Once to the verge of yon steep barrier came

A roving school-boy; what the Adventurer’s age

Hath now escaped his memory--but the hour,

One of a golden summer holiday,

He well remembers, though the year be gone. 5

Alone and devious from afar he came;

And, with a sudden influx overpowered

At sight of this seclusion, he forgot

His haste, for hasty had his footsteps been

As boyish his pursuits; and, sighing said, 10

“What happy fortune were it here to live!

And, (if a thought of dying, if a thought

Of mortal separation, could intrude

With paradise before him), here to die!”

No prophet was he, had not even a hope, 15

Scarcely a wish, but one bright pleasing thought,

A fancy in the heart of what might be

The lot of others, never could be his.

The station whence he looked was soft and green,

Not giddy yet aerial, with a depth 20

Of vale below, a height of hills above.

For rest of body, perfect was the spot,

All that luxurious nature could desire,

But stirring to the spirit. Who could gaze

And not feel motions there? He thought of clouds 25

That sail on winds, of breezes that delight

To play on water, or in endless chase

Pursue each other through the yielding plain

Of grass or corn, over and through and through,

In billow after billow, evermore 30

Disporting. Nor unmindful was the Boy

Of sunbeams, shadows, butterflies and birds,

Of fluttering Sylphs, and softly-gliding Fays,

Genii, and winged Angels that are Lords

Without restraint of all which they behold. 35

The illusion strengthening as he gazed, he felt

That such unfettered liberty was his,

Such power and joy; but only for this end,

To flit from field to rock, from rock to field,

From shore to island, and from isle to shore, 40

From open ground to covert, from a bed

Of meadow-flowers into a tuft of wood,

From high to low, from low to high, yet still

Within the bound of this high concave; here

Must be his home, this Valley be his world. 45

Since that day forth the place to him--_to me_

(For I who live to register the truth

Was that same young and happy being) became

As beautiful to thought, as it had been,

When present, to the bodily sense; a haunt 50

Of pure affections, shedding upon joy

A brighter joy; and through such damp and gloom

Of the gay mind, as ofttimes splenetic youth

Mistakes for sorrow darting beams of light

That no self-cherished sadness could withstand: 55

And now ’tis mine, perchance for life, dear Vale,

Beloved Grasmere (let the Wandering Streams

Take up, the cloud-capped hills repeat, the Name),

One of thy lowly dwellings is my Home.

And was the cost so great? and could it seem 60

An act of courage, and the thing itself

A conquest? who must bear the blame? sage man

Thy prudence, thy experience--thy desires;

Thy apprehensions--blush thou for them all.

Yes, the realities of life so cold, 65

So cowardly, so ready to betray,

So stinted in the measure of their grace

As we pronounce them, doing them much wrong,

Have been to me more bountiful than hope,

Less timid than desire--but that is passed. 70

On Nature’s invitation do I come,[359]

By reason sanctioned--Can the choice mislead,

That made the calmest, fairest spot of earth,

With all its unappropriated good,

My own; and not mine only, for with me 75

Entrenched, say rather peacefully embowered,

Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot,

A younger orphan of a home extinct,

The only daughter of my parents, dwells.

Aye, think on that, my heart, and cease to stir, 80

Pause upon that, and let the breathing frame

No longer breathe, but all be satisfied.

--Oh if such silence be not thanks to God

For what hath been bestowed, then where, where then

Shall gratitude find rest? Mine eyes did ne’er 85

Fix on a lovely object, nor my mind

Take pleasure in the midst of happy thoughts,

But either She whom now I have, who now

Divides with me this loved abode, was there,

Or not far off. Where’er my footsteps turned, 90

Her Voice was like a hidden Bird that sang,

The thought of her was like a flash of light,

Or an _unseen_ companionship, a breath,

Or fragrance independent of the wind.

In all my goings, in the new and old 95

Of all my meditations, and in this

Favourite of all, in this the most of all.

--What Being, therefore, since the birth of man

Had ever more abundant cause to speak

Thanks, and if favours of the heavenly Muse 100

Make him more thankful, then to call on verse

To aid him, and in Song resound his joy.

The boon is absolute; surpassing grace

To me hath been vouchsafed; among the bowers

Of blissful Eden this was neither given, 105

Nor could be given, possession of the good

Which had been sighed for, ancient thought fulfilled

And dear Imaginations realized

Up to their highest measure, yea and more.

Embrace me then, ye Hills, and close me in, 110

Now in the clear and open day I feel

Your guardianship; I take it to my heart;

’Tis like the solemn shelter of the night.

But I would call thee beautiful, for mild

And soft, and gay, and beautiful thou art, 115

Dear Valley, having in thy face a smile

Though peaceful, full of gladness. Thou art pleased,

Pleased with thy crags, and woody steeps, thy Lake,

Its one green Island and its winding shores;

The multitude of little rocky hills, 120

Thy Church and cottages of mountain stone

Clustered like stars some few, but single most,

And lurking dimly in their shy retreats,

Or glancing at[360] each other cheerful looks,

Like separated stars with clouds between. 125

What want we? have we not perpetual streams,

Warm woods, and sunny hills, and fresh green fields,

And mountains not less green, and flocks, and herds,

And thickets full of songsters, and the voice

Of lordly birds, an unexpected sound 130

Heard now and then from morn till latest eve,

Admonishing the man who walks below

Of solitude, and silence in the sky?

These have we, and a thousand nooks of earth

Have also these, but _no_ where else is found, 135

No where (or is it fancy?) _can_ be found

The one sensation that is here; ’tis here,

Here as it found its way into my heart

In childhood, here as it abides by day,

By night, here only; or in chosen minds 140

That take it with them hence, where’er they go.

’Tis, but I cannot name it, ’tis the sense

Of majesty, and beauty, and repose,

A blended holiness of earth and sky,

Something that makes this individual Spot, 145

This small abiding-place of many men,

A termination, and a last retreat,

A centre, come from wheresoe’er you will,

A whole without dependence or defect,

Made for itself; and happy in itself, 150

Perfect Contentment, Unity entire.

Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak,[361]

When hitherward we journeyed, side by side,

Through bursts of sunshine and through flying showers,

Paced the long Vales--how long they were--and yet 155

How fast that length of way was left behind,

Wensley’s rich Vale and Sedbergh’s naked heights.

The frosty wind, as if to make amends

For its keen breath, was aiding to our steps,

And drove us onward like two ships at sea, 160

Or like two birds, companions in mid air,

Parted and re-united by the blast.

Stern was the face of Nature. We rejoiced

In that stern countenance, for our souls thence drew

A feeling of their strength. The naked trees, 165

The icy brooks, as on we passed, appeared

To question us. “Whence come ye? to what end?”

They seemed to say; “What would ye,” said the shower,

“Wild wanderers, whither through my dark domain?”

The sunbeam said, “Be happy.” When this Vale 170

We entered, bright and solemn was the sky

That faced us with a passionate welcoming,

And led us to our threshold. Daylight failed

Insensibly, and round us gently fell

Composing darkness, with a quiet load 175

Of full contentment, in a little shed

Disturbed, uneasy in itself as seemed,

And wondering at its new inhabitants.

It loves us now, this Vale so beautiful

Begins to love us! By a sullen storm, 180

Two months unwearied of severest storm,

It put the temper of our minds to proof,

And found us faithful through the gloom, and heard

The Poet mutter his prelusive songs

With cheerful heart, an unknown voice of joy, 185

Among the silence of the woods and hills;

Silent to any gladsomeness of sound

With all their Shepherds.

But the gates of Spring

Are opened. Churlish Winter hath given leave

That she should entertain for this one day, 190

Perhaps for many genial days to come,

His guests, and make them jocund. They are pleased,

But most of all the Birds that haunt the flood

With the mild summons; inmates though they be

Of winter’s household, they keep festival 195

This day, who drooped, or seemed to droop, so long;

They shew their pleasure, and shall I do less?

Happiest of happy though I be, like them

I cannot take possession of the sky,

Mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, 200

One of a mighty multitude, whose way

Is a perpetual harmony, and dance

Magnificent. Behold, how with a grace

Of ceaseless motion,[362] that might scarcely seem

Inferior to angelical, they prolong 205

Their curious pastime, shaping in mid air,

And sometimes with ambitious wing that soars

High as the level of the mountain tops,

A circuit ampler than the lake beneath,

Their own domain;--but ever, while intent 210

On tracing and retracing that large round,

Their jubilant activity evolves

Hundreds of curves and circlets, to and fro,

Upwards and downwards, progress intricate

Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed 215

Their indefatigable flight. ’Tis done--

Ten times and more, I fancied it had ceased;

But lo! the vanished company again

Ascending, they approach--I hear their wings

Faint, faint at first; and then an eager sound 220

Passed in a moment--and as faint again!

They tempt the sun to sport among[363] their plumes;

Tempt the smooth water,[364] or the gleaming ice,

To show them a fair image; ’tis themselves,

Their own fair forms, upon the glimmering plain, 225

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![365]

This day is a thanksgiving, ’tis a day 230

Of glad emotion and deep quietness;

Not upon me alone hath been bestowed,

Me rich in many onward-looking thoughts,

The penetrating bliss; oh surely these

Have felt it, not the happy Quires of Spring, 235

Her own peculiar family of love

That sport among green leaves, a blither train.

But two are missing--two, a lonely pair

Of milk-white Swans, wherefore are _they_ not seen

Partaking this day’s pleasure? From afar 240

They came, to sojourn here in solitude,

Choosing this Valley, they who had the choice

Of the whole world.[366] We saw them day by day,

Through these two months of unrelenting storm,

Conspicuous at the centre of the Lake, 245

Their safe retreat. We knew them well, I guess

That the whole Valley knew them; but to us

They were more dear than may be well believed,

Not only for their beauty, and their still

And placid way of life, and constant love 250

Inseparable, not for these alone,

But that _their_ state so much resembled ours,

They having also chosen this abode;

They strangers, and we strangers; they a pair,

And we a solitary pair like them. 255

They should not have departed; many days

Did I look forth in vain, nor on the wing

Could see them, nor in that small open space

Of blue unfrozen water, where they lodged,

And lived so long in quiet, side by side. 260

Shall we behold them, consecrated friends,

Faithful companions, yet another year

Surviving--they for us, and we for them--

And neither pair be broken? Nay perchance

It is too late already for such hope, 265

The Dalesmen may have aimed the deadly tube,

And parted them; or haply both are gone

One death, and that were mercy given to both.

Recal my song the ungenerous thought; forgive,

Thrice favoured Region, the conjecture harsh 270

Of such inhospitable penalty,

Inflicted upon confidence so pure.

Ah, if I wished to follow where the sight

Of all that is before mine eyes, the voice

Which speaks from a presiding Spirit here, 275

Would lead me, I should whisper to myself;

They who are dwellers in this holy place

Must needs themselves be hallowed, they require

No benediction from the stranger’s lips,

For they are blest already. None would give 280

The greeting “peace be with you” unto them,

For peace they have, it cannot but be theirs,

And mercy, and forbearance. Nay--not these,

Their healing offices a pure goodwill

Precludes, and charity beyond the bounds 285

Of charity--an overflowing love,

Not for the creature only, but for all

That is around them, love for every thing

Which in this happy region they behold!

Thus do we soothe ourselves, and when the thought 290

Is past we blame it not for having come.

What, if I floated down a pleasant Stream

And now am landed, and the motion gone,

Shall I reprove myself? Ah no, the stream

Is flowing, and will never cease to flow,[367] 295

And I shall float upon that stream again.

By such forgetfulness the soul becomes,

Words cannot say, how beautiful. Then hail,

Hail to the visible Presence, hail to thee,

Delightful Valley, habitation fair! 300

And to whatever else of outward form

Can give us inward help, can purify,

And elevate, and harmonise, and soothe,

And steal away, and for a while deceive

And lap in pleasing rest, and bear us on 305

Without desire in full complacency,

Contemplating perfection absolute

And entertained as in a placid sleep.

But not betrayed by tenderness of mind

That feared, or wholly overlooked the truth, 310

Did we come hither, with romantic hope

To find, in midst of so much loveliness,

Love, perfect love; of so much majesty

A like majestic frame of mind in those

Who here abide, the persons like the place. 315

Not from such hope, or aught of such belief

Hath issued any portion of the joy

Which I have felt this day. An awful voice,

’Tis true, hath in my walks been often heard,

Sent from the mountains or the sheltered fields; 320

Shout after shout--reiterated whoop

In manner of a bird that takes delight

In answering to itself; or like a hound

Single at chase among the lonely woods,

His yell repeating;[368] yet it was in truth 325

A human voice--a Spirit of coming night,

How solemn when the sky is dark, and earth

Not dark, nor yet enlightened, but by snow

Made visible, amid a noise of winds

And bleatings manifold of mountain sheep, 330

Which in that iteration recognise

Their summons, and are gathering round for food,

Devoured with keenness ere to grove or bank

Or rocky _bield_ with patience they retire.

That very voice, which, in some timid mood 335

Of superstitious fancy, might have seemed

Awful as ever stray Demoniac uttered,

His steps to govern in the Wilderness;

Or as the Norman Curfew’s regular beat,

To hearths when first they darkened at the knell: 340

That Shepherd’s voice, it may have reached mine ear

Debased and under profanation, made

The ready Organ of articulate sounds

From ribaldry, impiety, or wrath

Issuing when shame hath ceased to check the brawls 345

Of some abused Festivity--so be it.

I came not dreaming of unruffled life,

Untainted manners; born among the hills,

Bred also there, I wanted not a scale

To regulate my hopes. Pleased with the good, 350

I shrink not from the evil with disgust,

Or with immoderate pain. I look for Man,

The common creature of the brotherhood,

Differing but little from the Man elsewhere,

For selfishness, and envy, and revenge, 355

Ill neighbourhood--pity that this should be--

Flattery and double-dealing, strife and wrong.

Yet is it something gained, it is in truth

A mighty gain, that Labour here preserves

His rosy face, a servant only here 360

Of the fire-side, or of the open field,

A freeman, therefore, sound and unimpaired;

That extreme penury is here unknown,

And cold and hunger’s abject wretchedness,

Mortal to body, and the heaven-born mind; 365

That they who want, are not too great a weight

For those who can relieve. Here may the heart

Breathe in the air of fellow-suffering

Dreadless, as in a kind of fresher breeze

Of her own native element, the hand 370

Be ready and unwearied without plea

From tasks too frequent, or beyond its power

For languor, or indifference, or despair.

And as these lofty barriers break the force

Of winds, this deep Vale,--as it doth in part 375

Conceal us from the storm,--so here abides

A power and a protection for the mind,

Dispensed indeed to other solitudes,

Favoured by noble privilege like this,

Where kindred independence of estate 380

Is prevalent, where he who tills the field,

He, happy man! is master of the field,[369]

And treads the mountains which his fathers trod.

Not less than half-way up yon Mountain’s side

Behold a dusky spot, a grove of Firs, 385

That seems still smaller than it is. This grove

Is haunted--by what ghost? a gentle spirit

Of memory faithful to the call of love;

For, as reports the dame, whose fire sends up

Yon curling smoke from the grey cot below, 390

The trees (her first-born child being then a babe)

Were planted by her husband and herself,

That ranging o’er the high and houseless ground

Their sheep might neither want (from perilous storms

Of winter, nor from summer’s sultry heat) 395

A friendly covert. “And they knew it well,”

Said she, “for thither as the trees grew up,

We to the patient creatures carried food

In times of heavy snow.” She then began

In fond obedience to her private thoughts 400

To speak of her dead husband. Is there not

An art, a music, and a strain of words

That shall be like the acknowledged voice of life,

Shall speak of what is done among the fields,

Done truly there, or felt, of solid good 405

And real evil, yet be sweet withal,

More grateful, more harmonious than the breath,

The idle breath of softest pipe attuned

To pastoral fancies? Is there such a stream,

Pure and unsullied, flowing from the heart 410

With motions of true dignity and grace?

Or must we seek that stream where Man is not?

Methinks I could repeat in tuneful verse,

Delicious as the gentlest breeze that sounds

Through that aerial fir-grove, could preserve 415

Some portion of its human history

As gathered from the Matron’s lips, and tell

Of tears that have been shed at sight of it,

And moving dialogues between this pair,

Who in their prime of wedlock, with joint hands 420

Did plant the grove, now flourishing, while they

No longer flourish, he entirely gone,

She withering in her loneliness. Be this

A task above my skill; the silent mind

Has her own treasures, and I think of these, 425

Love what I see, and honour humankind.

No, we are not alone, we do not stand,

My Sister, here misplaced and desolate,

Loving what no one cares for but ourselves;

We shall not scatter through the plains and rocks 430

Of this fair Vale, and o’er its spacious heights

Unprofitable kindliness, bestowed

On objects unaccustomed to the gifts

Of feeling, which were cheerless and forlorn

But few weeks past, and would be so again 435

Were we not here; we do not tend a lamp

Whose lustre we alone participate,

Which shines dependent upon us alone,

Mortal though bright, a dying, dying flame.

Look where we will, some human hand has been 440

Before us with its offering; not a tree

Sprinkles these little pastures but the same

Hath furnished matter for a thought; perchance,

For some one, serves as a familiar friend.

Joy spreads, and sorrow spreads; and this whole Vale, 445

Home of untutored shepherds as it is,

Swarms with sensation, as with gleams of sunshine,

Shadows or breezes, scents or sounds. Nor deem

These feelings, though subservient more than ours

To every day’s demand for daily bread, 450

And borrowing more their spirit, and their shape

From self-respecting interests, deem them not

Unworthy therefore, and unhallowed: no,

They lift the animal being, do themselves

By Nature’s kind and ever-present aid 455

Refine the selfishness from which they spring,

Redeem by love the individual sense

Of anxiousness with which they are combined.

And thus it is that fitly they become

Associates in the joy of purest minds, 460

They blend therewith congenially: meanwhile,

Calmly they breathe their own undying life

Through this their mountain sanctuary. Long,

Oh long may it remain inviolate,

Diffusing health and sober cheerfulness, 465

And giving to the moments as they pass

Their little boons of animating thought

That sweeten labour, make it seen and felt

To be no arbitrary weight imposed,

But a glad function natural to man. 470

Fair proof of this, newcomer though I be,

Already have I gained. The inward frame

Though slowly opening, opens every day

With process not unlike to that which cheers

A pensive stranger, journeying at his leisure 475

Through some Helvetian dell, when low-hung mists

Break up, and are beginning to recede;

How pleased he is where thin and thinner grows

The veil, or where it parts at once, to spy

The dark pines thrusting forth their spiky heads; 480

To watch the spreading lawns with cattle grazed,

Then to be greeted by the scattered huts,

As they shine out; and _see_ the streams whose murmur

Had soothed his ear while _they_ were hidden: how pleased

To have about him, which way e’er he goes, 485

Something on every side concealed from view,

In every quarter something visible,

Half-seen or wholly, lost and found again,

Alternate progress and impediment,

And yet a growing prospect in the main. 490

Such pleasure now is mine, albeit forced,

Herein less happy than the Traveller

To cast from time to time a painful look

Upon unwelcome things, which unawares

Reveal themselves; not therefore is my heart 495

Depressed, nor does it fear what is to come,

But confident, enriched at every glance.

The more I see the more delight my mind

Receives, or by reflexion can create.

Truth justifies herself, and as she dwells 500

With Hope, who would not follow where she leads?

Nor let me pass unheeded other loves

Where no fear is, and humbler sympathies.

Already hath sprung up within my heart

A liking for the small grey horse that bears 505

The paralytic man, and for the brute--

In Scripture sanctified--the patient brute,

On which the cripple, in the quarry maimed,

Rides to and fro: I know them and their ways.[370]

The famous sheep-dog, first in all the Vale, 510

Though yet to me a stranger, will not be

A stranger long; nor will the blind man’s guide,

Meek and neglected thing, of no renown!

Soon will peep forth the primrose; ere it fades

Friends shall I have at dawn, blackbird and thrush 515

To rouse me, and a hundred warblers more;

And if those eagles to their ancient hold

Return, Helvellyn’s eagles! with the pair

From my own door I shall be free to claim

Acquaintance as they sweep from cloud to cloud. 520

The owl that gives the name to Owlet-Crag

Have I heard whooping, and he soon will be

A chosen one of my regards. See there

The heifer in yon little croft belongs

To one who holds it dear; with duteous care 525

She reared it, and in speaking of her charge

I heard her scatter some endearing words

Domestic, and in spirit motherly

She being herself a Mother, happy Beast

If the caresses of a human voice 530

Can make it so, and care of human hands.

And ye as happy under Nature’s care,

Strangers to me, and all men, or at least

Strangers to all particular amity,

All intercourse of knowledge or of love 535

That parts the individual from his kind,

Whether in large communities ye keep

From year to year, not shunning Man’s abode,

A settled residence, or be from far,

Wild creatures, and of many homes, that come 540

The gift of winds, and whom the winds again

Take from us at your pleasure--yet shall ye

Not want, for this, your own subordinate place

In my affections. Witness the delight

With which erewhile I saw that multitude 545

Wheel through the sky, and see them now at rest,

Yet not at rest, upon the glassy lake.

They _cannot_ rest, they gambol like young whelps;

Active as lambs, and overcome with joy.

They try all frolic motions; flutter, plunge, 550

And beat the passive water with their wings.

Too distant are they for plain view, but lo!

Those little fountains, sparkling in the sun,

Betray their occupation, rising up,

First one and then another silver spout, 555

As one or other takes the fit of glee,

Fountains and spouts, yet somewhat in the guise

Of play-thing fire-works, that on festal nights

Sparkle about the feet of wanton boys.

--How vast the compass of this theatre, 560

Yet nothing to be seen but lovely pomp

And silent majesty; the birch-tree woods

Are hung with thousand thousand diamond drops

Of melted hoar-frost, every tiny knot

In the bare twigs, each little budding place 565

Cased with its several beads, what myriads there

Upon one tree, while all the distant grove

That rises to the summit of the steep

Shows like a mountain built of silver light.

See yonder the same pageant, and again 570

Behold the universal imagery

Inverted, all its sun-bright features touched

As with the varnish, and the gloss of dreams;

Dreamlike the blending also of the whole

Harmonious landscape; all along the shore 575

The boundary lost, the line invisible

That parts the image from reality;

And the clear hills, as high as they ascend

Heavenward, so piercing deep the lake below.

Admonished of the days of love to come 580

The raven croaks, and fills the upper air

With a strange sound of genial harmony;[371]

And in and all about that playful band,

Incapable although they be of rest,

And in their fashion very rioters, 585

There is a stillness, and they seem to make

Calm revelry in that their calm abode.

Them leaving to their joyous hours I pass,

Pass with a thought the life of the whole year

That is to come, the throng of woodland flowers, 590

And lilies that will dance upon the waves.

Say boldly then that solitude is not

Where these things are. He truly is alone,

He of the multitude whose eyes are doomed

To hold a vacant commerce day by day 595

With objects wanting life, repelling love;

He by the vast Metropolis immured,

Where pity shrinks from unremitting calls,

Where numbers overwhelm humanity,

And neighbourhood serves rather to divide 600

Than to unite. What sighs more deep than his,

Whose nobler will hath long been sacrificed;

Who must inhabit, under a black sky,

A City where, if indifference to disgust

Yield not, to scorn, or sorrow, living men 605

Are ofttimes to their fellow-men no more

Than to the forest hermit are the leaves

That hang aloft in myriads--nay, far less,

For they protect his walk from sun and shower,

Swell his devotion with their voice in storms, 610

And whisper while the stars twinkle among them

His lullaby. From crowded streets remote,

Far from the living and dead wilderness

Of the thronged world, Society is here[372]

A true Community, a genuine frame 615

Of many into one incorporate.

_That_ must be looked for here, paternal sway,

One household under God for high and low,

One family, and one mansion; to themselves

Appropriate, and divided from the world 620

As if it were a cave, a multitude

Human and brute, possessors undisturbed

Of this recess, their legislative hall,

Their Temple, and their glorious dwelling-place.

Dismissing therefore, all Arcadian dreams, 625

All golden fancies of the golden age,

The bright array of shadowy thoughts from times

That were before all time, or is to be

Ere time expire, the pageantry that stirs

And will be stirring when our eyes are fixed 630

On lovely objects, and we wish to part

With all remembrance of a jarring world,

--Take we at once this one sufficient hope,

What need of more? that we shall neither droop,

Nor pine for want of pleasure in the life 635

Scattered about us, nor through dearth of aught

That keeps in health the insatiable mind;

That we shall have for knowledge and for love

Abundance; and that, feeling as we do

How goodly, how exceeding fair, how pure 640

From all reproach is yon ethereal vault,

And this deep vale its earthly counterpart,

By which, and under which, we are enclosed

To breathe in peace, we shall moreover find

(If sound, and what we ought to be ourselves, 645

If rightly we observe and justly weigh)

The inmates not unworthy of their home

The dwellers of their dwelling.

And if this

Were otherwise, we have within ourselves

Enough to fill the present day with joy, 650

And overspread the future years with hope,

Our beautiful and quiet home, enriched

Already with a stranger whom we love

Deeply, a stranger of our father’s house,

A never-resting Pilgrim of the Sea,[373] 655

Who finds at last an hour to his content

Beneath our roof. And others whom we love

Will seek us also, sisters of our hearts,[374]

And one, like them, a brother of our hearts,

Philosopher and Poet,[375] in whose sight 660

These mountains will rejoice with open joy.

--Such is our wealth; O Vale of Peace, we are

And must be, with God’s will, a happy band.

Yet ’tis not to enjoy that we exist,

For that end only; something must be done. 665

I must not walk in unreproved delight

These narrow bounds, and think of nothing more,

No duty that looks further, and no care.

Each being has his office, lowly some

And common, yet all worthy if fulfilled 670

With zeal, acknowledgment that with the gift

Keeps pace, a harvest answering to the seed--

Of ill-advised Ambition and of Pride

I would stand clear, but yet to me I feel

That an internal brightness is vouchsafed 675

That must not die, that must not pass away.

Why does this inward lustre fondly seek,

And gladly blend with outward fellowship?

Why do _they_ shine around me whom I love?

Why do they teach me whom I thus revere? 680

Strange question, yet it answers not itself.

That humble roof embowered among the trees,

That calm fire-side, it is not even in them,

--Blest as they are--to furnish a reply,

That satisfies and ends in perfect rest. 685

Possessions have I that are solely mine,

Something within which yet is shared by none,

Not even the nearest to me and most dear,

Something which power and effort may impart,

I would impart it, I would spread it wide, 690

Immortal in the world which is to come.

Forgive me if I add another claim,

And would not wholly perish even in this,

Lie down and be forgotten in the dust,

I and the modest partners of my days 695

Making a silent company in death;

Love, knowledge, all my manifold delights

All buried with me without monument

Or profit unto any but ourselves.

It must not be, if I, divinely taught, 700

Be privileged to speak as I have felt

Of what in man is human or divine.

While yet an innocent little-one, with a heart

That doubtless wanted not its tender moods,

I breathed (for this I better recollect) 705

Among wild appetites and blind desires,

Motions of savage instinct, my delight

And exaltation. Nothing at that time

So welcome, no temptation half so dear

As that which urged me to a daring feat. 710

Deep pools, tall trees, black chasms, and dizzy crags,

And tottering towers; I loved to stand and read

Their looks forbidding, read and disobey,

Sometimes in act, and evermore in thought.

With impulses that scarcely were by these 715

Surpassed in strength, I heard of danger, met

Or sought with courage; enterprize forlorn

By one, sole keeper of his own intent,

Or by a resolute few who for the sake

Of glory, fronted multitudes in arms. 720

Yea to this hour I cannot read a tale

Of two brave vessels matched in deadly fight,

And fighting to the death, but I am pleased

More than a wise man ought to be. I wish,

Fret, burn, and struggle, and in soul am there; 725

But me hath Nature tamed, and bade to seek

For other agitations, or be calm;

Hath dealt with me as with a turbulent stream,

Some nursling of the mountains, which she leads

Through quiet meadows, after he has learnt 730

His strength, and had his triumph and his joy,

His desperate course of tumult and of glee.

That which in stealth by Nature was performed

Hath Reason sanctioned. Her deliberate voice

Hath said, “Be mild and cleave to gentle things, 735

Thy glory and thy happiness be there.

Nor fear, though thou confide in me, a want

Of aspirations that _have_ been, of foes

To wrestle with, and victory to complete,

Bounds to be leapt, darkness to be explored, 740

All that inflamed thy infant heart, the love,

The longing, the contempt, the undaunted quest,

All shall survive--though changed their office, all

Shall live,--it is not in their power to die.”

Then farewell to the Warrior’s schemes, farewell 745

The forwardness of soul which looks that way

Upon a less incitement than the cause

Of Liberty endangered, and farewell

That other hope, long mine, the hope to fill

The heroic trumpet with the Muse’s breath! 750

Yet in this peaceful Vale we will not spend

Unheard-of days, though loving peaceful thoughts.

A voice shall speak, and what will be the theme?[18]

[359] The following lines, 71-97, and 110-125, were first published in

the _Memoirs of Wordsworth_, in 1851.--ED.

[360]

… on …

1851.

[361] The lines 152-167 were first published in the _Memoirs of

Wordsworth_ in 1851.--ED.

[362]

Mark how the feathered tenants of the flood

With grace of motion …

MS.

[363]

… amid …

MS.

[364]

They tempt the water, or …

MS.

[365] The foregoing twenty-seven lines were published under the title

_Water-Fowl_, in the 1827 edition of Wordsworth’s “Poetical Works.”

They are also printed in the fifth edition of the _Guide through the

District of the Lakes in the North of England_ (section first).--ED.

[366] Compare _Paradise Lost_, book xii. l. 646.--ED.

[367] Compare, in the _After-Thought_ to “The Duddon Sonnets”--

Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide.

ED.

[368] Compare, in _An Evening Walk_, l. 378--

Or yell, in the deep woods, of lonely hound.

ED.

[369] Compare Wordsworth’s numerous references to the Cumbrian and

Westmoreland “Statesmen,” in his Prose Works, and elsewhere.--ED.

[370] Compare _Peter Bell_.--ED.

[371] Compare _The Excursion_, book iv. ll. 1175-1187.--ED.

[372] Wordsworth says elsewhere that

Solitude is blithe Society.

ED.

[373] John Wordsworth.--ED.

[374] The Hutchinsons.--ED.

[375] Coleridge.--ED.

“SHALL HE WHO GIVES HIS DAYS TO LOW PURSUITS”

The following lines occur in the experimental efforts made by

Wordsworth to write an autobiographical poem. They occur in one of his

sister’s Journals, entitled “May to December, 1802”; and were probably

either dictated to her in that year, or were copied by her from some

earlier fragment. They stand related to passages in _The Prelude_. (See

vol. iii. p. 269.)--ED.

Shall he who gives his days to low pursuits

Amid the undistinguishable crowd

Of cities, ’mid the same eternal flow

Of the same objects, melted and reduced

To one identity, by differences 5

That have no law, no meaning, and no end,

Shall he feel yearning to those lifeless forms,

And shall we think that Nature is less kind

To those, who all day long, through a busy life,

Have walked within her sight? It cannot be. 10

1803

“I FIND IT WRITTEN OF SIMONIDES”

Published in _The Morning Post_, October 10, 1803

S.T.C. writing to Tom Poole, October 14, 1803, said that Wordsworth

wrote to _The Morning Post_ “as W. L. D., and sometimes with no

signature.” There is ample evidence that the following sonnet was

written by Wordsworth. He had contributed five sonnets to _The Morning

Post_ before the month of September 1803; and on the 10th of October in

that year the following appeared.--ED.

I find it written of Simonides,

That, travelling in strange countries, once he found

A corpse that lay expos’d upon the ground,

For which, with palms, he caus’d due obsequies

To be perform’d, and paid all holy fees. 5

Soon after this man’s ghost unto him came,

And told him not to sail, as was his aim,

On board a ship then ready for the seas.

Simonides, admonish’d by the ghost,

Remain’d behind: the ship the following day 10

Set sail, was wreck’d, and all on board were lost.

Thus was the tenderest Poet that could be,

Who sang in antient Greece his loving lay,

Sav’d out of many by his piety.

1804

“NO WHIMSEY OF THE PURSE IS HERE”

Writing to Sir George Beaumont, on Christmas Day, 1804, Wordsworth

said: “We have lately built in our little rocky orchard a circular

hut, lined with moss, like a wren’s nest, and coated on the outside

with heath, that stands most charmingly, with several views from the

different sides of it, of the Lake, the Valley, and the Church.… I will

copy a dwarf inscription which I wrote for it” (_i.e._ the circular

hut, in his Orchard-Garden) “the other day before the building was

entirely finished, which indeed it is not yet.”[376]--ED.

No whimsey of the purse is here,

No pleasure-house forlorn;

Use, comfort, do this roof endear;

A tributary shed to cheer

The little cottage that is near,

To help it and adorn.

[376] See the _Memorials of Coleorton_, vol. i. p. 81; and Wordsworth’s

letter on the subject in a later volume of this edition.--ED.

1805

“PEACEFUL OUR VALLEY, FAIR AND GREEN”

This is extracted from a copy of an appendix to _Recollections of a

Tour in Scotland_ by Dorothy Wordsworth, written by Mrs. Clarkson,

September-November 1805. It was composed by the poet’s sister. In

February 1892 it was published in _The Monthly Packet_ under the title

“Grasmere: a Fragment,” and with the signature “Rydal Mount, September

26, 1829.” It is now printed from the MS. of 1805.--ED.

Peaceful our valley, fair and green;

And beautiful the cottages

Each in its nook, its sheltered hold,

Or underneath its tuft of trees.

Many and beautiful they are; 5

But there is one that I love best,

A lowly roof in truth it is,

A brother of the rest.

Yet when I sit on rock or hill

Down-looking on the valley fair, 10

That cottage with its grove of trees

Summons my heart; it settles there.

Others there are whose small domain

Of fertile fields with hedgerows green

Might more seduce the traveller’s mind 15

To wish that there his home had been.

Such wish be his! I blame him not,

My fancies they, perchance, are wild;

I love that house because it is

The very mountain’s child. 20

Fields hath it of its own, green fields;

But they are craggy, steep, and bare;

Their fence is of the mountain stone,

And moss and lichen flourish there.

And when the storm comes from the North 25

It lingers near that pastoral spot,

And piping through the mossy walls,

It seems delighted with its lot.

And let it take its own delight,

And let it range the pastures bare 30

Until it reach that grove of trees

----It may not enter there!

A green unfading grove it is,

Skirted with many a lesser tree,

Hazel and holly, beech and oak, 35

A fair and flourishing company!

Precious the shelter of those trees!

They screen the cottage that I love;

The sunshine pierces to the roof

And the tall pine trees tower above. 40

When first I saw that dear abode

It was a lovely winter’s day:

After a night of perilous storm

The West wind ruled with gentle sway;

A day so mild, it might have been 45

The first day of the gladsome spring;

The robins warbled; and I heard

One solitary throstle sing:

A stranger in the neighbourhood,

All faces then to me unknown, 50

I left my sole companion-friend

To wander out alone.

Lur’d by a little winding path,

I quitted soon the public road,

A smooth and tempting path it was 55

By sheep and shepherds trod.

Eastward, toward the mighty hills

This pathway led me on,

Until I reach’d a lofty Rock

With velvet moss o’ergrown. 60

With russet Oak and tufts of Fern

Its top was richly garlanded;

Its sides adorn’d with Eglantine

Bedropp’d with hips of glossy red.

There too in many a shelter’d chink 65

The foxglove’s broad leaves flourish’d fair,

And silver birch whose purple twigs

Bend to the softest breathing air.

Beneath that rock my course I stay’d

And, looking to its summit high, 70

“Thou wear’st,” said I, “a splendid garb,

Here winter keeps his revelry.

“I’ve been a dweller on the plains,

Have sigh’d when summer days were gone;

No more I’ll sigh; for winter here 75

Hath gladsome gardens of his own.

“What need of flowers? The splendid moss

Is gayer than an April mead;

More rich its hues of various green,

Orange and gold and glowing red.” 80

----Beside that gay and lovely rock

There came with merry voice

A foaming streamlet glancing by,

It seem’d to say “Rejoice!”

My youthful wishes all fulfill’d, 85

Wishes matured by thoughtful choice,

I stood an Inmate of this vale,

How could I but rejoice?

“AH! IF I WERE A LADY GAY”

The following two stanzas were added by Wordsworth to his sister’s

poem, entitled _The Cottager to her Infant_--composed in 1805, and

issued in 1815 (see vol. iii. pp. 74, 75); but they were never

published in Wordsworth’s lifetime.--ED.

Ah! if I were a lady gay

I should not grieve with thee to play;

Right gladly would I lie awake

Thy lively spirits to partake,

And ask no better cheer. 5

But, Babe! there’s none to work for me,

And I must rise to industry;

Soon as the cock begins to crow

Thy mother to the fold must go

To tend the sheep and kine. 10

1806

TO THE EVENING STAR OVER GRASMERE WATER, JULY 1806

The Lake is thine,

The mountains too are thine, some clouds there are,

Some little feeble stars, but all is thine,

Thou, thou art king, and sole proprietor.

A moon among her stars, a mighty vale, 5

Fresh as the freshest field, scoop’d out, and green

As is the greenest billow of the sea.

The multitude of little rocky hills,

Rocky or green, that do like islands rise

From the flat meadow lonely there. 10

…

Embowering mountains, and the dome of Heaven

And waters in the midst, a Second Heaven.

MICHAEL ANGELO IN REPLY TO THE PASSAGE UPON HIS STATUE OF NIGHT SLEEPING

In the first volume of a copy of the edition of 1836,--long kept by

Wordsworth at Rydal Mount, and afterwards the property of the late Lord

Coleridge--which has been referred to in the Preface to Vol. 1., and

very often in the footnotes to all the volumes, signed C.--Wordsworth

wrote in MS. two translations of a fragment of Michael Angelo’s on

Sleep, and a translation of some Latin verses by Thomas Warton on the

same subject. These fragments were never included in any edition of his

published works, and it is impossible to say to what year they belong.

From their close relation to other translations from Michael Angelo,

made by Wordsworth in 1806, I assign them, conjecturally, to the same

year. The title is from Wordsworth’s own MS.--ED.

I

Grateful is Sleep, my life, in stone bound fast,

More grateful still: while wrong and shame shall last,

On me can Time no happier state bestow

Than to be left unconscious of the woe.

Ah then, lest you awaken me, speak low. 5

II

Grateful is Sleep, more grateful still to be

Of marble; for while shameless wrong and woe

Prevail, ’tis best to neither hear nor see.

Then wake me not, I pray you. Hush, speak low.

“COME, GENTLE SLEEP, DEATH’S IMAGE THO’ THOU ART”

Come, gentle Sleep, Death’s image tho’ thou art,

Come share my couch, nor speedily depart;

How sweet thus living without life to lie,

Thus without death how sweet it is to die.

The Latin verse by Thomas Warton, of which these lines are a

translation, is as follows:--

Somne veni! quamvis placidissima Mortis imago es,

Consortem cupio te tamen esse tori;

Hue ades, haud abiture citò! nam sic sine vita

Vivere quam suave est, sic sine morte mori!

Thomas Warton, Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford, and Professor of

Poetry in that University, is chiefly known by his _History of English

Poetry_ (1774-1781).--ED.

“BROOK, THAT HAST BEEN MY SOLACE DAYS AND WEEKS”

The following version of the sonnet beginning “Brook! whose society the

Poet seeks,” probably written in 1806 and first published in 1815 (see

vol. iv. p. 52), has come to light since that volume was issued. The

variants throughout are sufficient to warrant its publication here. Had

I received it earlier they would have appeared in vol. iv.--ED.

Brook, that hast been my solace days and weeks,

And months, and let me add the long year through,

I come to thee, thou dost my heart renew;

O happy Thing! among thy flowery creeks,

And happy, dancing down thy water-breaks: 5

If I some type of thee did wish to view,

Thee, and not thee thyself, I would not do

Like Grecian Poets, give thee human cheeks,

Channels for tears! No Naiad should’st thou be;

Have neither wings, feet, feathers, joints, nor hairs. 10

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;

The joy of fleshly life without its cares.

TRANSLATION FROM MICHAEL ANGELO

The date of this is unknown, and the original MS. is difficult to

decipher. It is here and there illegible. It may belong to the year

of the “Ecclesiastical Sonnets,” but I place it beside the other

translation from Michael Angelo.--ED.

Rid of a vexing and a heavy load,

Eternal Lord! and from the world set free,

Like a frail Bark, weary I turn to Thee,--

From frightful storms into a quiet road.

On much repentance Grace will be bestow’d. 5

The nails, the thorns, and thy two hands, thy face

Benign, meek, …, offers grace

To sinners whom their sins oppress and goad.

Let not thy justice view, O Light Divine,

My fault, and keep it from thy sacred ear. 10

…

Cleanse with thy blood my sins, to this incline

More readily, the more my years require

Prompt aid, forgiveness speedy and entire.

1808

GEORGE AND SARAH GREEN

Composed 1808.--Published 1839

This poem was first printed in De Quincey’s “Recollections of

Grasmere,” which appeared in _Tait’s Edinburgh Magazine_, September

1839, p. 573, and afterwards in his _Recollections of the Lakes_

(1853), p. 23.

The text is printed as it is found in De Quincey’s article. Doubtless

Wordsworth, or some member of the family, had supplied him with a

copy of these verses. Wordsworth himself seemed to have thought them

unworthy of publication. A copy of the poem was transcribed at Grasmere

by Dorothy Wordsworth for Lady Beaumont on the 20th April 1808. In

this copy there are numerous variations from the text as published by

De Quincey, and these are indicated in the footnotes. In the letter to

Lady Beaumont, Dorothy Wordsworth says, “I am going to transcribe a

poem composed by my brother a few days after his return. It was begun

in the churchyard when he was looking at the grave of the Husband and

Wife, and is in fact supposed to be entirely composed there.”

Wordsworth returned to his old home at Dove Cottage, Grasmere, after a

short visit to London, on the 6th April 1808; and there he remained,

till Allan Bank was ready for occupation. I therefore conclude that

this poem was written in April 1808.

Compare De Quincey’s account of the disaster that befell the Greens, as

reported in his _Early Recollections of Grasmere_. The Wordsworths had

evidently taken part in the effort to raise subscriptions in behalf of

the orphan children. They issued a printed appeal on the subject. The

following is an extract from a letter of Dorothy Wordsworth’s to Lady

Beaumont on the subject:--

“GRASMERE, _April 20th, 1808_.

“We received your letter this morning, enclosing the half of a

£5 note. I am happy to inform you that the orphans have been

fixed under the care of very respectable people. The baby is

with its sister--she who filled the Mother’s place in the house

during their two days of fearless solitude. It has clung to her

ever since, and she has been its sole nurse. I went with two

ladies of the Committee (in my sister’s place, who was then

confined to poor John’s bedside) to conduct the family to their

separate homes. The two Girls are together, as I have said; two

Boys at another Home; and the third Boy by himself at the house

of an elderly man who had a particular friendship for their

father. The kind reception that the children met with was very

affecting.”

See the letters from Wordsworth to Richard Sharpe, Esq., Mark Lane,

London, in a subsequent volume, referring to the catastrophe.--ED.

Who weeps for strangers? Many wept

For George and Sarah Green;

Wept for that pair’s unhappy fate,

Whose grave may here be seen.[377]

By night, upon these stormy fells,[378] 5

Did wife and husband roam;

Six little ones at home had left,

And could not find that home.[379]

For _any_ dwelling-place of man

As vainly did they seek. 10

He perish’d; and a voice was heard--

The widow’s lonely shriek.[380]

Not many steps, and she was left[381]

A body without life--

A few short steps were the chain that bound[382] 15

The husband to the wife.[383]

Now do those[384] sternly-featured hills

Look gently on this grave;

And quiet now are the depths[385] of air,

As a sea without a wave. 20

But deeper lies the heart of peace

In quiet more profound;[386]

The heart of quietness is here

Within this churchyard bound.[387]

And from all agony of mind 25

It keeps them safe, and far

From fear and grief, and from all need

Of sun or guiding star.[388]

O darkness of the grave! how deep,[389]

After that living night-- 30

That last and dreary living one

Of sorrow and affright!

O sacred marriage-bed of death,

That keeps[390] them side by side

In bond of peace, in bond of love,[391] 35

That may not be untied!

[377] 1839.

Wept for that Pair’s unhappy end,

Whose Grave may here be seen.

MS. letter of Dorothy Wordsworth’s.

[378] 1839.

… these stormy Heights,

MS.

[379] 1839.

Six little ones the Pair had left,

And could not find their home.

MS.

[380] 1839.

Down the dark precipice he fell,

And she was left alone,

Not long to think of her children dear,

Not long to pray, or groan.

Added in MS.

[381] 1839.

A few wild steps--she too was left,

MS.

[382] 1839.

The chain of but a few wild steps.

MS. in Dorothy Wordsworth’s handwriting--sent to Lady Beaumont.

[383] 1839.

Four stanzas are here added in MS., only one of which need be given--

Our peace is of the immortal soul,

Our anguish is of clay;

Such bounty is in Heaven: so pass

The bitterest pangs away.

[384] 1839.

Now do the …

MS.

[385] 1839.

… is the depth …

MS.

[386] 1839.

In shelter more profound.

MS.

[387] 1839.

… ground.

MS.

[388] 1839.

From fear, and from all need of hope

From sun or guiding star.

MS.

[389] 1839.

… how calm,

MS.

[390] 1839.

That holds …

MS.

[391] 1839.

In bond of love, in bond of God,

MS.

1818

“THE SCOTTISH BROOM ON BIRD-NEST BRAE”[392]

The Scottish Broom on Bird-nest brae[393]

Twelve tedious years ago,

When many plants strange blossoms bore

That puzzled high and low,

A not unnatural longing felt, 5

What longing would ye know?

Why, friend, to deck her supple twigs

With _yellow_ in full blow.

To Lowther Castle she addressed

A prayer both bold and sly, 10

(For all the Brooms on Bird-nest brae

Can talk and speechify)

That flattering breezes blowing thence

Their succour would supply,

Then she would instantly put forth 15

A flag of _yellow_ dye.

But from the Castle turret blew

A chill forbidding blast,

Which the poor Broom no sooner felt

Than she shrank up so fast; 20

Her _wished-for_ yellow she forswore,

And since that time has cast

Fond looks on colours three or four

And put forth _Blue_ at last.

And now, my lads, the Election comes 25

In June’s sunshining hours,

When every field and bank and brae

Is clad with yellow flowers.

While faction Blue from shops and booths

Tricks out her blustering powers, 30

Lo! smiling Nature’s lavish hand

Has furnished wreaths for ours.

[392] “Written, in my opinion, at the General Election of 1818.”--(The

Rev. Thomas Hutchinson of Kimbolton.)

[393] “Bird-nest” was the old name of Brougham Hall.--ED.

PLACARD FOR A POLL BEARING AN OLD SHIRT

Wordsworth was deeply interested in the successive parliamentary

elections for Westmoreland (see his “Addresses to the Freeholders of

Westmorland, 1818,” in the Prose Works.) He particularly disliked

Lord Brougham’s candidature. The following squib is in MS. at Lowther

Castle. He wrote on the MS.--“For a version of part of B.’s famous

London Tower Speech see opposite page.”--ED.

If money’s slack,

The shirt on my back

Shall off, and go to the hammer:

Though I sell shirt and skin

By Jove I’ll be in,

And raise up a radical clamor!

“CRITICS, RIGHT HONOURABLE BARD, DECREE”

I have found this in a catalogue of Autograph Letters, and have no

knowledge of its date, or of the Bard referred to. Solomon Gesner wrote

a poem on _The Death of Abel_, which was translated into English. See

footnote to _The Prelude_, book vii. l. 564.--ED.

“Critics, right honourable Bard, decree

Laurels to some, a night-shade wreath to thee,

Whose muse a sure though late revenge hath ta’en

Of harmless Abel’s death, by murdering Cain.”

On Cain, a Mystery, dedicated to Sir Walter Scott:--

“A German Haggis from receipt

Of him who cooked the death of Abel,

And sent ‘warm-reeking, rich and sweet,’

From Venice to Sir Walter’s table.”

1819

“THROUGH CUMBRIAN WILDS, IN MANY A MOUNTAIN COVE”

In 1819 Wordsworth wrote the sonnet beginning, “Grief, thou hast lost

an ever ready friend.” In the note to that sonnet (vol. vi. p. 196)

I have given a different version of its last six lines, from a MS.

sonnet. But as these six lines also form the conclusion of another

unpublished sonnet, it may be given in full by itself, in this

Appendix.--ED.

Through Cumbrian wilds, in many a mountain cove,

The pastoral Muse laments the Wheel--no more

Engaged, near blazing hearth on clean-swept floor,

In tasks which guardian Angels might approve,

Friendly the weight of leisure to remove, 5

And to beguile the lassitude of ease;

Gracious to all the dear dependencies

Of house and field,--to plenty, peace, and love.

There too did _Fancy_ prize the murmuring wheel;

For sympathies, inexplicably fine, 10

Instilled a confidence--how sweet to feel!

That ever in the night-calm, when the Sheep

Upon their grassy beds lay couch’d in sleep,

The quickening spindle drew a trustier line.

“MY SON! BEHOLD THE TIDE ALREADY SPENT”

The following sonnet occurs after the above in the same MS. whence both

are extracted.--ED.

My Son! behold the tide already spent

That rose, and steadily advanced to fill

The shores and channels, working Nature’s will

Among the mazy streams that backward went,

And in the sluggish Ports where ships were pent. 5

And now, its task performed, the flood stands still

At the green base of many an inland hill,

In placid beauty and entire content.

Such the repose that Sage and Hero find,

Such measured rest the diligent and good 10

Of humbler name, whose souls do like the flood

Of ocean press right on, or gently wind,

Neither to be diverted nor withstood

Until they reach the bounds by Heaven assigned.

1820

AUTHOR’S VOYAGE DOWN THE RHINE

(THIRTY YEARS AGO)

The confidence of Youth our only Art,

And Hope gay Pilot of the bold design,

We saw the living Landscapes of the Rhine,

Reach after reach, salute us and depart;

Slow sink the Spires,--and up again they start! 5

But who shall count the Towers as they recline

O’er the dark steeps, or in the horizon line

Striding, with shattered crests, the eye athwart?

More touching still, more perfect was the pleasure,

When hurrying forward till the slack’ning stream 10

Spread like a spacious Mere, we there could measure

A smooth free course along the watery gleam,

Think calmly on the past, and mark at leisure

Features which else had vanished like a dream.

This sonnet was published in the first edition of the Memorials of

this Tour (1822), but was struck out of the next edition, and never

republished. Its rejection by Wordsworth is curious.

It refers to the pedestrian tour which the Poet took, with his

friend Jones, in 1790, which he afterwards recorded in full in his

_Descriptive Sketches_.

Dorothy Wordsworth, in her Journal of the Tour in 1820, refers to it

thus:--“Our journey through the narrower and most romantic passages

of the Vale of the Rhine was connected with times long past, when my

brother and his Friend (it was thirty years ago) floated down the

stream in their little Bark. Often did my fancy place them with a

freight of happiness in the centre of some bending reach, overlooked

by tower or castle, or (when expectation would be most eager) at the

turning of a promontory, which had concealed from their view some

delicious winding which we had left behind; but no more of my own

feelings, a record of his will be more interesting.”

She then quotes the sonnet, beginning

The confidence of Youth our only Art.

There are also numerous allusions in Mrs. Wordsworth’s Journal to

this early tour; _e.g._ under date August 13. “We left Meyringen;

soon reached a sort of Hotel, which Wm. pointed out to us with great

interest, as being the only spot where he and his friend Jones were ill

used, during the course of their adventurous journey--a wild looking

building, a little removed from the road, where the vale of Hasli

ends.” Again, in describing the sunset from the woody hill Colline de

Gibet, overlooking the two lakes of Brienz and Thun, at Interlaken,

“with the loveliest of green vallies between us and Jungfrau,” “Surely

William must have had this Paradise in his thoughts when he began his

_Descriptive Sketches_--

Were there, below, a spot of holy ground,

By Pain and her sad family unfound, etc.

But no habitation was there among these rocky knolls, and tiny

pastures. One fragment, something like a ruined convent, lurked under

a steep, woody-fringed crag. What a Refuge for a pious Sisterhood!”

Compare also the note to _Stanzas composed in the Simplon Pass_, vol.

vi. p. 359.--ED.

1822

“THESE VALES WERE SADDENED WITH NO COMMON GLOOM”

In the _Memoirs of William Wordsworth_ by his nephew (the late Bishop

of Lincoln) vol. i. chap. xxx. the following occurs as an addendum

transferred to the footnotes:--

“The first six lines of an epitaph in Grasmere Church were also his

composition. The elegant marble tablet on which they were engraved was

designed by Sir Francis Chantry, and prepared by Allan Cunningham,

1822. It is over the chancel door.”

The following is the Inscription:--

In the Burial Ground

of this Church are deposited the remains of

JEMIMA ANNE DEBORAH,

second daughter of

Sir Egerton Brydges, of Denton Court, Kent, Bart.

She departed this life at the Ivy Cottage, Rydal,

May 25th 1822, aged 28 years.

This memorial is erected by her husband

EDWARD QUILLINAN.

The entire sonnet, of which Wordsworth wrote the “first six lines,” is

as follows:--

These vales were saddened with no common gloom

When good Jemima perished in her bloom;

When, such the awful will of heaven, she died

By flames breathed on her from her own fireside.

On earth we dimly see, and but in part 5

We know, yet faith sustains the sorrowing heart;

And she, the pure, the patient and the meek,

Might have fit epitaph could feelings speak;

If words could tell and monuments record,

How Treasures lost are inwardly deplored, 10

No name by grief’s fond eloquence adorned

More than Jemima’s would be praised and mourned.

The tender virtues of her blameless life,

Bright in the daughter, brighter in the wife,

And in the cheerful mother brightest shone,-- 15

That light hath past away--the will of God[394] be done.

[394]

… of Heaven …

MS.

TRANSLATION OF PART OF THE FIRST BOOK OF THE ÆNEID

Composed 1823 (?).--Published 1836

This translation was included in the _Philological Museum_, edited

by Julius Charles Hare, and published at Cambridge in 1832 (vol. i.

p. 382, etc.). Three Books were translated by Wordsworth, but the

greater portion is still in MS., unpublished. What is now reproduced

appeared in the _Museum_. As it was never included by Wordsworth

himself in any edition of his Works, his own estimate of its literary

value was slight. It was published by Professor Henry Reed in his

American reprint of 1851. Writing to Lord Lonsdale on 9th Nov. 1823,

Wordsworth says, “I have just finished a Translation into English rhyme

of the First _Æneid_. Would you allow me to send it to you? I would

be much gratified if you would take the trouble of comparing some

passages with the original. I have endeavoured to be much more literal

than Dryden, or Pitt--who keeps more close to the original than his

predecessor.”--ED.

TO THE EDITORS OF THE “PHILOLOGICAL MUSEUM”

Your letter, reminding me of an expectation I some time since

held out to you of allowing some specimens of my translation

from the _Æneid_ 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 that experiment,--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 been displeased in modern translations with the

additions of incongruous matter, I began to translate with a

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 admitting a

principle of compensation. On this point, however, I do not

wish to insist, and merely send the following passage, taken at

random, from a wish to comply with your request.--W.W.

But Cytherea, studious to invent

Arts yet untried, upon new counsels bent,

Resolves that Cupid, chang’d in form and face

To young Ascanius, should assume his place;

Present the maddening gifts, and kindle heat 5

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

These cares, and thus she speaks to wingèd Love: 10

“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 Æneas in his course, 15

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; 20

Junonian hospitalities prepare

Such apt occasion that I dread a snare.

Hence, ere some hostile God can intervene,

Would I, by previous wiles, inflame the queen

With passion for Æneas, such strong love 25

That at my beck, mine only, she shall move.

Hear, and assist;--the father’s mandate calls

His young Ascanius to the Tyrian walls;

He comes, my dear delight,--and costliest things

Preserv’d from fire and flood for presents brings. 30

Him will I take, and in close covert keep,

’Mid groves Idalian, lull’d to gentle sleep,

Or on Cythera’s far-sequestered steep,

That he may neither know what hope is mine,

Nor by his presence traverse the design. 35

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

With many a fond embrace, while joy runs high, 40

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, 45

Like young Iulus; but the gentlest dews

Of slumber Venus sheds, to circumfuse

The true Ascanius steep’d in placid rest;

Then wafts him, cherish’d on her careful breast,

Through upper air to an Idalian glade, 50

Where he on soft _amaracas_ is laid,

With breathing flowers embraced, and fragrant shade.

But Cupid, following cheerily his guide

Achates, with the gifts to Carthage hied;

And, as the hall he entered, there, between 55

The sharers of her golden couch, was seen

Reclin’d in festal pomp the Tyrian queen.

The Trojans, too (Æneas at their head),

On couches lie, with purple overspread:

Meantime in canisters is heap’d the bread, 60

Pellucid water for the hands is borne,

And napkins of smooth texture, finely shorn.

Within are fifty handmaids, who prepare,

As they in order stand, the dainty fare;

And fume the household deities with store 65

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. 70

The Tyrians rushing in, an eager band,

Their painted couches seek, obedient to command.

They look with wonder on the gifts--they gaze

Upon Iulus, dazzled with the rays

That from his ardent countenance are flung, 75

And charm’d to hear his simulating tongue;

Nor pass unprais’d the robe and veil divine,

Round which the yellow flowers and wandering foliage twine.

But chiefly Dido, to the coming ill

Devoted, strives in vain her vast desires to fill; 80

She views the gifts; upon the child then turns

Insatiable looks, and gazing burns.

To ease a father’s cheated love he hung

Upon Æneas, and around him clung;

Then seeks the queen; with her his arts he tries; 85

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 Acidalian mother, by degrees 90

Blots out Sichaeus, studious to remove

The dead, by influx of a living love,

By stealthy entrance of a perilous guest.

Troubling a heart that had been long at rest.

Now when the viands were withdrawn, and ceas’d 95

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; 100

From gilded rafters many a blazing light

Depends, and torches overcome the night.

The minutes fly--till, at the queen’s command,

A bowl of state is offered to her hand:

Then she, as Belus wont, and all the line 105

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; 110

A day to future generations dear!

Let Bacchus, donor of soul-quick’ning cheer,

Be present; kindly Juno, be thou near!

And, Tyrians, may your choicest favours wait

Upon this hour, the bond to celebrate!” 115

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 rais’d the bowl, and took a long deep draught;

Then every chief in turn the beverage quaff’d. 120

Graced with redundant hair, Iopas sings

The lore of Atlas, to resounding strings,

The labours of the Sun, the lunar wanderings;

Whence human kind, and brute; what natural powers

Engender lightning, whence are falling showers. 125

He haunts Arcturus,--that fraternal twain

The glittering Bears,--the Pleiads fraught with rain;

--Why suns in winter, shunning heaven’s steep heights

Post seaward,--what impedes the tardy nights.

The learned song from Tyrian hearers draws 130

Loud shouts,--the Trojans echo the 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;-- 135

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, 140

Your own grief and your friends’--your wandering course;

For now, till this seventh summer have ye rang’d

The sea, or trod the earth, to peace estrang’d.”

1823

“ARMS AND THE MAN I SING, THE FIRST WHO BORE”

The following version of the first few lines of the _Æneid_ were copied

by Professor Reed of Philadelphia, with Mrs. Wordsworth’s permission,

during a visit to Rydal Mount in 1854, four years after the poet’s

death. Mrs. Reed kindly sent them to me.--ED.

Arms and the Man I sing, the first who bore

His course to Latium from the Trojan shore,

A fugitive of fate. Long time was he

By powers celestial tossed on land and sea

Thro’ wrathful Juno’s far-famed enmity;

Much too from war endured till new abodes

He planted, and in Latium fixed his Gods,

Whence flows the Latin people, whence have come

The Alban Sites and walls of lofty Rome.

1826

LINES ADDRESSED TO JOANNA H. FROM GWERNDWFFNANT IN JUNE 1826

BY DOROTHY WORDSWORTH[395]

A twofold harmony is here;

I listen with the bodily ear,

But dull and cheerless is the sound

Contrasted with the heart’s rebound.

Now at the close of fervid June, 5

Upon this breathless hazy noon,

I seek the deepest darkest shade

Within the covert of that glade,

Which you and I first named our own

When primroses were fully blown, 10

Oaks just were budding, and the grove

Rang with the gladdest songs of love.

Then did the Leader of the Band,

A gallant thrush, maintain his stand

Unshrouded from the eye of day 15

Upon yon Beech’s topmost spray.

Within the selfsame lofty tree

A thrush sings now--perchance ’tis he--

The lusty joyous gallant bird,

Which on that April morn we heard. 20

But oh! how different that voice

Which bade the very hills rejoice.

Through languid air, through leafy boughs

It falls, and can no echo rouse.

But on the workings of my heart 25

Doth memory act a busy part;

That jocund April morn lives there,

Its cheering sounds, its hues so fair.

Why mixes with remembrance blithe

What nothing but the restless scythe 30

Of Death can utterly destroy,

A heaviness, a dull alloy?

Ah Friend! thy heart can answer why.

Even then I heaved a bitter sigh,

No word of sorrow did’st thou speak, 35

But tears stole down thy tremulous cheek.

The wished for hour at length was come,

And thou had’st housed me in thy home,

On fair Gwerndwffnant’s billowy hill,

Had’st led me to its crystal rill, 40

And led me through the dingle deep

Up to the highest grassy steep,

The sheep walk where the snow-white lambs

Sported beside their quiet dams.

But thou wert destined to remove 45

From all these objects of thy love,

In this thy later day to roam

Far off, and seek another home.

_Now_ thou art gone--belike ’tis best--

And I remain a passing guest, 50

Yet for thy sake, beloved Friend,

When from this spot my way shall tend,

And if my timid soul might dare

To shape the future in its prayer,

Then fervently would I entreat 55

Our gracious God to guide thy feet

Back to the peaceful sunny cot,

Where thou so oft hast blessed thy lot.

[395] I owe my knowledge of this and the following poem to the nephew

of Mrs. Wordsworth, the Reverend Thomas Hutchinson of Kimbolton,

Herefordshire, who wrote: “The two following poems were found among his

papers on the demise of Mr. Monkhouse--a first cousin of Wordsworth;

the first in the hand-writing of Wordsworth’s wife, and the second of

her daughter.”--ED.

HOLIDAY AT GWERNDWFFNANT, MAY 1826

IRREGULAR STANZAS

BY DOROTHY WORDSWORTH

You’re here for one long vernal day;

We’ll give it all to social play,

Though forty years have rolled away

Since we were young as you.

Then welcome to our spacious Hall! 5

Tom, Bessy, Mary, welcome all!

Though removed from busy men,

Yea lonesome as the foxes’ den,

’Tis a place for joyance fit,

For frolic games and inborn wit. 10

’Twas nature built this hall of ours;

She shap’d the bank; she framed the bowers

That close it all around;

From her we hold our precious right,

And here, thro’ live-long day and night, 15

She rules with modest sway.

Our carpet is our verdant sod;

A richer one was never trod

In prince’s proud saloon.

Purple, and gold, and spotless white, 20

And quivering shade, and sunny light,

Blend with the emerald green.

She opened for the mountain brook

A gentle winding pebbly way

Into this placid secret nook. 25

Its bell-like tinkling--list, you hear--

’Tis never loud, yet always clear

As linnet’s song in May.

And we have other music here:

A thousand songsters through the year 30

Dwell in these happy groves,

And in this season of their loves

They join their voices with the doves

To raise a perfect harmony.

Thus spake I while with sober pace 35

We slipped into that chosen place

And from the centre of our Hall

The young ones played around,

Then, like a flock of vigorous lambs,

That quit their grave and slow-paced dams 40

To frolic o’er the mead,

That innocent fraternal troop

Erewhile a steady listening group

Off starting--Girl and Boy

In gamesome race with agile bound 45

Beat o’er and o’er the grassy ground

As if in motion--perfect joy.

So vanishes my idle scheme

That we through this long vernal day,

Associates in their youthful play, 50

With them might travel in one stream.

Ah! how should we whose heads are grey?

Light was my heart, my spirits gay,

And fondly did I dream.

But now, recalled to consciousness, 55

With weight of years, of changed estate,

Thought is not needed to repress

Those shapeless fancies of delight

That flash before my dazzled sight

Upon this joy-devoted morn. 60

Gladly we seek the stillest nook

Whence we may read, as in a book,

A history of years gone by,

Recalled to faded memory’s eye

By bright reflection from the mirth 65

Of youthful hearts--a transient second-birth

Of our own childish days.

Pleasure unbidden is their guide

Their leader--faithful to their side

Prompting each wayward feat of strength: 70

The ambitious leap, the emulous race,

The startling shout, the mimic chase,

The simple half-disguisèd wile

Detected through the flattering smile.

A truce to this unbridled course 75

Doth intervene--no need of force.

We spread upon the flowery grass

The noontide meal--each lad and lass

Obeys the call--we form a Round,

And all are seated on the ground. 80

The sun’s meridian hour is passed,

Again begins the emulous race,

Again succeeds the sportive chase.

And thus was spent that vernal day,

Till twilight checked the noisy play; 85

Then did they feel a languor spread

Over their limbs, the beating tread

Was stilled--the busy throbbing heart--

And silently we all depart.

The shelter of our rustic cot 90

Receives us, and we envy not

The palace, or the stately dome;

But wish that _all_ had such a home.

Each child repeats his nightly prayer

That God may bless their parents’ care 95

To guide them in the way of truth

Through helpless childhood, giddy youth.

The closing hymn of cheerful praise

Doth yet again their spirits raise;

But ’tis not now a thoughtless joy. 100

For tender parents, loving friends,

And all the gifts God’s blessing sends,

Feelingly do they bless his name.

That homage paid, the young retire

With no unsatisfied desire; 105

Theirs is one long, one steady sleep,

Till the sun, tip-toe on the steep

In front of our beloved cot,

Casts on the walls her brightest beams.

Within, a startling lustre streams. 110

They all awaken suddenly;

As at the touch of magic skill,

Or, as the pilgrim, at the bell

That summons him to matin-prayer.

And is it sorrow that they feel? 115

Nay! call it not by such a name,

The stroke of sadness that doth steal

With rapid motion through their hearts,

When comes the thought that yesterday

With all its joys is passed away, 120

The long expected happy day.

An instant--and all sadness goes;

Nor brighter looks the half-blown rose

Than does the countenance of each child

Whether of ardent soul or mild. 125

The hour was fixed--they are prepared--

And homeward now they must depart,

And after many a brisk adieu,

On pony trim, and fleet of limb,

Their bustling journey they pursue. 130

The fair-hair’d gentle quiet maid,

And she who is of daring mood,

The valiant and the timid Boy

Alike are ranged to hardihood;

And wheresoe’er the troop appear 135

They scatter smiles, a hearty cheer

Comes from both old and young,

And blessings fall from many a tongue.

They reach the dear paternal roof,

Nor dread a cold or stern reproof, 140

While they pour forth the history

Of three days’ mirth and revelry.

Ah! Children, happy is your lot,

Still bound together in one knot

Beneath your tender mother’s eye! 145

Too soon these blessed days shall fly,

And brothers shall from sisters part;

And, trust me, whatsoe’er your doom,

Whate’er betide through years to come,

The punctual pleasures of your home 150

Shall linger in your thoughts,

More clear than any future hope

Though fancy take her freest scope.

For oh! too soon your hearts shall own

The past is all that is your own. 155

And every day of _festival_

Gratefully shall ye then recal,

Less for their own sakes than for this,

That each shall be a resting-place

For memory, and divide the race 160

Of childhood’s smooth and happy years,

Thus lengthening out that term of life

Which governed by your parents’ care

Is free from sorrow and from strife.

COMPOSED WHEN A PROBABILITY EXISTED OF OUR BEING OBLIGED TO QUIT RYDAL

MOUNT AS A RESIDENCE

The following lines were written by Wordsworth in 1826. He never

published them. They were the result of a slight disagreement between

the Wordsworth family and the Le Flemings, which led the former to fear

that they might have to “quit Rydal Mount as a residence.” It was an

insignificant difference, and the Wordsworths did not leave their home.

The only thing worthy of record, in connection with the matter, is that

the fear of being dispossessed led the poet to write what follows.--ED.

The doubt to which a wavering hope had clung

Is fled; we must depart, willing or not;

Sky-piercing Hills! must bid farewell to you

And all that ye look down upon with pride,

With tenderness, embosom; to your paths, 5

And pleasant dwellings, to familiar trees

And wild-flowers known as well as if our hands

Had tended them: and O pellucid Spring!

Unheard of, save in one small hamlet, here

Not undistinguished, for of wells that ooze 10

Or founts that gurgle from yon craggy steep,

Their common sire, thou only bear’st his name.

Insensibly the foretaste of this parting

Hath ruled my steps, and seals me to thy side,

Mindful that thou (ah! wherefore by my Muse 15

So long unthanked) hast cheered a simple board

With beverage pure as ever fixed the choice

Of hermit, dubious where to scoop his cell;

Which Persian kings might envy; and thy meek

And gentle aspect oft has ministered 20

To finer uses. They for me must cease;

Days will pass on, the year, if years be given,

Fade,--and the moralising mind derive

No lessons from the presence of a Power

By the inconstant nature we inherit 25

Unmatched in delicate beneficence;

For neither unremitting rains avail

To swell thee into voice; nor longest drought

Thy bounty stints, nor can thy beauty mar,

Beauty not therefore wanting change to stir 30

The fancy pleased by spectacles unlooked for.

Nor yet, perchance, translucent Spring, had tolled

The Norman curfew bell when human hands

First offered help that the deficient rock

Might overarch thee, from pernicious heat 35

Defended, and appropriate to man’s need.

Such ties will not be severed: but, when we

Are gone, what summer loiterer will regard,

Inquisitive, thy countenance, will peruse,

Pleased to detect the dimpling stir of life, 40

The breathing faculty with which thou yield’st

(Tho’ a mere goblet to the careless eye)

Boons inexhaustible? Who, hurrying on

With a step quickened by November’s cold,

Shall pause, the skill admiring that can work 45

Upon thy chance-defilements--withered twigs

That, lodged within thy crystal depths, seem bright,

As if they from a silver tree had fallen--

And oaken leaves that, driven by whirling blasts,

Sunk down, and lay immersed in dead repose 50

For Time’s invisible tooth to prey upon

Unsightly objects and uncoveted,

Till thou with crystal bead-drops didst encrust

Their skeletons, turned to brilliant ornaments.

But, from thy bosom, should some venturous[396] hand 55

Abstract those gleaming relics, and uplift them,

However gently, toward the vulgar air,

At once their tender brightness disappears,

Leaving the intermeddler to upbraid

His folly. Thus (I feel it while I speak), 60

Thus, with the fibres of these thoughts it fares;

And oh! how much, of all that love creates

Or beautifies, like changes undergo,

Suffers like loss when drawn out of the soul,

Its silent laboratory! Words should say 65

(Could they depict the marvels of thy cell)

How often I have marked a plumy fern

From the live rock with grace inimitable

Bending its apex toward a paler self

Reflected all in perfect lineaments-- 70

Shadow and substance kissing point to point

In mutual stillness; or, if some faint breeze

Entering the cell gave restlessness to one,

The other, glassed in thy unruffled breast,

Partook of every motion, met, retired, 75

And met again. Such playful sympathy,

Such delicate caress as in the shape

Of this green plant had aptly recompensed

For baffled lips and disappointed arms

And hopeless pangs, the spirit of that youth, 80

The fair Narcissus by some pitying God

Changed to a crimson flower; when he, whose pride

Provoked a retribution too severe,

Had pined; upon his watery duplicate

Wasting that love the nymphs implored in vain. 85

Thus while my Fancy wanders, thou, clear Spring,

Moved (shall I say?) like a dear friend who meets

A parting moment with her loveliest look,

And seemingly her happiest, look so fair

It frustrates its own purpose, and recalls 90

The grieved one whom it meant to send away--

Dost tempt me by disclosures exquisite

To linger, bending over thee: for now,

What witchcraft, mild enchantress, may with thee

Compare! thy earthly bed a moment past 95

Palpable to sight as the dry ground,

Eludes perception, not by rippling air

Concealed, nor through effect of some impure

Upstirring; but, abstracted by a charm

Of my own cunning, earth mysteriously 100

From under thee hath vanished, and slant beams

The silent inquest of a western sun,

Assisting, lucid well-spring! Thou revealest

Communion without check of herbs and flowers,

And the vault’s hoary sides to which they cling, 105

Imaged in downward show; the flower, the Herbs,[397]

_These_ not of earthly texture, and the vault

Not _there_ diminutive, but through a scale

Of vision less and less distinct, descending

To gloom imperishable. So (if truths 110

The highest condescend to be set forth

By processes minute), even so--when thought

Wins help from something greater than herself--

Is the firm basis of habitual sense

Supplanted, not for treacherous vacancy 115

And blank dissociation from a world

We love, but that the residues of flesh,

Mirrored, yet not too strictly, may refine

To Spirit; for the idealising Soul

Time wears the features of Eternity; 120

And Nature deepens into Nature’s God.

Millions of kneeling Hindoos at this day

Bow to the watery element, adored

In their vast stream, and if an age hath been

(As books and haply votive altars vouch) 125

When British floods were worshipped, some faint trace

Of that idolatry, through monkish rites

Transmitted far as living memory,

Might wait on thee, a silent monitor,

On thee, bright Spring, a bashful little one, 130

Yet to the measure of thy promises

True, as the mightiest; upon thee, sequestered

For meditation, nor inopportune

For social interest such as I have shared.

Peace to the sober matron who shall dip 135

Her pitcher here at early dawn, by me

No longer greeted--to the tottering sire,

For whom like service, now and then his choice,

Relieves the tedious holiday of age--

Thoughts raised above the Earth while here he sits 140

Feeding on sunshine--to the blushing girl

Who here forgets her errand, nothing loth

To be waylaid by her betrothed, peace

And pleasure sobered down to happiness!

But should these hills be ranged by one whose soul 145

Scorning love-whispers shrinks from love itself

As Fancy’s snare for female vanity,

Here may the aspirant find a trysting-place

For loftier intercourse. The Muses crowned

With wreaths that have not faded to this hour 150

Sprung from high Jove, of sage Mnemosyne

Enamoured, so the fable runs; but they

Certes were self-taught damsels, scattered births

Of many a Grecian vale, who sought not praise,

And, heedless even of listeners, warbled out 155

Their own emotions given to mountain air

In notes which mountain echoes would take up

Boldly and bear away to softer life;

Hence deified as sisters they were bound

Together in a never-dying choir; 160

Who with their Hippocrene and grottoed fount

Of Castaly, attest that Woman’s heart

Was in the limpid age of this stained world

The most assured seat of [ ]

And new-born waters, deemed the happiest source 165

Of inspiration for the conscious lyre.

Lured by the crystal element in times

Stormy and fierce, the Maid of Arc withdrew

From human converse to frequent alone

The Fountain of the Fairies. What to her, 170

Smooth summer dreams, old favours of the place.

Pageant and revels of blithe elves--to her

Whose country groan’d under a foreign scourge?

She pondered murmurs that attuned her ear

For the reception of far other sounds 175

Than their too happy minstrelsy,--a Voice

Reached her with supernatural mandate charged

More awful than the chambers of dark earth

Have virtue to send forth. Upon the marge

Of the benignant fountain, while she stood 180

Gazing intensely, the translucent lymph

Darkened beneath the shadow of her thoughts

As if swift clouds swept o’er it, or caught

War’s tincture, ’mid the forest green and still,

Turned into blood before her heart-sick eye. 185

Erelong, forsaking all her natural haunts,

All her accustomed offices and cares

Relinquishing, but treasuring every law

And grace of feminine humanity,

The chosen Rustic urged a warlike steed 190

Toward the beleaguered city, in the might

Of prophecy, accoutred to fulfil,

At the sword’s point, visions conceived in love.

The cloud of rooks descending thro’ mid air

Softens its evening uproar towards a close[398] 195

Near and more near; for this protracted strain

A warning not unwelcome. Fare thee well!

Emblem of equanimity and truth,

Farewell!--if thy composure be not ours,

Yet as thou still, when we are gone, wilt keep 200

Thy living chaplet of fresh flowers and fern,

Cherished in shade tho’ peeped at[399] by the sun;

So shall our bosoms feel a covert growth

Of grateful recollections, tribute due

To thy obscure and modest attributes 205

To thee, dear Spring,[400] and all-sustaining Heaven!

[396] The MS. has a second reading, “covetous hand.”--ED.

[397] In MS. also “its herbs.”--ED.

[398]

… to a close

From a MS. copied at Rydal by Professor Reed in 1854.

[399]

… pecked at …

From a MS. copied at Rydal by Professor Reed in 1854.

[400]

… clear Spring …

From a MS. copied at Rydal by Professor Reed in 1854.

“I, WHOSE PRETTY VOICE YOU HEAR”

These lines were written for Miss Fanny Barlow of Middlethorpe Hall,

York. She was first married to the Rev. E. Trafford Leigh, and

afterwards to Dr. Eason Wilkinson of Manchester.--ED.

I, whose pretty Voice you hear,

Lady (you will think it queer),

Have a Mother, once a Statue,

I, thus boldly looking at you,

Do the name of Paphus bear, 5

Fam’d Pygmalion’s Son and Heir,

By that wondrous marble wife

That from Venus took her life.

Cupid’s Nephew then am I,

Nor unskill’d his darts to ply; 10

But from Him I crav’d no warrant,

Coming thus to seek my Parent;

Not equipp’d with bow and quiver

Her by menace to deliver,

But resolv’d with filial care 15

Her captivity to share.

Hence, while on your toilet, She

Is doom’d a Pincushion to be,

By her side I’ll take my place,

As a humble Needle-case; 20

Furnish’d too with dainty thread,

For a Sempstress thorough-bred.

Then let both be kindly treated,

Till the Term, for which She’s fated

Durance to sustain, be over; 25

So will I ensure a Lover

Lady! to your heart’s content;

But on harshness are you bent

Bitterly shall you repent,

When to Cyprus back I go 30

And take up my Uncle’s bow.

_Composed_, and in part transcribed, for Fanny Barlow, by her

affectionate Friend

WM. WORDSWORTH.

RYDAL MOUNT,

_Shortest Day, 1826_.

1827

TO MY NIECE DORA

BY DOROTHY WORDSWORTH

The following lines were written in Dora Wordsworth’s “Album,” in which

Sir Walter Scott also wrote some verses.--ED.

Confiding hopes of youthful hearts,

And each bright visionary scheme,

Shall here remain in vivid hues

The hues of a celestial dream.

The farewell of the laurelled Knight 5

Traced by a brave but tremulous hand,

Pledge of his truth and loyalty

Thro’ changeful years, unchanged shall stand.

But why should I inscribe my name,

No Poet I--no longer young? 10

The ambition of a loving heart

Makes garrulous the tongue.

Memorials of thy aged Friend

Dora thou dost not need;

And when the cold earth covers her 15

No flattery shall she heed.

Yet still a lurking wish prevails

That when from life we all have passed

The friends who loved thy Father’s name

On her’s a thought may cast. 20

DOROTHY WORDSWORTH.

_January 1827._

1829

“MY LORD AND LADY DARLINGTON”

These lines were written by Wordsworth, after reading a sentence in

the Stranger’s Book at “The Station,”--not a railway station!--on

the western side of Windermere lake, opposite Bowness. Their poetic

merit is slight, but they illustrate the honesty and directness of

the writer’s mind. The Stranger’s Book at “The Station” contained the

following:--

“Lord and Lady Darlington, Lady Vane, Miss Taylor, and Captain

Stamp pronounce this Lake superior to Lac de Genève, Lago

de Como, Lago Maggiore, L’Eau de Zurich, Loch Lomond, Loch

Katerine, or the Lakes of Killarney.”-ED.

My Lord and Lady Darlington,

I would not speak in snarling-tone;

Nor, to you, good Lady Vane,

Would I give one moment’s pain;

Nor Miss Taylor, Captain Stamp, 5

Would I your flights of _memory_ cramp.

Yet, having spent a summer’s day

On the green margin of Loch Tay,

And doubled (prospect ever bettering)

The mazy reaches of Loch Katerine, 10

And more than once been free at Luss,

Loch Lomond’s beauties to discuss,

And wished, at least, to hear the blarney

Of the sly boatmen of Killarney,

And dipped my hand in dancing wave 15

Of Eau de Zurich, Lac Genève,

And bowed to many a major domo

On stately terraces of Como,

And seen the Simplon’s forehead hoary,

Reclined on Lago Maggiore 20

At breathless eventide at rest

On the broad water’s placid breast,

I, not insensible, Heaven knows,

To all the charms this Station shows,

Must tell you, Captain, Lord, and Ladies-- 25

For honest worth one poet’s trade is--

That your praise appears to me

Folly’s own hyperbole.

1833

TO THE UTILITARIANS

These lines were written and sent in a letter to Henry Crabb Robinson,

dated 5th May 1833.--ED.

Avaunt this œconomic rage!

What would it bring?--an iron age,

Where Fact with heartless search explored

Shall be Imagination’s Lord,

And sway with absolute controul 5

The god-like Functions of the Soul.

Not _thus_ can knowledge elevate

Our Nature from her fallen state.

With sober Reason Faith unites

To vindicate the ideal rights 10

Of human-kind--the tone agreeing

Of objects with internal seeing,

Of effort with the end of Being.

Wordsworth added, in the letter to Robinson, “Is the above

intelligible? I fear not! I know, however, my own meaning, and that’s

enough for Manuscripts.”--ED.

1835

“THRONED IN THE SUN’S DESCENDING CAR”

These lines were placed by Wordsworth amongst the “Evening Voluntaries”

in the two editions of _Yarrow Revisited and other Poems_ (1835, 1836);

but they were never afterwards reprinted in his life-time.--ED.

For printing the following Piece, some reason should be given, as not

a word of it is original: it is simply a fine stanza of Akenside,[401]

connected with a still finer from Beattie[402]by a couplet of

Thomson.[403] This practice, in which the author sometimes indulges, of

linking together, in his own mind, favourite passages from different

authors, seemed in itself unobjectionable; but, as the _publishing_

such compilations might lead to confusion in literature, he should

deem himself inexcusable in giving this specimen, were it not from

a hope that it might open to others a harmless source of _private_

gratification.--W. W. 1835.

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 5

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; 10

Why haunt the hollow cliff whose Pine

Waves o’er the gloomy stream;

Whence the scared Owl on pinions grey

Breaks from the rustling boughs,

And down the lone vale sails away 15

To more profound repose!

[401] See his Ode V., _Against Suspicion_, stanza viii.--ED.

[402] See his poem, _Retirement_, 1758.--ED.

[403] See his _Hymn on Solitude_, which begins, “Hail, ever-pleasing

Solitude!”--ED.

“AND OH! DEAR SOOTHER OF THE PENSIVE BREAST”

The following ten lines were written by Wordsworth in a copy of his

works, after the lines _To the Moon_ (Rydal) 1835. They may have been

intended as a possible sequel to them, or to the lines _To the Moon,

composed by the Seaside--on the coast of Cumberland_ (1835).--ED.

And oh! dear soother of the pensive breast,

Let homelier words without offence attest

How where on random topics as they hit

The moments’ humour, rough Tars spend their wit.

Thy changes, which to wiser Spirits seem 5

Dark as a riddle, prove a favourite theme;

Thy motions, intricate and manifold,

Oft help to make bold fancy’s flight more bold;

Beget strange themes; and to freaks give birth

Of speech as wild as ever heightened mirth. 10

1836

“SAID RED-RIBBONED EVANS”

On the 26th of March 1836, Wordsworth sent the following lines to Henry

Crabb Robinson; written, he tells him, “immediately on reading Evans’s

modest self-defence speech the other day.” George de Lacy Evans was

radical member of Parliament for Westminster. “In 1835, he took command

of the British Legion raised for the service of the Queen Regent of

Spain against Don Carlos.” (Professor Dowden.)--ED.

Said red-ribboned Evans:

“My legions in Spain

Were at sixes and sevens;

Now they’re famished or slain:

But no fault of mine, 5

For, like brave Philip Sidney,

In campaigning I shine,

A true knight of his kidney.

Sound flogging and fighting

No chief, on my troth, 10

E’er took such delight in

As I in them both.

Fontarabbia can tell

How my eyes watched the foe,

Hernani knows well 15

That our feet were not slow;

Our hospitals, too,

They are matchless in story;

Where her thousands Fate slew,

All panting for glory.” 20

Alas for this Hero!

His fame touched the skies,

Then fell below zero,

Never, never to rise!

For him to Westminster 25

Did Prudence convey,

There safe as a Spinster

The Patriot to play.

But why be so glad on

His feats or his fall? 30

He’s got his red ribbon,

And laughs at us all.

1837

ON AN EVENT IN COL. EVANS’S REDOUBTED PERFORMANCES IN SPAIN

Mrs. Wordsworth sent this to Henry Crabb Robinson in 1837, “to show

you that _we_ can write an Epigram--we _do not say_ a good one.” She

then quoted it, and added, “The Producer thinks it not amiss, as being

murmured between sleep and awake over the fire, while thinking of you

last night!”--Ed.

The Ball whizzed by,--it grazed his ear,

And whispered as it flew,

“I only touch--not take--don’t fear,

For both, my honest Buccaneer!

Are to the Pillory due.”

1838

“WOULDST THOU BE GATHERED TO CHRIST’S CHOSEN FLOCK”

The following lines were cut on the face of a rock at Rydal Mount in

1838. There, they still remain.--ED.

Wouldst thou be gathered to Christ’s chosen flock,

Shun the broad way too easily explored,

And let thy path be hewn out of the Rock,

The living Rock of God’s eternal Word.

PROTEST AGAINST THE BALLOT, 1838[404]

Composed 1838.--Published 1838

Forth rushed, from Envy sprung and Self-conceit,

A Power misnamed the SPIRIT OF REFORM,

And through the astonished Island swept in storm,

Threatening to lay all Orders at her feet

That crossed her way. Now stoops she to entreat 5

Licence to hide at intervals her head,

Where she may work, safe, undisquieted,

In a close Box, covert for Justice meet.

St. George of England! keep a watchful eye

Fixed on the Suitor; frustrate her request-- 10

Stifle her hope; for, if the State comply,

From such Pandorian gift may come a Pest

Worse than the Dragon that bowed low his crest,

Pierced by thy spear in glorious victory.

[404] In his notes to the volume of Collected Sonnets (1838),

Wordsworth writes:--“‘_Protest against the Ballot._’ 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 antisocial 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 contemporary, that of Buonaparte only

excepted, but for the purpose 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 the 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.”

Then follows the sonnet beginning--

Said Secrecy to Cowardice and Fraud.

ED.

“SAID SECRECY TO COWARDICE AND FRAUD”

Composed, probably, in 1838.--Published 1838[405]

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 5

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 10

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![406]

[405] This was first published in a note to the sonnet entitled

_Protest against the Ballot_, in the volume of 1838. It was never

republished by Wordsworth.

[406] See the note to the previous sonnet. George Grote was the

person satirised. “Since that time,” adds Mr. Reed, in a note to his

American edition, “Mr. Grote’s political notoriety, as an advocate of

the ballot, has been merged in the high reputation he has acquired as

probably the most eminent modern historian of ancient Greece”--ED.

A POET TO HIS GRANDCHILD

(SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING)[407]

Published 1838

“Son of my buried Son, while thus thy hand

Is clasping mine, it saddens me to think

How Want may press thee down, and with thee sink

Thy Children left unfit, through vain demand

Of culture, even to feel or understand 5

My simplest Lay that to their memory

May cling;--hard fate! which haply need not be

Did Justice mould the Statutes of the Land.

A Book time-cherished and an honoured name

Are high rewards; but bound they Nature’s claim 10

Or Reason’s? No--hopes spun in timid line

From out the bosom of a modest home

Extend through unambitious years to come,

My careless Little-one, for thee and thine!”[408][409]

[407] “The foregoing” was the Sonnet named _A Plea for Authors, May

1838_.--ED.

[408] 1836.

Son of my buried Son, whose tiny hand

Thus clings to mine, it {saddens} me to think

{troubles}

That thou pressed down by poverty mayst sink

Even till thy children shall in vain demand

{Culture and neither feel nor} understand

{Culture required to feel and}

{My simplest lay that to their memory}

{My least recondite lay, which memory}

{Perchance may cleave}; hard fate, which need not be

{May keep in trust }

Did justice mould the statutes of the land.

{A book time-cherished} and an honoured name

{A cherished volume }

Are high rewards, but bound not {Reason’s} claim.

{Nature’s}

No--hopes {in fond hereditary line }

{and wishes in a living line}

Spun from the bosom of a modest home

Extend thro’ unambitious years to come,

My careless Little-one, for thee and thine!

MS.

[409] The author of an animated article, printed in the _Law Magazine_,

in favour of the principle of Serjeant Talfourd’s Copyright Bill,

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 eminent in literature are even known to exist.--W.W. 1838.

This sonnet was not addressed to any grandson of the Poet’s.--ED.

1840

ON A PORTRAIT OF I.F., PAINTED BY MARGARET GILLIES[410]

Composed 1840.--Published 1850

We gaze--nor grieve to think that we must die,

But that the precious love this friend hath sown

Within our hearts, the love whose flower hath blown

Bright as if heaven were ever in its eye,

Will pass so soon from human memory; 5

And not by strangers to our blood alone,

But by our best descendants be unknown,

Unthought of--this may surely claim a sigh.

Yet, blessèd Art, we yield not to dejection:

Thou against Time so feelingly dost strive; 10

Where’er, preserved in this most true reflection,

An image of her soul is kept alive,

Some lingering fragrance of the pure affection,

Whose flower with us will vanish, must survive.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

RYDAL MOUNT,

_New Year’s Day, 1840_.

[410] See the note to the next sonnet.--ED.

TO I.F.[411]

Composed 1840.--Published 1850

The star which comes at close of day to shine

More heavenly bright than when it leads the morn,

Is friendship’s emblem,[412] whether the forlorn

She visiteth, or, shedding light benign

Through shades that solemnize Life’s calm decline, 5

Doth make the happy happier. This have we

Learnt, Isabel, from thy society,

Which now we too unwillingly resign

Though for brief absence. But farewell! the page

Glimmers before my sight through thankful tears, 10

Such as start forth, not seldom, to approve

Our truth, when we, old yet unchill’d by age,

Call thee, though known but for a few fleet years,

The heart-affianced sister of our love!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

RYDAL MOUNT,

_Feb. 1840_.

[411] This and the preceding sonnet, beginning “We gaze--nor grieve

to think that we must die,” were addressed to Miss Fenwick, to whom

we owe the invaluable “Fenwick Notes.” Were it not that the date is

very minutely given, I would believe that they belong to 1841, as Miss

Gillies told me she resided at Rydal Mount in that year, when she

painted Mrs. Wordsworth’s portrait.--ED.

[412] 1850.

Bright is the star which comes at eve to shine

More heavenly bright than when it leads the morn,

And such is Friendship, whether the forlorn, etc.

1840.

“OH BOUNTY WITHOUT MEASURE, WHILE THE GRACE”

In his copy of the edition of 1845 at the close of the poem, _Animal

Tranquillity and Decay_ (1798) (see the “Poem referring to the Period

of Old Age,” vol. i. p. 307), Henry Crabb Robinson wrote the following

lines, sent to him by Wordsworth.--ED.

Oh Bounty without measure, while the Grace

Of Heaven doth in such wise from humblest springs

Pour pleasures forth, and solaces that trace

A mazy course along familiar things,

Well may our hearts have faith that blessings come 5

Streaming from points above the starry sky,

With angels, when their own untroubled home

They leave, and speed on mighty embassy

To visit earthly chambers,--and for whom?

Yea, both for souls who God’s forbearance try, 10

And those that seek his help and for his mercy sigh.

_7th April 1840. My 70th Birthday._

W.W.

1842

THE EAGLE AND THE DOVE[413]

The following poem was contributed to, and printed in, a volume

entitled “_La Petite Chouannerie, ou Histoire d’un Collège Breton sous

l’Empire_. Par A. F. Rio. Londres: Moxon, Dover Street, 1842,” pp. 62,

63. The Hon. Mrs. Norton, Walter Savage Landor, and Monckton Milnes

(Lord Houghton), were among the other English contributors to the

volume, the bulk of which is in French. It was printed at Paris, and

numbered 398 pages, including the title. It was a narrative of “the

romantic revolt of the royalist students of the college of Vannes in

1815, and of their battles with the soldiers of the French Empire.” (H.

REED.)--ED.

Composed (?).--Published 1842

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 5

Of thy renown, from Cambrian mountains, fans

A flame within them that despises death,

And glorifies the truant youth of Vannes.

With thy own scorn of tyrants they advance,

But truth divine has sanctified their rage, 10

A silver cross enchased with flowers of France

Their badge, attests the holy 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 15

From Heaven, gigantic force to beardless boys.

[413] In the volume from which the above is copied, the original French

lines (commencing at p. 106) are printed side by side with Wordsworth’s

translation, which ends on p. 111, and closes the volume.--ED.

GRACE DARLING[414]

Composed 1842.--Published 1845

Wordsworth’s lines on Grace Darling were printed privately, and

anonymously, at Carlisle, before they were included in the 1845 edition

of his works. A copy was sent to Mr. Dyce, and is preserved in the Dyce

Library at South Kensington. Another was sent to Professor Reed (March

27, 1843), with a letter, in which the following occurs: “I threw it

off two or three weeks ago, being in a great measure impelled to it

by the desire I felt to do justice to the memory of a heroine, whose

conduct presented, some time ago, a striking contrast to the inhumanity

with which our countrymen, shipwrecked lately upon the French coast,

have been treated.”

Edward Quillinan, writing on 25th March 1843, enclosed a copy, adding,

“Mr. Wordsworth desires me to send you the enclosed eulogy on Grace

Darling, recently composed. He begs me to say that he wishes it kept

out of the newspapers, as he has printed it only for some of his

friends, and his friends’ friends more peculiarly interested in the

subject, for the present. Do not therefore give a copy to any one.”

“Almost immediately after I had composed my tribute to the memory of

Grace Darling, I learnt that the Queen and Queen Dowager had both just

subscribed towards the erection of a monument to record her heroism,

upon the spot that witnessed it.” (Wordsworth to Sir W. Gomm, March 24,

1843.)--ED.

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; 5

Whom, since her birth on bleak Northumbria’s coast,

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 spite

Of the world’s freezing cares--to generous Youth-- 10

To Infancy, that lisps her praise--to Age

Whose eye reflects it, glistening through a tear

Of tremulous admiration. Such true fame

Awaits her _now_; but, verily, good deeds

Do no imperishable record find 15

Save in the rolls of heaven, where hers may live

A theme for angels, when they celebrate

The high-souled virtues which forgetful earth

Has witness’d. Oh! that winds and waves could speak

Of things which their united power called forth 20

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, 25

Age after age, the hostile elements,

As when it guarded holy Cuthbert’s cell.[415]

All night the storm had raged, nor ceased, nor paused,

When, as day broke, the Maid, through misty air,

Espies far off a Wreck, amid the surf, 30

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.[416] With quick glance 35

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 40

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, 45

Dispel the Father’s doubts: nor do they lack

The noble-minded Mother’s helping hand

To launch the boat; and with her blessing cheered,

And inwardly sustained by silent prayer,

Together they put forth, Father and Child! 50

Each grasps 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; 55

As if the tumult, by the Almighty’s will

Were, in the conscious sea, roused and prolonged,[417]

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, 60

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 65

Of those who, in that dauntless energy,

Foretaste deliverance; but the least perturbed

Can scarcely trust his eyes, when he perceives

That of the pair--tossed on the waves to bring

Hope to the hopeless, to the dying, life-- 70

One is a Woman, a poor earthly sister,

Or, be the Visitant other than she seems,

A guardian Spirit sent from pitying Heaven,

In woman’s shape. But why prolong the tale,

Casting weak words amid a host of thoughts 75

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 80

Are safely borne, landed upon the beach,

And, in fulfilment of God’s mercy, lodged

Within the sheltering Lighthouse.--Shout, ye Waves!

Send forth a song of triumph. Waves and Winds,

Exult in this deliverance wrought through faith 85

In Him whose Providence your rage hath served![418]

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, through pallid lips 90

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-- 95

Might carry to the clouds and to the stars,

Yea, to celestial Choirs, GRACE DARLING’S name!

[414] Grace Darling was the daughter of William Darling, the lighthouse

keeper on Longstone, one of the Farne Islands on the Northumbrian

coast. On the 7th of September 1838, the Forfarshire steamship was

wrecked on these islands. At the instigation of his daughter, and

accompanied by her, Darling went out in his lifeboat through the surf,

to the wreck, and --by their united strength and daring--rescued the

nine survivors.--ED.

[415] St. Cuthbert of Durham, born about 635, was first a shepherd boy,

then a monk in the monastery of Melrose, and afterwards its prior. He

left Melrose for the island monastery of Lindisfarne; but desiring

an austerer life than the monastic, he left Lindisfarne, and became

an anchorite, in a hut which he built with his own hands, on one of

the Farne Islands. He was afterwards induced to accept the bishopric

of Hexham, but soon exchanged it for the see in his old island home

at Lindisfarne, and after two years there resigned his bishopric,

returning to his cell in Farne Island, where he died in 687. His

remains were carried to Durham, and placed within a costly shrine.--ED.

[416] Fifty-four persons had perished, before Grace Darling’s lifeboat

reached the wreck.--ED.

[417] 1845.

As if the wrath and trouble of the sea

Were by the Almighty’s sufferance prolonged,

In privately printed edition.

[418] 1845.

For the last three lines, the privately printed edition has the single

one--

Pipe a glad song of triumph, ye fierce Winds.

“WHEN SEVERN’S SWEEPING FLOOD HAD OVERTHROWN”

Composed 23rd January 1842.--Published 1842

In 1842 a bazaar was held in Cardiff Castle to aid in the erection of

a Church, on the site of one which had been washed away by a flood in

the river Severn (and a consequent influx of waters into the estuary

of the British Channel) two hundred years before. Wordsworth and James

Montgomery were asked to write some verses, which might be printed and

sold to assist the cause. They did so. The following was Wordsworth’s

contribution.--ED.

When Severn’s sweeping flood had overthrown

St. Mary’s Church, the preacher then would cry:--

“Thus, Christian people, God his might hath shown

That ye to him your love may testify;

Haste, and rebuild the pile.”--But not a stone 5

Resumed its place. Age after age went by,

And Heaven still lacked its due, though piety

In secret did, we trust, her loss bemoan.

But now her Spirit hath put forth its claim

In Power, and Poesy would lend her voice; 10

Let the new Church be worthy of its aim,

That in its beauty Cardiff may rejoice!

Oh! in the past if cause there was for shame,

Let not our times halt in their better choice.

RYDAL MOUNT, _23rd Jan. 1842_.

THE PILLAR OF TRAJAN

The Fenwick note to _The Pillar of Trajan_ mentions that the author’s

son having declined to attempt to compete for the Oxford prize poem on

“The Pillar of Trajan,” his father wrote it, to show him how the thing

might be done. This son--the Rev. John Wordsworth of Brigham--wrote

Latin verse with considerable success; and as specimens of the poetic

work of Dorothy Wordsworth and of Sarah Hutchinson are included in

these volumes, the following _Epistola ad Patrem suum_, written at

Madeira by John Wordsworth in 1844, may be reproduced.--ED.

I pete longinquas, non segnis Epistola, terras,

I pete, Rydaliae conscia saxa lyrae:

I pete quà valles rident, sylvaeque lacusque,

Quamvis Arctoo paenè sub axe jacent.

Parvos quaere Lares, non aurea Tecta, poetae, 5

Qui tamen ingenii sceptraque mentis habet.

Quid faciat genitor? valeatne, an cura senilis

Opprimat? Ista refer, filius ista rogat.

Scire velit, quare venias tu scripta _latine_?

Dic “fugio linguam, magne poeta, tuam! 10

Quem Regina jubet circumdare tempora lauro,

Quem verè vatem saecula nostra vocant.”

Inde refer gressus responsaque tradita curae

Fida tuae, numeris in loca digna senis,

Haec ego tradiderim, majoribus ire per altum 15

Nunc velis miserum me mea musa rapit.

Solvimus è portu, navisque per aequora currit

Neptuni auxilio fluctifragisque rotis.

Neptunus videt attonitus, Neptunia conjux,

Omnis et aequorei nympha comata chori. 20

Radimus Hispanum litus, loca saxea crebris

Gallorum belli nobilitata malis.

Haud mora, sunt visae Gades,[419] urbs fabula quondam,

Claraque ab Herculeo nomine, clara suo.

Hanc magnam cognovit Arabs, Romanus candem, 25

Utraque gens illi vimque decusque tulit.

Hora brevis, fragilisque viris! similisque ruina

Viribus humanis omnia facta manet

Pulchra jaces, olim Carthaginis aemula magnae,

Nataque famosae non inhonesta Tyri! 30

En! ratibus navale caret, nautis caret alnus,

Mercatorque fugit dives inane Forum.

Templa vacant pompâ, nitidisque theatra catervis,

Tristis et it foedâ foemina virque via.

Segnis in officiis, nec rectus ad aethera miles 35

Pauperis et vestes, armaque juris habet.

Sic gens quaeque perit,[420] quando civilia bella

Viscera divellunt, jusque fidesque fugit.

Auspiciis laetam nostris lux proxima pandit

Te, Calpe[421] celsis imperiosa jugis. 40

Urbs munimen habet nullo quassabile bello,

Claustrum Tyrrhenis, claustrum et Atlantis, aquis.

Undique nam vastae sustentant moenia rupes,

Quae torvè in terras inque tuentur aquas.

Arteque sunt mirâ sectae per saxa cavernae, 45

Atria sanguineo saeva sacrata Deo.

Urbs invicta tamen populis commercia tuta

Praebet, et in portus illicit inque Forum.

Hic Mercator adest Maurus cui rebus agendis.

Ah! nimis est cordi Punica prisca fides; 50

Afer et è mediis Libyae sitientis arenis,

Suetus in immundâ vivere barbarie;

Multus et aequoreis, ut quondam, Graius in undis,

Degener, antiquum sic probat ille genus;

Niliacae potator aquae, Judaeus, et omne 55

Litus Tyrrhenum quos, et Atlantis, alit.

Hos quàm dissimiles (linguae sive ora notentur)

Hos quàm felices pace Britannus habet!

Anglia! dum pietas et honos, dum nota per orbem

Sit tibi in intacto pectore prisca fides; 60

Dum pia cura tibi, magnos meruisse triumphos,

Justaque per populos jura tulisse feros;

Longinquas teneat tua vasta potentia terras,

Et maneat Calpe gloria magna Tibi!

Insula Atlanteis assurgit ab aequoris undis, 65

Insula flammigero semper amata Deo,

Seu teneat celsi flagrantia signa Leonis,

Seu gyro Pisces interiore petat.

“Hic ver assiduum atque alienis mensibus aestas,”

Flavus et autumnus frugibus usque tumet. 70

Non jacet Ionio felicior Insula ponto

Ulla, nec Eoi fluctibus oceani.

Vix, Madeira! tuum nunc refert dicere nomen,

Floribus, et Bacchi munere pingue solum.

Te vetus haud vanis cumulavit laudibus aetas, 75

O fortunato conspicienda choro!

Haec nunc terra sinu nos detinet alma, proculque

A Patriae curis, anxietate domi.

Sic cepisse ferunt humanae oblivia curae

Quisquis Lethaeae pocula sumpsit aquae: 80

Sic semota sequi studiisque odiisque docebas

Otia discipulos, docte Epicure, tuos.

Sed non ulla dies grato sine sole, nec ullo

Fruge carens hortus tempore,[422] fronde nemus;[423]

Nec levis ignotis oneratus odoribus aer, 85

Quales doctus equum flectere novit Arabs;

Nec caecae quaecumque jacent sub rupe cavernae,[424]

Queîs nunquam radiis Phoebus adire potest;

Nec currentis aquae strepitus,[425] nec saxa, petensque

Mons[426] excelsa suis sidera culminibus; 90

Nec tranquilla quies, rerumque oblivia, ponti

Suadebunt iterum solicitare vias!

Rideat at quamvis haec vultu terra sereno,

Tabescit pravo gens malefida jugo:

Dum sedet heu! tristis morborum pallor in ore, 95

Crebraque anhelanti pectore tussis inest.

Ambitus et luxus, totoque accersita mundo,

Queîs omnis populus quoque sub axe peril;

Famae dira sitis, rerumque onerosa cupido,

Raptaque ab irato templa diesque Deo, 100

Supplicium non lene suum, poenasque tulerunt;

Saepè petis proprio, vir miser, ense latus!

Uxor adhuc aegros dilecta resuscitat artus;

Anxia cura suis, anxia cura mihi.

Altera quodque dies jam roboris attulit, illud 105

Altera dura suis febribus abstulerit.

Aurea mens illi, mollique in pectore corda,

Et clarum longâ nobilitate genus.

Quanquàm saepe trahunt Libycum non[427] aera sanum

(Gratia magna Dei), pignora nostra vigent. 110

Iamque vale grandaeve Pater, grandaevaque Mater,

Tuque O dilecto conjuge laeta soror!

Quaeque pias nobis partes cognata ferebas,

Nomina vana cadunt, Tu mihi Mater eras;

Ingenioque mari, pietate ornata fideque, 115

Sanguine nulla domûs, semper amore, soror;

Tu quoque, care, vale, Frater, quamvis procul absis,

Per virides campos, quà petit aequor Eden.

Denique tota domus, cunctique valete propinqui,

Carmina plura mihi musa manusque negat. 120

MADEIRAE, _MARTIIS CALENDIS_, 1844.

[419] Cadiz.

[420] Hispania hoc tempore bello civili divulsa fuit.

[421] Gibraltar.

[422] Sunt hibernis mensibus aurea mala.

[423] Laureae sylvae sunt.

[424] Antris abundat Insula.

[425] Multos rivos naturâ, mirâque humani ingenii arte constructos

continet Madeira.

[426] Pace Lusitanorum Insula nil nisi mons est, rectis culminibus mari

conspicua.

[427] Ventus ex Africa.--_Leste._

See also the _Carmen Maiis calendis compositum_, the _Carmen ad Maium

mensem_, and the _Somnivaga_,--evidently by the same writer,--in the

appendix to the second edition of _Yarrow Revisited_, 1836.--ED.

1846

“DEIGN, SOVEREIGN MISTRESS! TO ACCEPT A LAY”

In January 1846 Wordsworth sent a copy of his Poems to the Queen, for

the Royal Library at Windsor, and inscribed the following lines upon

the fly-leaf. For their republication I am indebted to the gracious

permission of Her Majesty.--ED.

Deign, Sovereign Mistress![428] to accept a lay,

No Laureate offering of elaborate art;

But salutation taking its glad way

From deep recesses of a loyal heart.

Queen, Wife, and Mother! may All-judging Heaven 5

Shower with a bounteous hand on Thee and Thine

Felicity that only can be given

On earth to goodness blest by grace divine.

Lady! devoutly honoured and beloved

Through every realm confided to thy sway; 10

Mayst thou pursue thy course by God approved,

And He will teach thy people to obey.

As thou art wont, thy sovereignty adorn

With woman’s gentleness, yet firm and staid;

So shall that earthly crown thy brows have worn 15

Be changed for one whose glory cannot fade.

And now, by duty urged, I lay this Book

Before thy Majesty, in humble trust

That on its simplest pages thou wilt look

With a benign indulgence more than just. 20

Nor wilt thou blame an aged Poet’s prayer,

That issuing hence may steal into thy mind

Some solace under weight of royal care,

Or grief--the inheritance of humankind.

For know we not that from celestial spheres, 25

When Time was young, an inspiration came

(Oh, were it mine!) to hallow saddest tears,

And help life onward in its noblest aim.

W.W.

_9th January 1846._

[428] Compare the address presented by the Deputies of the Kingdom of

Italy to Buonaparte, on Oct. 27, 1808, beginning, “Deign, Sovereign

Master of all Things.”--ED.

1847

ODE, PERFORMED IN THE SENATE-HOUSE, CAMBRIDGE, ON THE 6TH OF JULY 1847,

AT THE FIRST COMMENCEMENT AFTER THE INSTALLATION OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS

THE PRINCE ALBERT, CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY.[429]

INSTALLATION ODE

Composed 1847.--Published 1847.

INTRODUCTION AND CHORUS

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.

SOLO.--TENOR

War is passion’s basest game

Madly played to win a name;

Up starts some tyrant, Earth and Heaven to dare;

The servile million bow;

But will the lightning glance aside to spare

The Despot’s laurelled brow?

CHORUS

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.

RECIT. (_accompanied_).--CONTRALTO

But lo, what sudden cloud has darkened all

The land as with a funeral pall?

The Rose of England suffers 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.

AIR.--SOPRANO

Time a chequered mantle wears;--

Earth awakes from wintry 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!

SOPRANO SOLO AND CHORUS

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 clear and bold 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.

QUARTETT

Time, in his mantle’s sunniest fold,

Uplifted in 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 lofty 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.”

RECIT. (_accompanied_).--BASS

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 Rhine.--

Old Camus too on that prophetic night

Was conscious of the 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:

CHORUS

This day, when Granta hails her chosen Lord,

And proud of her award,

Confiding in the Star serene

Welcomes the Consort of a happy Queen.

AIR.--CONTRALTO

Prince, in these Collegiate bowers,

Where Science, leagued with holier truth,

Guards the sacred heart of youth,

Solemn monitors are ours.

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,

Learned 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 factious Hate or godless Zeal.

AIR.--BASS

Albert, in thy race we cherish

A Nation’s strength that will not perish

While England’s sceptered Line

True to the King of Kings is found;

Like that Wise[430] 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.

CHORUS

What shield more sublime

E’er was blazoned or sung?

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 State, 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 QUEEN!

[429] This “Ode” was printed and sung at Cambridge on the occasion of

the installation of His Royal Highness Prince Albert as Chancellor of

the University. It was published in the newspapers of the following

day, as “written for the occasion by the Poet Laureate, by royal

command.”

There is no evidence, however, that Wordsworth wrote a single line

of it. Dr. Cradock used to attribute the authorship to the poet’s

nephew, the late Bishop of Lincoln. It is much more likely that Edward

Quillinan was the author of the whole, although Christopher Wordsworth

may have revised it. Mr. Aubrey de Vere wrote to me, November 12,

1893, “It was from Miss Fenwick that I heard that the Laureate poem

(_Ode, etc._), was written by Quillinan, at Wordsworth’s request, he

having himself wholly failed in a reluctant attempt to write one. If

he _had_ written it, I doubt much whether he would ever have admitted

it to a place among his works, for he did not hold ‘Laureate Odes’ in

honour, and had only taken the Laureateship on the condition that he

was to write none. Tennyson made the same condition: which could not,

of course, interfere with either poet addressing lines to the Queen, if

they felt specially moved from within to do so.”

Miss Frances Arnold writes, “Miss Quillinan was my authority for saying

that the Cambridge Ode had been written by her father, owing to the

deep depression in which Wordsworth then was.”--ED.

[430] Frederic the Wise, Elector of Saxony (1847).

TO MISS SELLON

This sonnet exists, _in Wordsworth’s handwriting_; but it is doubtful

whether it was written by him, or not. Possibly Mr. Quillinan wrote it.

The place, and the date of composition--given in MS.--are, “Ambleside,

22nd February, 1849.” Miss Sellon was a relation of the late Count

Cavour.--ED.

The vestal priestess of a sisterhood who knows

No self, and whom the selfish scorn--

She seeks a wilderness of weed and thorn,

And, undiverted from the blessed mood

By keen reproach or blind ingratitude, 5

A wreath she twines of blossoms lowly born--

An amaranthine crown of flowers forlorn--

And hangs her garland on the Holy Rood.

Sister of Mercy, bravely hast thou won

From men who winnow charity from Faith 10

The Pharasaic sneer that treats as dross

The works by faith ordained. Pursue thy path,

Till, at the last, thou hear the voice--“Well done,

Thou good and faithful servant of the Cross.”

“THE WORSHIP OF THIS SABBATH MORN”

BY DOROTHY WORDSWORTH