers of that period found it an easy task to hire a band of Hessians, and to send it across the Atlantic, that they might assist in bringing the Americans (according to the phrase then prevalent) to reason. The force with which these troops would attack was gross — tangible — and might be calculated ; but the spirit of resistance, which their presence would create, was subtle — ethereal — mighty — and incalcu- lable. Accordingly, from the moment when tirese foreigners landed — men who had no interest, no busi- ness in the quarrel, but what the wages of their master bound them to, and he imposed upon his miserable slaves; — nay, from the first rumour of their destina- tion, the success of the British was (as has since been affirmed by judicious Americans) impossible.” Pages 139-40. — II. R.] POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION* EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. ‘ Why, William, on that old gray stone, Thus for the length of half a day. Why, William, sit you thus alone. And dream your time away? 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? — 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 EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT. Up ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books ; Or surely you ’ll grow double : Up ! up ! my Friend, and clear your looks ; Why all this toil and trouble ? The sun, above the mountain’s head, A freshening l-ustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread. His first sweet evening yellow. Books! ’t is 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. Lot 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 these barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. WRITTEN IN GERMANY, ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OP THE CENTURY The Reader must be apprised, that the Stoves in Norih-Ger many generally have the impression of a galloping Horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick Arms. A PLAGUE on your languages, German and Norse ! Let me have the song 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. 3n haughty Time be just! THE WISHING-GATE DESTROYED.* ’T IS gone — with old belief and dream That round it clung, and tempting scheme Released from fear and doubt; And the bright landscape too must lie, By this blank wall from every eye Relentlessly shut out. Bear witness ye who seldom passed That opening — but a look ye cast Upon the lake below. What spirit-stirring power it gained From faith which here was entertained, Though reason might say no. Blest is that ground, where, o’er the springs Of history. Glory claps her wings. Fame sheds the exulting tear; Yet earth is wide, and many a nook Unheard of is, like this, a book For modest meanings dear. It was in sooth a happy thought That grafted, on so fair a spot. So confident a token Of coming good; — the charm is, fled; Indulgent centuries spun a thread. Which one harsh day has broken. Alas! for him who gave the word; Could he no sympathy afford. Derived from earth or heaven, To hearts so oft by hope betrayed ; Their very wishes wanted aid Which here was freely given 1 Where, for the love-lorn maiden’s wound, Will now so readily be found A balm of expectation I Anxious for far-off children, where Shall mothers breathe a like sweet air Of home-felt consolation? * See ante, p. 399. Having been told, upon what I thought good authority, that this gate had been destroyed, and the opening, where it hung, walled up, I gave vent immediately to my feelings in these stanzas. But going to the place some time after, I found, with much delight, my old favourite unmolested. And not imfelt will prove the loss ’Mid trivial care and petty cross And each day’s shallow grief ; Though the most easily beguiled Were oft among the first that smiled At their own fond belief. If still the reckless change we mourn, A reconciling thought may turn To harm that might lurk here. Ere judgment prompted from within Fit aims, with courage to begin. And strength to persevere. Not Fortune’s slave is man: our state Enjoins, while firm resolves await On wishes just and wise. That strenuous action follow both, And life be one perpetual growth Of heaven-ward enterprise. So taught, so trained, we boldly face All accidents of time and place; Whatever props may fail, Trust in that sovereign law can spread New glory o’er the mountain’s head. Fresh beauty through the vale. That truth informing mind and heart, The simplest cottager may part. Ungrieved with charm and spell ; And yet, lost Wishing-gate, to thee The voice of grateful memory Shall bid a kind farewell! DION.* (SEE PLtJT.'VRCH.) 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, [* In the later editions, the opening stanza (down to the 20th line) has been removed to the notes, with the follow- ing explanation from the author : — “ This poem began with the following stanza which has been displaced on account of its detaining the reader too long from the subject, and as rather precluding, than preparing for, the due effect of the allusion to the genius of Plato.” It is a remarkable instance of the comparative sacrifice of a passage of great beauty to the Poet’s dutiful regard for the principles of his Art. — H. R.] 416 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 ! 2 . 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 princely 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 flowers, 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 flowers 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 bestrown; 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 Illyssus, bending o’er thy classic urn ! Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads Your once sweet memor}', 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 riglit (More fair than heaven’s broad causeway paved w’ith stars) Which Dion learned to measure with delight ; But he hath overleaped the eternal bars ; And, following guides w’hose craft holds no consent With aught that breathes the ethereal element. Hath 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 triumpliant pain ; And off his cogitations sink as tow As, through the abysses of a joyless heart. The heaviest plummet of despair can go ; But whence that sudden check 1 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 Mrenalus he stops His flight, ’mid eddying pine-tree tops! 5 . 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 L “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 have borne !” 6 . But Shapes that come not at an earthly call. Will not depart when mortal voices bid Lords of the visionary Eye, whose 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. 417 Vour Minister would brush away The spots that to my soul adhere ; But should she labour night and day, They will not, cannot disappear; Wlience angry perturbations, — and that look Which no Philosophy can broolr ! 7. 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 ! O matchless perfidy ! portentous lust Of monstrous crime I — 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 w’ept — And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh ; But in calm peace the appointed Victim slept. As he had 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 W’ere 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-horn 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. 3C How oft from you, derided Powers ! Comes Faitli that in auspicious hours Builds castles, not of air ; Bodings unsanctionod 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 w'orld ! ’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. 418 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Unwelcome Insight! Yet there are Blest times when mystery is laid hare, Truth shows a glorious face, While on that Isthmus wliich 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 Words which the virtues of thy Lord inspired. Was yet not bold enough to write of Thee. 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. High-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 retiredness a veil That, while it only spreads a softening charm O’er features looked at by discerning eyes. Hides half their beauty from tlie common gaze, And thus, even on the exposed and breezy hill Of lofty 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, Belield 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 Yrt 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. rOEMS OF SENTIMENT AND UEFLECTION. 419 POOR ROBIN.* Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March winds in full blow', And humbler grow ths as moved with one desire Put on to welcome spring their best attire, Poor Robin is yet tiowerless ; but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day ! And, as his tufts of leaves he spreads, content With a hard bed and scanty nourishment, Mixed with the green, some shine not lacking power To rival summer’s brightest scarlet flower; And flowers they well might seem to passers-by If looked at only with a careless eye ; Flowers — or a richer produce (did it suit The season) sprinklings of ripe strawberry fruit. But while a thousand pleasures come unsought, Why fix upon his wealth or want a thought'! Is the string touched in prelude to a lay Of pretty fancies that would round him play When all the world acknowledged elfin sway! Or does it suit our humour to commend Poor Robin as a sure and crafty friend. Whose practice teaches, spite of names to show Bright colours whether they deceive or no! — Nay, we would simply praise the free good-will With which, though slighted, he, on naked hill Or in warm valley, seeks his part to fill ; Cheerful alike if bare of flowers as now, Or when his tiny gems shall deck his brow: Yet more, we wish that men by men despised, And such as lift their foreheads overprized, Should sometimes think, where’er they chance to spy Phis child of Nature’s own humility. What recompense is kept in store or left For all that seem neglected or bereft: With what nice care equivalents are given, How just, how bountiful, the hand of Heaven. . March, 18-10. TO A REDBREAST — (IN SICKNESS). Stay, little cheerful Robin ! stay. And at my casement sing. Though it should prove a farewell lay And this our parting spring. Though I, alas! may ne’er enjoy The promise in thy song; A charm, lhal thought can not destroy, Doth to thy strain belong. Methinks that in my dying hour Thy song would still be dear. And with a more than earthly power My passing spirit cheer. * The small wild Geranium known by that name. Then, little Bird, this boon confer. Come, and my requiem sing. Nor fail to be the harbinger Of everlasting spring. — S- H. FLOATING ISLAND.* Tlifse lines are by llie Aiitlior of the Address to the Wind, &,c , published heretofore along with iny I’oenis. The above to a Ked* breast arc by a deceased female relative. IIaumonious Powers with Natttre work On sky, earth, river, lake and sea; Sunshine and cloud, whirlwind and breeze, ! All in one duteous task agree. Once did I see a slip of earth (By throbbing waves long undermined) Loosed from its hold ; how, no one knew. But all might see it float, obedient to the wind ; I Might see it, from the mossy shore Dissevered, float upon the Lake, Float with its crest of trees adorned On which the warbling birds their pastime take. Food, shelter, safety, there they find ; There berries ripen, flowerets bloom ; There insects live their lives, and die; A peopled world it is; in size a tiny room. And thus through many seasons’ space This little Island may survive; But Nature, though we mark her not, Will take away, may cease to give. Perchance when you are wandering forth Upon some vacant sunny day. Without an object, hope, or fear. Thither your eyes may turn— the Isle is passed away; Buried beneath the glittering Lake, Its place no longer to be found ; Yet the lost fragments shall remain To fertilize some other ground. — D. W. INSCRIPTION ON THE BANKS OF A ROCKY STREAM. Behold an emblem of our human mind Crowded with thoughts that need a settled home. Yet, like to eddying balls of foam Within this whirlpool, they each other chase Round and round, and neither find An outlet nor a resting place I Stranger, if such disquietude be thine, Fall on thy knees and sue for help divine. [* See Southey’s Life and Correspondence, Vol, III., p. 154, Ch. xiv., for an account of the Floating Island of 1 Derwentwater, in a letter from Southey to Mr. Rickman. l-II. R.l 420 WORDSWOKTH’S POETICAL WORKS. To , UPOX THE BIRTH OF HER FIRST-BORN CHILD, MARCH, 1833. ‘Turn porro piier, lit saevis projectus ab urulis Navita; niidus hunii jacet,” &c. — Lucretius. Like a shipwreck'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 crj\ 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 ? As a floating summer cloud. Though of gorgeous drapery proud. To the sun-burnt traveller. Or the stooping labourer, Ofttimes makes its bounty knowm 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 sight! 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, wdiile 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 be supplied ! Mother ! blest be thy calm ease ; Blest the starry promise.s, 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 fiiithful 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; POEMS OP SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 421 Hopes that within the Father’s heart prevail, Are in the experienced Grandsire’s slew to 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 La^'. 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 they prove For the unconscious Babe an unbelated 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 eloud, She soars — and here and there her pinions rest On proud tower.®, 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 crowd 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 note by such a gift with joy be moved. Nor feel the fulness of that joy reproved 1 Not He, whose last faint memory will command The truth that Britain was Iiis 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, tby 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 tru.=ts by folly are betrayed, — *Hee “Fkench Revolution,” p. 188. 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 urged 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 tliat crowd Into his English breast, and spare to quake Not for his own, but for thy innocent sake 1 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 ! 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 ; 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, shrinkmg up beneath the incumbent Now If cowardly conce.ssion 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 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 suffrage, at whose sage behest Justice shall rule, disorder be supprest. And every man sit down as Plenty’s Guest! 422 WORDSWOETirS POETICAL WORKS — O 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 ! IMay lie 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. ^A"hy 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! What saving skill Lie in forbearance, strength in standing still ? — 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 witli 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.) Kot from his fellow.s only man may learn Rights to com|>are and duties to discern : All creatures and all objects, in degree, Are friends and patnms 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 appmar their simplest ways; Their voices mount symbolical of praise — To mix W'ith 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 gfxxl 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 tlie 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, fi.xing, by immutable decrees. Seedtime 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 ♦The Rocking-Stones, alluded to. are supposed to have been used, by our British ancestors, both for judicial and religious pur- poses. Such stones are not uncommonly found, at this day, both in Great Britain and in Ireland. tThe author is indebted, here, to a passage in one of Mr. Dig- by’s valuable works. POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND llEFLECTION. 423 By discipline endeavour to grow meek As truth herself, wlioin 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 unoflTending creatures find release From qualified oppression, whose defence Re.sts on a hollow plea of recompense ; Thought-tempered wrongs, for each humane re.spect 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 Elysiaa 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 property in Man 1 Lay on the moral Will a withering ban 1 Shame that our laws at distance should protect Enormities, which they at home reject ! “ Slaves cannot breathe in England” — a proud boa.st ! And yet a mockery ! if, from coa.st 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 the 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 710, LINES SUGGESTED BV A PORTRAIT FROxM THE PENCIL 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 w'indow, 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 marhle neck Is, and the pillar of the throat woidd he But for the shadow by the drooping chin Cast into that recess — the tender shade. The shade and light, botli 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 upward looks. Prayer’s voiceless service; but now, seeking nought And shunning nought, 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 ,4rt, make me Thy confidant! say, wdience derived that 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 the blind Archer-god, her fancy free ; 424 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Tlie fount of feeling, if unsought elsewhere, Will not he 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. — Not from a source less sacred is derived (Surely I do not err) that pensive air Of calm abstraction through the face diffused 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 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 lefl 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 restoreand 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 tliose 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, + See Note. POEMS OF SENTLMENT AND REFLECTION. 425 In course of nature, under a low roof By charities and duties that proceed OuJ of the bosom of a w iser vow. To a like salutary sense of awe, Or sacred wonder, growing- with the power Of meditation that attempts to weigli, In faithful scales, tilings and their oppo.sites. Can thy enduring quiet gently raise A household small and sensitive, — wliose 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 entitled “ Musings,” in Mr. Southey’s Minor Poems, is one upon his own miniature Picture, taken in Child- hood, and another upon a landscape painted by Caspar Poussin. It is possible that every word of the alxive ver.ses, though similar in subject, might have been written had the author been unacquainted with those beautiful efl’usions of poetic senti- ment. But, for his own satisfaction, he must bo .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 them.* 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 ; With heart as calm as Lakes that sleep, In frosty moonlight glistening ; Or mountain Rivers, wlierc 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 ! 0 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 w'eary 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 stano fast ! Serene will be our days and bright. And happy will our nature be. When love is an unerring light. And joy its owm security. And they a blissful course may hold 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 stiictly, 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 this 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. See Note. 3D t See Note. 36* 426 WORDSWOKTH’S POETICAL WORKS. Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear The Godhead’s most benignant grace ; Nor know we any thing so fair As is the smile upon thy face : Flowers laugh before tliee on their beds; And Fragrance in thy footing treads ; Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong ; And the most ancient Heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong. To humbler functions, awful Power! I call thee : I myself commend Unto thy guidance from this hour; Oh, let my 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 . Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose Day’s grateful warmth, though moist with falling dews. Look for the stars, you ’ll say that there are none ; Ix)ok 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: Nor does the Village Church-clock’s iron tone The time’s and season’s influence disown ; Nine beats distinctly to each other bound In drowsy sequence; how unlike the sound That, in rough winter, ofl inflicts a fear On fireside Listeners, doubting what they hear ! 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. The Bat, lured forth where trees the lane o’ershade, Flits and reflits along the close arcade; Far-hoard 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 ! 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 chorus ; 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 I 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. III. (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 Iiis own sweet strain ; But both will soon be mastered, and tlie 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 V'as never greeted. Surely, from fairest spots of favoured lands. Were not some gifts withheld by jealous hands, • See Note, POEMS OF SENTLMENT AND llEFLECTION. 427 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 daion 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 ; IIow 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 tlioiiglit 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, breatliless, 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 lavvn. 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. ’T is 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 ru.stled on this oak-crowned hill. And sky that danced among those leave.s, are still ; Rest smooths the way fiir sleep; in field and bower Soft shades and dews have shed 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, ’mid inverted mountains, not unheard. Grave Creature ! whether, while the moon shines bright On thy wings opened wide for smoothest flight. Thou ait 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’.'it, 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, Ills 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. 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 mighty sea. Whispering how meek and gentle he can be ! Thou Power supreme I who, arming to rebuke Offenders, dost put off the gracious look, 428 WORDS WORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. 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 rem.ain ; Teach me with quick-eared spirit to rejoice In admonitions of thy softest voice! Whato’er the path these mortal feet m.ay trace, Breathe through my soul the blessing of thy grace. Glad, through a perfect love, a faith sincere Drawn from the wisdom tliat begins with fear; Glad to expand, and, for a season, free From finite cares, to rest absorbed in Thee ! YU. (BY THE SEA SIDE.) The 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 withdrawings, 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 sotiio, too heedless of past danger, court Fresh gales to waft them to the fiir-off port ; But near, or banging 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 thanks 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 !” viir. [The former of the two following Pieces appeared, many years ago, among the Autlior’s poems, from which, in subse- quent editions, it was excluded. It is here reprinted, at the request of a friend who W'as present when the lines were thrown off as an impromptu. For printing the latter, 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 finer from Beattie, by a couplet of Thom- son. This practice, in which the author sometimes indulges, of linking together, in his own mind, favourite passages from dif- ferent authors, seems in itself unobjectionable : but, as the piihlishinff such compilations might lead to confusion in litera- ture, he should deem himself inexcusable in giving this 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, The stars are out by twos and threes. The little birds are piping yet Among the bushes and trees; There ’s a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes. And a far-off' wind that rushes. And a sound of water that gushes. And the Cuckoo’s sovereign cry Fills all the hollow of the sky. Who would “ go parading” In London, “and masquerading,” On sucli a night of June With that beautiful soft half-moon. And all these innocent blisses. On such a night as this is? IX. Throned in the Sun’s descending car What Power unseen diffuses far This tenderness- of mind? What Genius smiles on yonder flood? 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 ! POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND llEFLECTIOxN. 429 X. COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SHORE. What mischief cleaves to unsubdued regret, How fancy sickens by vague hopes beset; How oaffled projects on the spirit prey, And fruitless wishes eat the heart away. The Sailor knows; he best, whose lot is cast On the relentless sea that holds him fast , On chance dependent, and the fickle star Of power, through long and melancholy war. O sad it is, in sight of foreign shores. Daily to think on old familiar doors. Hearths loved in childhood, and ancestral floors; Or, tossed about along a waste of foam. To ruminate on that delightful home Which with the dear betrothed was to come; Or came, and was, and is, yet meets the eye Never but in the world of memory ; Or in a dream recalled, whose smoothest range Is crossed by knowledge, or by dread,, of change. And if not so, whose perfect joy makes sleep A thing too bright for breathing man to keep. Hail to the virtues which that perilous life Extracts from Nature’s elemental strife ; And welcome glory won in battles fought As bravely as the foe was keenly sought. But to each gallant Captain and his crew A less imperious sympathy is duo. Such as my verse now yields, while moonbeams play On the mute sea in this unruffled bay ; Such as will promptly flow from every breast. Where good men disappointed in the quest Of wealth and power and honours, long for rest ; Or, having known the splendours of success. Sigh for the obscurities of happiness. XI. The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love, Glories of evening, as ye there are seen With but a span of sky between — Speak one of you, my doubts remove. Which is the attendant Page and which the Queen 1 XII. TO THE MOON. (COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, — ON THE COAST OF COMEEREAND.) Wandereu ! that stoop’st so low’, and com’st so near To human life’s unsettled atmosphere; Who lov’st with night and silence to partake. So might it seem, the cares of them that wake; And, through the cottage-lattice softly peeping. Dost shield from harm the humblest of the sleeping; What pleasure once encompassed those sweet names Which yet in thy behalf the poet claims. ' An idolizing dreamer as of yore ! — I slight them all ; and, on this sea-beat shore Sole sitting, only can to thoughts attend That bid me hail (heeas the Sailor’s Friend; So call thee for heaven’s grace through thee made known ' By confidence supplied and mercy shown, I When not a twinkling star or beacon’s liglit j Abates the perils of a stormy night ; I And for loss obvious benefits, that find I Their way, with thy pure help, to heart and mind ; Both for the adventurer starting in life’s prime; ' And veteran ranging round from clime to clime, Long-bafllcd hope’s slow fever in his veins. And wounds and weakness oft his labour’s sole remain. The aspiring mountains and the winding streams. Empress of Night ! are gladdened by thy beams ; A look of thine the wilderness pervades. And penetrates the forest’s inmost shades; Thou, chequering peaceably the minster’s gloom, Guid’st the pale mourner to the lost one’s tomb; Canst reach the prisoner — to his grated cell Welcome, though silent and intangible ! — And lives there one, of all that come and go On the great waters toiling to and fro. One, who has watched thee at some quiet hour Enthroned aloft in undisputed power. Or crossed by vapoury streaks and clouds that move, Catching the lustre they in part reprove — Nor sometimes felt a fitness in thy sway To call up thoughts that shun the glare of day. And make the serious happier than the gay? Yes, lovely Moon ! if thou so mildly bright Dost rouse, yet surely in thy own despite. To fiercer mood the phrenzy-stricken brain; Let me a compensating faith maintain ; Tliat there ^s a sensitive, a tender, part Which thou canst touch in every human heart. For healing and composure. — But, as least And mightiest billows ever have confessed Thy domination ; as the whole vast sea Feels through her lowest depths thy sovereignty ;. So shines that countenance with especial grace On them who urge the keel her plains to trace Furrowing its way right onward. The most rude, Cut off from home and country, may have stood — Even till long gazing hath bedimmed his eye. Or the mute rapture ended in a sigh — Touched by accordance of thy placid cheer. With some internal lights to memory dear. Or fancies stealing forth to soothe the breast Tired with its daily share of earth’s unrest, — Gentle awakenings, visitations meek ; A kindly influence whereof few will speak. Though it can wet with tears the hardiest cheek. And when thy beauty in the shadowy cave Is hidden, buried in its monthly grave ;. WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. iSO Then, while the sailor, mid an open sea Swept by a favouring wind that leaves thought free, Paces the deck — no star perhaps in sight. And nothing save the moving ship’s own light To cheer the long dark hours of vacant night — Oft with his musings does thy image blend, In his mind’s eye thy crescent horns ascend. And thou art still, O Moon, that Sailor’s Friend ! xiir. TO THE MOON. (RYDiL.) Queen of the stars ! — so gentle, so benign. That ancient fable did to thee assign. When darkness creeping o’er thy silver brow Warned thee these upper regions to forego. Alternate empire in the shades below — A Bard, who, lately near the wide-spread sea Traversed by gleaming ships, looked up to thee With grateful thoughts, doth now thy rising hail From the close confines of a shadowy vale. Glory of night, conspicuous yet serene. Nor less attractive when by glimpses seen Through cloudy umbrage, well might that fair face. And all those attributes of modest grace. In days when fancy wrought unchecked by fear, Down to tlie green earth fetch thee from thy sphere. To sit in leafy woods by fountains clear ! O still belov’d (for thine, meek Power, are charms That fascinate the very babe in arms. While he, uplifted towards thee, laughs outright. Spreading his little palms in his glad mother’s sight) O still belov’d, once worshipped ! Time, that frowns In his destructive flight on earthly crowns. Spares thy mild splendour; still those far-shot beams Tremble on dancing waves and rippling streams With stainless touch, as chaste as when thy praise Was sung by Virgin-choirs in festal lays; And through dark trials still dost thou explore Thy way for increase punctual as of yore. When teeming Matrons — yielding to rude faith In mysteries of birth and life and death And painful struggle and deliverance — prayed Of thee to visit them with lenient aid. What though the rites be swept aw'ay, the fanes Extinct that echoed to the votive strains; Vet thy mild aspect does not, cannot, cease Love to promote and purity and peace ; And Fancy, unreproved, even yet may trace Faint types of sufiering in thy beamless face. Then, silent Monitress ! let us — not blind To worlds unthought of till the searching mind Of science laid them open to mankind — Told, also, how the voiceless heavens declare God’s glory ; and acknowledging thy share In that blest charge; let us — without offence To aught of highest, holiest, influence — Receive whatever good ’tis given thee to dispense. 1 May sage and simple, catching with one eye ] The moral intimations of the sky. Learn from thy course, where’er their own be taken, ‘ To look on tempests, and be never shaken ;’ To keep with faithful steps the appointed way Eclipsing or eclipsed, by night or day. And from example of thy monthly range Gently to brook decline and fatal change ; hleek, patient, stedfast, and with loftier scope, Than thy revival vields, for gladsome hope ! XIV. How beautiful the Queen of Night, on high Her way pursuing among scattered clouds. Where, ever and anon, her head she shrouds Hidden from view in dense obscurity ! But look, and to the watchful eye A brightening edge will indicate that soon We shall behold the struggling Moon Break forth, — again to walk the clear blue sky XV. TO LUCCA GIORDANO. Giordano, verily thy pencil’s skill Hath here portrayed with Nature’s happiest grace The fair Endymion couched on Latmos Hill ; And Dian gazing on the shepherd’s face In rapture, — yet suspending her embrace. As not unconscious with what power the thrill Of her most timid touch his sleep would chase. And with his sleep, that beauty calm and still. O may this work have found its last retreat Here in a Mountain-bard’s secure abode. One to whom, yet a schoolboy, Cynthia showed A face of love which he in love would greet. Fixed, by her smile, upon some rocky seat ; Or lured along where greenwood paths he trod. Rydal Modnt, 1846. XVI. Who but is pleased to watch the moon on high. Travelling where she from time to time enshrouds Her head, and nothing loth her majesty Renounces, till among the scattered clouds One with its kindling edge declares that soon POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 431 Will reappear before the uplifted eye A form as bright, as beautiful a moon, To glide in open prospect through clear sky. Pity that such a promise e’er should prove False in the issue, that yon seeming space *Jf sky should be in truth the steadfast face Of a cloud flat and dense, through which must move fBy transit not unlike man’s frequent doom) '*’ne wanderer lost in more determined gloom. XVII. ‘ Where lies the truth? has man, in wisdom’s creed, A pitiable doom ; for respite brief A care more anxious, or a heavier grief? Is he ungrateful, and doth little heed God’s bounty, soon forgotten ; or indeed. Must man, with labour born, awake to sorrow When flowers rejoice, and larks with rival speed Spring from their nests to bid the sun good morrow ? They mount for rapture, as their songs proclaim. Warbled in hearing both of earth and sky ; But o’er the contrast wherefore heave a sigh ! Like those aspirants let us soar — our aim, Through life’s worst trials, whether sliocks or snares, A happier, brighter, purer Heaven than theirs.* 184B. [* See also, as connected with the series of “ Evexi.mi Voluntaries,” the “ Ode composed upon an evening of extraordinary splendour and beauty,” p. 311. — H. 11.] 432 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL W^ORKS. NOTES TO POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. Note 1, p. .398- “ Shnon 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 sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past. — SilAKSPE.utE’s Sonnets, Ko. XXX. ‘Farewell, selfe-pleasing thoughts, which tpiietness brings foorth.” SpE-nskr : Epitaph on Sir Philip Sidney. Is there not in this concurrence — obviously casual — Sii.vKSPEARE — Spenser — Wordsworth, proof of a trait of the temperament of poetic geniu.s1 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 60 often as that homely quatrain, “O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent ihoiigiit can bring ; O gentle Reader ! you would find A tale in every tiling.” H. R.] Note 2, p. 403. "Devotional Incitements." “ Alas ! the sanctities combined By art to unsensualize the mind Decay and languish ; or as creeds And humours change, arc spurned like weeds;" [Tills 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! How solemnly observed ; with what respect ! Another time all plain, all quite thread-bare; Thou must have all within, and nought without; Sit poorly without light, disrobed : no care Of outward grace, to amuse tlie poor devout; Powerless, unfollowed ; scarce men can spate The necessary riles to set thee out. Either truth, goodness, virtue are not still The sell-same which they are, and alwa5'S 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.” D.tNlEL: — ‘ Musophilus.’ — H. R.] Note 3, p. 424. "Lines on a Portrait." “ They are in truth the Substance, we the Shadows." [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 that picture for now nearly three-score years ; during that time my companions have dropt olT, 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 wLsh 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, wliose name, also, I could wish had been forthcoming; and the clas- sical reader will remember the lines of Sophocles : — 'Ofi<3 yap hjias oiSfv 0)'~as T Einblem of those dark corners sometimes found Within the happiest breast on earthly ground. Rich prospect left behind of stream and vale, And mountain-tops, a barren ridge we scale; Descend and reach, in Yewdale’s depths, a plain With haycocks studded, striped with yellowing grain — An area level as a lake and spread Under a rock too steep for man to tread. Where sheltered from the north and bleak north-west Aloft the raven hangs a visible nest, Fearless of all assaults that would her brood molest. Hot sunbeams fill the steaming vale ; but hark. At our approach a jealous watch-dog’s bark. Noise that brings forth no liveried page of state. But the whole household, that our coming wait. With young and old warm greetings we exchange. And jocund smiles, and toward the lowly grange Press forward by the teasing dogs unscared. Entering, we find the morning meal prepared : So down we sit, though not till each had cast Pleased looks around the delicate repast — Rich cream, and snow-white eggs fresh from the nest. With amber honey from the mountain’s breast; Strawberries from lane or woodland, offering wild Of children’s industry, in hillocks piled ; Cakes for the nonce, and butter fit to lie Upon a lordly dish; frank hospitality Where simple art with bounteous nature vied, And cottage comfort shunned not seemly pride. Kind Hostess! Handmaid also of the feast. If thou be lovelier than the kindling east. Words by tby presence unrestrained may speak Of a perpetual dawn from brow and cheek Instinct with light whose sweetest promise lies. Never retiring, in thy large dark eyes. Dark but to every gentle feeling true. As if their lustre flowed from ether’s purest blue Let me not ask what tears may have been wept By those bright eyes, what weary vigils kept. Beside that hearth what sighs may have been heaved For wounds inflicted, nor what toil relieved By fortitude and patience, and the grace Of heaven in pity visiting the place. Not unadvisedly those secret springs I leave unsearcbed: enough that memory clings, Here as elsewhere, to notices that make Their own significance for hearts awake. To rural incidents, whose genial powers Filled with delight three summer morning hours. More could my pen report of grave or gay That through our gipsy travel cheered the way ; But, bursting forth above the waves, the sun Laughs at my pains, and seems to say, “ Be done.” Yet, Beaumont, thou wilt not, I trust, reprove This humble offering made by Truth to Love, Nor chide the muse that stooped to break a spell Which might have else been on me yet ; — Farewell. UPON PERUSING THE FOREGOING EPISTLE THIRTY YEARS AFTER ITS COMPOSITION. Soon did the Almighty giver of all rest Take those dear young ones to a fearless nest ; And in Death’s arms has long reposed the friend For whom this simple register was penned. Thanks to the moth that spared it for our eyes ; And strangers even the slighted scroll may prize. Moved by the touch of kindred sympathies. For — save the calm, repentance sheds o’er strife Raised by remembrances of misused life. The light from past endeavours purely willed And by Heaven’s favour happily fulfilled ; Save hope that we, yet bound to earth, may share The joys of the departed — what so fair As blameless pleasure, not without some tears. Reviewed through Love’s transparent veil of years? jVbfg. — Loughrigg Tarn, alluded to in the foregoing Epistle, resembles, though much smaller in compass, the Lake Nemi, or Speculum Diance as it is often called, not only in its clear waters and circular form, and the beauty immediately surrounding it, but also as being overlooked by the eminence of Langdale Pikes as Lake Nemi is by that of Monte Calvo. Since this Epistle was written Loughrigg Tarn has lost much of its beauty by the felling of many natural clumps of wood, relics of the old forest, particularly upon the farm called “The Oaks,” from the abundance of that tree which grew there. It is to be regretted, upon public grounds, that Sir George Beaumont did not carry into effect his intention of constructing here a Summer Retreat in the style I have described ; as his taste would have set an example how MISCELLANEOUS I’OEMS. 437 buildings, with all the accommodations modern society requires, might be introduced even into the most secluded parts ol' this country without injuring their native cha- racter. The design was not abandoned from failure of incli- nation on his part, but in consequence of local untoward- ness which need not be particularised. PRELUDE, PREFIXED TO THE VOUIME ENTITLED “ POEMS CHIEFLY OF E.4RLY AND L.Vrt: YEARS ” In desultory walk tlirough orchard grounds, Or some deep chestnut grove, oft have I paused The while a Thrush, urged rather than restrained By gusts of vernal storm, attuned his song To his own genial instincts ; and was heard (Though not without some plaintive tones between) To utter, above showers of blossom swept From tossing boughs, the promise of a calm. Which the unsheltered traveller might receive With thankful spirit. The descant, and the wind That seemed to play with it in love or scorn. Encouraged and endeared the strain of words That haply flowed from me, by fits of silence Impelled to livelier pace. But now, my Book! Charged with tho.se lays, and others of like mood. Or loftier pitch if higher rose the theme. Go, single — yet aspiring to be joined With thy forerunners tliat through many a year Have faitlifully prepared each Ollier’s way — Go forth upon a mission best fulfilled When and wherever, in this changeful world. Power hath been given to please for higher ends Than pleasure only ; gladdening to prepare For wholesome sadness, troubling to refine. Calming to raise; and by a sapient art Difi’used through all the mysteries of our being. Softening the toils and pains that have not ceased To cast their shadows on our mother earth Since the primeval doom. Such is the grace Which, though unsued for, fails not to descend With heavenly inspiration; such the aim That Reason dictates; and, as even the wish Has virtue in it, why should hope to me Be wanting that sometimes, where fancied ills Harass the mind and strip from off the bowers Of private life their natural pleasantness, A voice — devoted to the love whose seeds Are sown in every human breast, to beauty Lodged within compass of the humblest sight. To cheerful intercourse with wood and field. And sympathy with man’s substantial griefs — Will not be heard in vain I And in those days When unforeseen distress spreads far and wide Among a people mournfully cast down, Or into anger roused by venal words In recklessness flung out to overturn The judgment, and divert the general heart From mutual good — some strain of thine, my Book! Caught at propitious intervals, may win Listeners who not unwillingly admit Kindly emotion tending to console And reconcile; and both with young and old Exalt the sense of thoughtful gratitude For benefits that still survive, by faith In progress, under laws divine, maintained. Rydal Modnt, March 2G. 1812. TO A CHILD. WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM. Small service is true service while it lasts: Of humblest friends, bright creature ! scorn not one; The daisy, by the shadow that it casts. Protects the lingering dew-drop from the sun. ODE ON THE INSTALL.\TION OF ms ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE ALBERT AS CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, JULY, 1847. BY W I L L I A .VI WORDS W ORTH, rOET ladreate. For thirst of power that Heaven disowns. For temples, towers, and thrones Too long insulted by the spoiler’s shock. Indignant Europe cast Her stormy foe at last To reap the whirlwind on a Libyan rock. War is passion’s basest game, Madly played to win a name : Up starts some tyrant, Heaven and Earth to dare , The servile million bow; But will the lightning glance aside and spare The despot’s laurelled brow ? War is mercy, glory, fame. Waged in Freedom’s holy cause. Freedom such as man may claim Under God’s restraining laws. Such is Albion’s fame and glory. Let rescued Europe tell the story. But lo! what sudden cloud has darkened all The land as with a funeral pall ] 37 * 438 WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. The Rose of England sulfers blight ; The Flower has drooped, the Isle’s delight ; Flower and bud together fall ; A nation’s hopes lie crushed in Claremont’s desolate Hall. Time a chequered mantle wears — Earth awakes from wintr sleep: Again the tree a blossom bears; Cease, Britannia, cease to weep ! Hark to the peals on this bright May morn ! They tell that your future Queen is born. A guardian angel fluttered Above the babe, unseen ; One word he softly uttered, It named the future Queen ; And a joyful cry through the island rang, As bold and clear as the trumpet’s clang. As bland as the reed of peace : “ Victoria be her name !” For righteous triumphs are the base Whereon Britannia rests her peaceful fame. Time in his mantle’s sunniest fold Uplifted on his arms the child, And while the fearless infant smiled Her happier destiny foretold. — “ Infancy, by wisdom mild Trained to health and artless beauty Youth, by pleasure unbeguiled From the lore of lofly duty : Womanhood, in pure renown Seated on her lineal throne : Leaves of myrtle in her crown. Fresh with lustre all their own. Love, the treasure worth possessing More than all the world 'beside. This shall be her choicest blessing. Oft to royal hearts denied.” That eve, the Star of Brunswick shone With stedfast ray benign On Gotha’s ducal roof, and on The softly flowing Leine, Nor failed to gild the spires of Bonn, And glittered on the Rliine Old Camus too, on that prophetic night Was conscious of tlie ray ; And his willows whispered in its light Not to the zephyr’s sway. But with a Delphic life, in sight Of this auspicious day — This day, when Granta hails her chosen Lord, And, proud of her award. Confiding in that Star serene. Welcomes the consort of a happy Queen. Prince, in these collegiate bowers. Where science, leagued with holier truth. Guards the sacred heart of youth, _ Solemn monitors are our’s. These reverend aisles, these hallowed towers Raised by many a hand august. Are haunted by majestic powers. The memories of the wise and just. Who, faithful to a pious trust. Here, in the Founder’s spirit, sought To mould and stamp the ore of thought In that bold form and impress high That best betoken patriot loyalty. Not in vain those sages taught: True disciples, good as great. Have pondered here their country’s weal. Weighed the Future by the Past, Learnt how social frames may last. And how a land may rule its fate By constancy inviolate. Though worlds to their foundations reel. The sport of faction’s hate or godless zeal. Albert, in thy race we cherish A nation’s strength that will not perish W’hile England’s sceptred line. True to the King of kings is found, Like that wise ancestor of thine Who threw the Saxon shield o’er Luther’s life When first above the yells of bigot strife The trumpet of the Living Word Assumed a voice of deep portentous sound. From gladdened Elbe to startled Tiber heard. What shield more sublime E’er was blazoned or sung I And the Prince whom we greet From its Hero is sprung. Resound, resound the strain That hails him for our own ! Again, again, and yet again. For the Church, the Siate, the Throne ! And that Presence fair and bright. Ever blest wherever seen. Who deigns to grace our festal rite — The pride of the Islands, Victoria the Qcee.\! TRANSLATION OP PART OF THE FIRST BOOK OF THE iENEID TO THE EDITORS OF THE PHILOLOGICAL MUSEUM. Yoor letter reminding me of an expectation I some time since held out to you of allowing some specimens of my translation from the AEneid to be printed in the Philological Museum, was not very acceptable ; for I had abandoned the thought of ever sending into the world any part of thitt e.vpcriment,— for it was' nothing more,— an experiment begun for amusement, and I now think a less fortunate one than when I first named it to you. Having heen displeased in modern translations with the additions of incongruous matter, I began to translate with « resolve to keep clear of that fault, by adding nothing; but I became convinced that a spirited translation can scarcely be accomplished in the English language without ad- mitting a principle of compensation. On this point, however, 1 do not wish to insist, and merely send the following passage, taken at random, from a wish to comply with your request. — W. VV. But Cytherea, studious to invent Arts yet untried, upon new counsels bent, Resolves that Cupid, changed in form and face To young Ascanius, should assume his place; Present the maddening gifts, and kindle heat Of passion at the bosom’s inmost seat. She dreads the treacherous house, the double tongue; She burns, she frets — by Juno’s rancour stung- The calm of night is powerless to remove Tiiese cares, and thus she speaks to winged Love. O son, my strength, my power ! who dost despise (What save thyself, none dares through earth and skies,) The giant-quelling bolts of Jove, I flee, O son, a suppliant to thy deity ! What perils meet iEueas in his course. How Juno’s hate with unrelenting force Pursues thy brother — this to thee is known; And oft-times hast thou made my griefs thine own. Him now the generous Dido by soft chains Of bland entreaty at her court detains; Junonian hospitalities prepare Such apt occasion that I dread a snare. Hence, ere some hostile god can intervene Would I, by previous w’iles, inflame the queen With passion for Aeneas, such strong love Tliat at my beck, mine only, she shall move. Hear, and assist, — the father’s mandate calls His young Ascanius to the Tyrian walls. [* This translation is taken from “The Pkilologieal Museum,” Vol. I., p. 382, Cambridge, 1832, edited by the Rev. Julius Charles Hare, now Archdeacon of Lewes. It was a contribution to that periodical, in which it ap- peared with the above prefatory note. — H. R.] He comes, my dear delight, — and costliest things Preserv’d from fire and flood for presents brings; Him will I take, and in close covert keep. Mid groves Idalian, lulled to gentle sleep. Or on Cytherea’s far-sequestered steep, That he may neither know what hope is mine. Nor by his presence traverse the design. Do thou, but for a single night’s brief space. Dissemble ; be that boy in form and face ! And when enraptured Dido shall receive Thee to her arms, and kisses interweave Witli many a fond embrace, while joy runs high, And goblets crown the proud festivity, Instil thy subtle poison, and inspire At every touch an unsuspected fire. Love, at the word, before his mother’s sight Puts off his wings, and walks with proud delight. Like young lulus; but the gentlest dews Of slumber Venus sheds, to circumfuse The true Ascanius, steep’d in placid rest ; Then wafts him, cherished on her careful breast. Through upper air to an Idalian glade. Where he on soft amaracus is laid. With breathing flowers embraced, and fragrant shad But Cupid following cheerily his guide Achates, with the gifts to Carthage hied ; And, as the hall he entered, there, between The sharers of her golden couch, was seen Reclin’d in festal pomp the Tyrian queen. The Trojans too (^Eneas at their head) On couches lie, with purple overspread ; Meantime in canisters is heaped the bread. Pellucid water for the hands is borne. And napkins of smooth texture, finely shorn. Within are filly handmaids, who prepare. As they in order stand the dainty fare ; And fume the household deities with store Of odorous incense; while a hundred more Match’d with an equal number of like age, But each of manly sex, a docile page. Marshal the banquet, giving with due grace To cup or viand its appointed place. The Tyrians rushing in, an eager band. Their painted couches seek, obedient to command. They look with wonder on the gifts — they gaze Upon lulus, dazzled with the rays That from his ardent countenance are flung. And charmed to hear his simulating tongue; 439 440 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. Nor pass unpraised, the robe and veil divine, Round wliich the yellow flowers and wandering foliage twine. But chieflv Dido, to the coming ill Devoted, strives in vain her vast desires to fill : She views tne gifts ; upon the child then turns Insatiable looks, and gazing burns. To ease a fatijer’s cheated love he hung Upon yEneas, and around him clung; Then seeks the queen ; with her his arts he tries; She fastens on the boy enamour'd eyes, Clasps in her arms, nor weens (O lot unblest!) How great a god, incumbent o'er her breast. Would fill it with his spirit. He to please His Acidaliari mother, by degrees Blots out Sichreus, studious to remove The dead, by influx of a living love. By stealthy entrance of a perilous guest Troubling a heart lliat had been long at rest. Now when the viands were withdrawn, and ceased The first division of the splendid feast. While round a vacant board the chiefs recline. Huge goblets are brought forth; they crown the wine, Voices of gladness roll the walls around ; Those gladsome voices from the courts rebound ; From gilded rafters many a blazing liglit Depends, and torches overcome tlie night. The minutes fly — till at the queen’s command, A bowl of stale is offered to her hand ; Then she, as Belus wont, and all the line From Belus, filled it to the brim with wine ; Silence ensued. “ O Jupiter, whose care Is hospitable dealing, grant my prayer! Productive day be this of lasting joy To Tyrians, and these exiles driven from Troy ; A day to future generations dear ! Let Bacchus, donor of soul-quickening cheer. Be present, kindly Juno, be thou near; And Tyrians, may your choicest favours wait Upon this hour the bond to celebrate !” She spake and shed an offering on the board ; Then sipp’d the bowl whence she the wine had pour’d And gave to Bitias, urging the prompt lord; He raised the bowl, and took a long deep draught. Then every chief in turn the beverage quaff’d. Graced with redundant hair, lopas sings The lore of Atlas, to resounding strings, Tlie labours of the sun, the lunar wanderings; Whence human kind and brute ; what natural powers Engender lightning, whence are falling showers'! He chaunts Arcturus, — that fraternal twain The glittering Bears, — the Pleiads fraught with rain ; — Why suns in winter, shunning heaven’s steep heights Post sea-ward, — what impedes the tardy nights. The learned song from Tyrian hearers draws Loud shouts, — the Trojans echo tlie applause. — But lengthening out the night with converse new, Large draughts of love unhappy Dido drew ; Of Priam ask’d, of Hector — o’er and o’er — What arms the son of bright Aurora wore ; — What steeds the car of Diomed could boast; Among the leaders of the Grecian host How look’d Achilles, their dread paramount — “But nay, — the fatal wiles, O guest, recount. Retrace the Grecian cunning from its source. Your own grief and your friends — your wandering course ; For now, till this seventh summer have ye ranged The sea, or trod the earth, to peace estranged.” SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER. MODERNIZED.* THE PRIORESS’ TALE. "Call up him who left half told The story of Cambuscaii bold." In the following Poem no further deviation from the original has been made than was necessary for the fluent reading and instant understanding of the Author; so much, however, is the language altered since Chaucer’s time, especially in 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 con- junctions, as olso and ahcdy. from a conviction that such sprinklings of antiquity would be admitted, by persons of taste, to have a graceful accordance with the subject. The fierce bigotry of the Prioress forms a fine back-ground for her tender-hearted sympathies with the Mother and Child ; and the mode in which the story is told amply atones for the extravagance of the miracle. “O Lord, our Lord ! how wondrously,” (quoth she) “ Thy name in this large world is spread abroad ! J'or not alone by men of dignity Thy worship is performed and precious laud ; But by the mouths of children, gracious God ! Thy goodness is set forth; they when they lie Upon the breast thy name do glorify 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 piower ; 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 aud 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 ! [* In a letter to the Editor, dated “ Rydal Mount, Janu- ary 13th, 1841,” Wordsworth said: So great is my ad- miration of Chaucer’s genius, and so profound my reverence for him as an instrument in the hands of Providence, for spreading the light of literature through his native land, that notwithstanding the defects and faults in this publica- tion, I am glad of it, as a means for making many ac- quainted with the original, who would otherwise be ignorant of every thing about him but his name.” — The volume entitled ” The Poems of Geofrey Chaucer Modern- ized," was published in London, in 1841. It is made up of the contributions of Wordsworth, Miss Barrett, Leigh Hunt, R. H. Horne, and others. — II. R.] SF Lady ! thy goodness, thy magnificence, Tliy virtue, and thy great humility. Surpass all science and all utterance; For sometimes. Lady ! ere men pray to thee 'I'hou 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 wliich 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 might 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 childliood do. Among these children was a widow’s son, A little scholar, scarcely seven years old. Who day by day unto this scliool hath gone. And eke, wlien 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 rny 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, 441 442 WOKDS WORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. The whilst the rest their anthem-book repeat The Alma Redemptoris 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 meaning of this song would show. And unto him declare why men sing so; This oftentimes, that he might be at ease. This child did him beseech on his bare knees. 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?’ 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 times 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 Redemptoris ! high and low : The sweetness of Christ’s Mother pierced so His heart, that her to praise, to her to pray. He cannot stop his singing by the way. The Serpent, Satan, our first foe, that hath His wasp’s nest in Jew’s heart, upswelled — ‘ O woe, O Hebrew people !’ said he in his wrath, ‘ Is it an honest thing ! Shall this be so? That such a boy where’er he lists shall go In your despite, and sing his hymns and saws, Which is against the reverence of our laws !’ 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 ? 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 Martyr ’stablished in virginity! Now may’st 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 hatli 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 Come to the spot in wonder at the thing; And hastily they for the Provost sent ; Immediately he came, not tarrying. And praiseth Christ that is our heavenly King, And eke his mother, honour of mankind : Which done, he bade that they the Jews should bind. This child with piteous lamentation then Was taken up, singing his song alway ; And with procession great and pomp of men To the next Abbey him they bare away ; His mother swooning by the body lay ; SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER. 1-13 .^nd scarcely could the people that were near Remove this second Rachel from the bier. 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 judgment 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 dotli lie Before the altar while the Mass doth last: The Abbot with his convent’s company Then sped themselves to bury him full fast; And, when they holy water on him cast. Yet spake this child when sprinkled was the water. And sang, O Alma Rcdemploris Mater! 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 it was done a little wlnle ago — Pray also thou for us, while here we tarry Weak sinful folk, that God, with pitying eye, In mercy would his mercy multi])ly On us, for reverence of his Mother Mary !” THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 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 liave 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 tlie 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 alwily; And in the hour wlien I my death did meet To me she came, and tlms 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. I The god of Love, — ah benedicite ! How mighty and how great a lord is he! For he of low hearts can make high, of high ^ He can make low, and unto death bring nigh ; j And hard hearts he can make them kind and free. Within a little time, as hath been found, I He can make sick folk whole and fresh and sound: Tliem who are whole in body and in mind. He can make sick, — bind can he and unbind All that he will have bound, or have unbound. To tell his might my wit may not suffice; Foolish men he can make them out of wise; — For he may do all tliat he will devise; Loose livers he can make abate their vice. And proud hearts can make tremble in a trice. In brief, the whole of what he will, he may; Against him dare not any wight say nay; I To liumble or afflict whome’er he will, j To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill ; But most his might he slieds on the eve of May. ‘ Wherefore I sing, nor can from song refrain, In honour of that blissful Maiden free. Till from my tongue ofl’-taken is the grain ; And after that thus said slie 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 liad 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 ; For every true heart, gentle heart and free. That with him is, or thinketh so to be, Now against May shall have some stirring — whether To joy, or be it to some mourning ; never At other time, methinks, in like degree. For now when they may hear the wild birds’ song. And see the budding leaves the branches throng, Tliis unto their rememberance doth bring All kinds of pleasure mixed with sorrowing; And longing of sweet thoughts that ever long. And of that longing heaviness doth come. Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and home ; Sick are they all for lack of their desire ; And thus in May their hearts are set on fire. So that they burn forth in great martyrdom. 444 WORDSWOETirS POETICAL WORKS. In sooth, I speak from feeling, what though now Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow ; > Yet have I felt of sickness through the May, j Both hot and cold, and heart-aches every day, — How hard, alas ! to bear, I only know. Such shaking doth the fever in me keep Through all this May that I have little sleep; And also ’tis not likely unto me, Tliat any living heart should sleepy be In which Love’s dart its fiery point doth steep. But tossing lately on a sleepless bed, I of a token thought which Lovers heed ; How among them it was a common tale. That it was good to hear the Nightingale, Ere the vile Cuckoo’s note be uttered. And then I thought anon as it was day, I gladly would go somewhere to essay If I perchance a Nightingale might hear. For yet had I heard none, of all that year. And it was then the third night of the May, And soon as I a glimpse of day espied, No longer would I in my bed abide. But straightway to a wood that was hard by. Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly. And held the pathway down by a brook-side; Till to a lawn I came all white and green, I in so fair a one had never been. The ground was green, with daisy powdered over; Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofly cover. All green and white ; and nothing else was seen. There sate I down among the fair fresh flowers. And saw the birds come tripping from their bowers. Where they had rested them all night ; and they. Who were so joyful at the light of day. Began to honour May with all their powers. Well did they know that service all by rote. And there was many and many a lovely note. Some, singing loud, as if they had complained ; Some with their notes another manner feigned And some did sing all out with the full throat. They pruned themselves, and made themselves right gay’ Dancing and leaping light upon the spray ; And ever two and two together were. The same as they had chosen for the year, Upon Saint Valentine’s returning day. Meanwhile the stream, whose bank I sate upon. Was making such a noise as it ran on Accordant to the sweet birds’ harmony ; Methought that it was the best melody Which ever to man’s car a passage won. ' And for delight, but how I never wot, ! I in a slumber and a swoon was caught, j Not all asleep and yet not waking wholly ; And as I lay, the Cuckoo, bird unholy. Broke silence, or I heard him in my thought. And that was right upon a tree fast by. And who was then ill satisfied but 1 1 Now, God, quoth I, that died upon the rood. From thee and thy base throat, keep all that’s good, Full little joy have I now of thy cry. And, as I with the Cuckoo thus ’gan chide, In the next bush that was me fast beside, I beard the lusty Nightingale so sing. That her clear voice made a loud rioting. Echoing thorough all the green Wood wide. Ah 1 good sweet Nightingale ! for my heart’s cheer. Hence hast thou stay’d a little while too long; For we have had the sorry Cuckoo here. And she hath been before thee with her song; Evil light on her ! she hath done me wrong. But hear you now a wondrous thing, I pray ; As long as in that swooning-fit I lay, Methought I wist right well what these birds meant, And had good knowing both of their intent. And of their speech, and all that they would say. The Nightingale thus in my hearing spake : — Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or brake. And, prithee, let us that can sing dwell here; For every wight eschews thy song to hear. Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make. What ! quoth she then, what is’t that ails thee now J It seems to me I sing as well as thou ; For mine’s a song that is both true and plain, — Although I cannot quaver so in vain As thou dost in thy throat, I wot not how. All men may understanding have of me. But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee; For thou hast many a foolish and quaint cry ; — Thou say’st Osee, Osee, then how may I Have knowledge, I thee pray, what this may be 1 Ah, fool ! quoth she, wist thou not what it is I Oft as I say Osee, Osee, I wis. Then mean I, that I should be wondrous fain That shamefully they one and all were slain. Whoever against Love mean aught amiss. And also would I that they all were dead. Who do not think in love Iheir life to lead; For who is loth the God of Love to obey, Is only fit to die, I dare well say. And for that cause Osee I cry ; take heed ! SELECTIONS EIIOM CHAUCER. 445 Ay, quoth the Cuckoo, that is a