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Snqt ^ (Eo'& ^iteraittve ^tvie^. §;;;' \ Poems of Wordsworth (FROM ARNOLD'S SELECTIONS) EDITED BY J. E. WETHERELL, B'.A., Principal of Strathroy Collegiate Institute. WITH A Memoir of Wordsworth by Prof. Wm. Clark, LL.D., Trinity University, Torc.ito 5 An Essay on Tiie Literary Mission of Wordsworth by Prin- cipal Grant, Queen's University, Kingston ; Monograph on the Estlietic Use of Wordswortli's Poetry, together with Examina- tion Papers, by Wm. Houston, M,A.; A Critical Estimate of Wordsworth by Prof. Charles G. D. Roberts, M.A., King's College, Windsor, N.S. * I TORONTO : W. J. GAGE & COMPANY. 1892. \AJ4 Entert'd ucconliiig to Act of Paiiiainont of Ciiiiada, in tlie Office of tlio Minister of Af^rlcnltuio, l)y W. J. GvciK & Co., in tlie year one thousand eight hundred and ninety-two. G518K8 • \\ PREFACE. the one t- 3 ^ i The present volume contains those poems of Wordsworth that have been prescribed by the Uniyersity of Toronto for the Pass Matriculation Examination, and adopted by the Education Department for the Junior Leaving Examination. The text in the main is that of Matthew Arnold's edition ; but, as Wordsworth frequently revised his poems, and as Arnold has taken it upon himself to select in each case the version that suited his own poetic taste, often rejecting Words- worth's final reading for an earlier one, a study of variants becomes useful if not necessarj'. Tlife study in synonyms and poetic phrasing will prove very interesting to the thought- ful student. All the materials for such a literary exorcise will be found in the full table of variant readings contained in the notes of this edition. The Memoir of Wordsworth by Professor Clai'k of Trinity College will i)o found to contain all the information of a biographical nature that the young student will need. The article on The Literary Mission of Wordsworth by Prin- cipal Grant is an excellent treatment of one of the most interesting themes in the literary history of the century. Mr. Wm. Houston's chapter on the Esthetic Use of Words- worth's Poetrj', containing a plan of study, is rich in matter and suggestion. This article, it is believed, will be welcomed IV PREFACE. hy all t((achers of English litoratui'o in Ontario. Mr. Houston has adrloil a nunihor of examination questions, •which are intended to illustrate the views ho has embodied in his paper. What he has to say on the use of ■written examinations in general is based on long exi)erienco and observation of their working, and cannot fail to prove useful to both teachers and examiners. The judicial estimate of Prof, Roberts concerning the place of Wordsworth among English bards 'aUI attract wide atten- tion. The chief juiot of Canada shows us clearly that Matthew Arnold's estimate of Wordsworth's genius is misleading and demands correction. The pleasing sketch from The Athenoiuvi on Dorothy and William Wordsworth will help the reader to appreciate more than one of the iwoms in this selection. For obvious reasons the Notes on the poems in the present edition are somewhat numerous. Those teachers of English who look askance at annotated texts will of necessity make an exception in the case of Wordsworth. The poet himself has even condescended to be his own interpreter and annotator, and his abundant comments and delightful literary gossip have added many pages to the Notes. The "Poetic Tributes to Wordsworth" at the end of this volume speak for themselves. Those from the poems of.Matthew Arnold and William Watson find a place here ^through the courtesy of Messrs. MacMillan. Stratiiroy, July 8th, 1892. WORDSWORTU'S WALK. MEMOIR OF WORDSWORTH BY WILLIAM CLARK, M.A., Honorary LIj. D., D. O. Ij., F", R,. S. O. The place of Words worth in the foremost rank of English Poets is now established beyond all question. Critics will always differ as to the exact order in which our foremost poets are to be ranged. Whilst Shakespeare holds the post of pre-eminence unques- tioned, and Milton is generally put next, although some claim the third place for Spenser, there are many who will place Wordsworth next to Milton, a MBUOTR OP WORDSWORTH. and the ^enernl consent Avill put few between thorn. If Wordsworth were to be judged only by his hig-hcst flig-hts, hardly any place could be too exalted to assign to him ; if judged by the whole bulk of his povitry, he must stand lower. Few poets have risen to so eminent a poetic height; no great poet his written so much which ii unworthy of his genius. It nmst be acknowledged that hardly any poet has ever been so independent and self-sufficing. It might be argued that the mighty Shakespeare himself was more largely influenced by his contemporaries than was Wordsworth. The Poet was the son of John Wordsworth, a solicitor and agent to Mr. Lowther, afterwards Earl of Lonsdale. He was born on the 7th day of AjJifil, 1770, at Cockermouth, a small town situated at the confluence of the Cocker and the Derwent, on the borders of that lake district which he was afterwards to render so famous. Scott was one year younger, Coleridge two years, and Sou they four. In speaking of the comparative independence of Wordsworth's genius, it would be a great mistake to ignore the great forces, literary and political, which were oper- ating during his life. He was nineteen years of age when the great French Revolution broke out ; and he, as well as Southey and Coleridge, at first regarded the explosion with sympathy and hopefulness, if after- wards they were strong in their denunciations of it. Both states of mind are quite intelligible ; and the taunts and jibes of Byron and others, directed against the "Lakers" as turncoats, were unreasonable and absurd. No less remarkable were the literary influences than the political. Pope was dead only twenty-six pa^ boi llij the exi inl > MEMOtR OP WOllDSWOHTlt 8 yeflfS, and bis authority was already a thing of tlie past. Gray died tlie year after Wordsworth was l)orn. Altliuugh Wordswortli has been called the High Priest of Nature, he was not the first to herald the return from the artificiality of the age of Queen Anne. Cowper, born forty years earlier, and Burns, eleven, had botli contributed powerfully to the restoration of more natural forms of thought and expression. We shall presently have to notice the influence of Coleridge also. As a child, according to his own statement, Words- worth was " of a stiff, moody, violent temper," and his mother, while declaring that his future life would be remarkable for good or evil, also said that he was the only one of her five children about whose future she was anxious. She died when William was only eight years of age ; and he was sent to school at the small market town of Hawkshead in the north-eastern corner of Lancashire, only a few miles from Ambleside. We learn from the " Prelude " that even in these early days he had begun to feel the power of nature : " Ye mountains and ye lakes And sounding cataracts, ye mists and winds That dwell among the hills where I was bom, If in my youth I have been pure in heai't, If, mingling with the world, I am content With my own modest pleasures, and have lived With God and Nature communing, removed From little enmities and low desires— The gift is yours." No words could better describe the spirit and manner of the poet's life or the influences by which he was moulded. When he was fourteen, his father died, and from that time his education became the care of his two uncles, by whom he was sent to St John's Col- 4 MEMOIR Of WORDSWORTrt. lege, Cambridge, in 1787, when he was in his eigt* teenth year, and he took hia Bachelor's degree in 1791. During one of his Cambridge vacations Words- worth made a pedestrian tour on the continent, in company with a Mr. Jones, an undergraduate of the same university. It was the hopeful era of the great Revolution, and the sympathies and hopes of the Poet were enlisted on its side. He tolls us of his meeting with a number of deputies who had been sitting in the National Assembly at Paris : " In this proud company We landed— took with thorn our cveninj? meal. Guests welcome almost as the any^els were To Abraham of old. The supper done, With flowing cups elate and happy thouf?hta We rose at signal given, and formed a ring, And, hand in hand, danced round and round the board ; All hearts were open, every tongue was loud With amity and glee." It was not long before this period of sunshine was obscured by gathering clouds ; and, when Words- worth returned to France in 1791, after taking h'n degree^ he became involved with the Girondins, and he says himself that it was probably only through circumstances which necessitated his return to Eng- land that he escaped the guillotine. Wordsworth's first publication was in 1793, when he put forth "Descriptive Sketches" and "An Eve- ning Walk." The volume, if it made no great stir among the public at large, deeply impressed one who was destined to be the only potent literary influence in Wordsworth's life, and who probably received from him more than he imparted, Samuel Taylor Coleridge. " Seldom, if ever," he declares, "was the emergence of an original poetic genius (< I MBMOIR OP WORDSWORTH. ug-h above the literary horizon more evidently an- nounced." In 1795 the Poet took up his residence with his sister Dora at Raccdown in Dorsetshire ; and wliilst tlicre he wrote " Guilt and Sorrow "and the "Bor- derers," a tragedy, neither of which was publislicd until many years afterwards, except a portion of "Guilt and Sorrow," which was put forth under the title of "The Female Vagrant," in 1798. It is generally agreed that the tragedy proved con- clusively Wordsworth's lack of dramatic power ; but the " Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree," written about the same time and published in 1798, contain within them the promise of true poetic greatness. The " Ruined Cottage," which is now a part of Book I. of "The Excursion," the story of Margaret, was written about the same time, and is declared by Cole- ridge to be " superior to anything in our language which in any way resembles it." It was at this time that Wordsworth made the acquaintance of Coleridge ; and in order to be near him, he removed, in 1797, to Alfoxden, in Somerset- shire, under the shadow of the Quantock Hills. In the same year the two poets, together with Wordsworth's sister, took a pedestrian tour through the west of England, which resulted in the publication of the "Lyrical Ballads " in 1798, followed by a second and enlarged edition in 1800. It was the joint produc- tion of Coleridge and Wordsworth, the former of whom wrote four of the poems, and the latter eighteen. The volume began with Coleridge's " Ancient Marin- er," and ended with Wordsworth's "Tintern Abbey." Among the other poems included in this collection were Coleridge's " Foster Mother's Tale," and "The V* \ 6 MEMOIR OP WORDSWORTH. Nightingale," and Wordsworth's " We are Seven," "The Thorn," "The Last of the Flock," and "The Idiot Boy." The second volume contained four of the poems on Lucy, written in 1799. The remaining poem, which begins "I travelled among unknown men," seems go have been written about the same TINTKRN ATIHET. time, but was not published until 1807. These poems are of surpassing beauty, and the best of them are found in this collection. In the issue of 1800 were also included "Ruth," "Lucy Gray," "Matthew," " The Pet Lamb," and others. If the first publication of the Lyrical Ballads was received with a mingled feeling of disregard and contemi)t, the Essay whicii accompanied the second volume aroused the rage of the critics ; for it was a u'-: !*..>. ' :/ . n," ^he of ng wn ne - -.n tsryf MEMOIR OP WORDSWORTH. 7 declaration that the style adopted in the poems was no matter of accident, but the result and expression of a principle. "The principal object," said Words- worth, " proposed in these poems was to choose inci- dents and situations from common life, and to relate and describe them throughout, as far as was possible, in a selection of language really used by men, and, at the same time, to throw over them a certain colour- ing of imagination, whereby ordinary things should be presented to the mind in an unusual aspect. Humble and lustic life was generally chosen, because in that condition the essential passions of the heart find a better soil in which they can attain their maturity, are loss under restraint, and speak a plainer and more emphatic language." Coleridge, in his " Biographia Literaria," declares that the outcry against the poems was caused not so much by the contents, for, he says, " the removal of less than a hundred lines would have precluded nine-tenths of the criticism of this work." "In the critical remarks, therefore," he goes on, " prefixed and annexed to the Lyrical Ballads, I believe, we may safely rest, as the true origin of the unexampled opposition which Mr. Wordsworth's writings have been since doomed to encounter. The humbler passages in the poems themselves were dwelt on and cited to justify the rejection of the theory. What in and for themselves would have been either forgotten or forgiven as imperfections, or at least comparative failures, provoked direct hostility when announced as intentional, as the result of choice after full deliberation. Thus t-he poems, admitted by all as excellent, joined with those whiclt had pleased a far greater nnrtiber, li i 8 MEMOIR OF WORDSWORTH. though they formed two-thirds of the whole work, instead of being deemed an atonement for the few exceptions, gave wind and fuel to the animosi^ against both the poems and the poet." It must be confessed that both in these early poems and also in some of his later writings, Words- worth put a considerable strain upon his theory and upon the prejudices of his readers. In the striving after simplicity the poet does, beyond all question, now and then descend to what an irreverent critic would call twaddle or namby pamby. Yet, for all that, it cannot be denied that Wordsworth has triumphed. Ridiculed not only by the powerful pen of Byron but by the acknowledged leaders of criticism in his own day, he kept on his steadfast way until he not only obtained full recognition as a true poet, but is now, by universal consent, numbered among the first live or six names in the English Parnassus. In A later chapter of the " Biographia Literaria " Coleridge gives an account of the origin of the Lyrical Ballads which the reader may be glad to see, especially as this publication formed an era in the history of English poetry. We reproduce his remarks in a somewhat abridged form. "During the first year that Mr. Wordsworth and I were neighbours," he remarks — that is in the year 1797 — "our conversations frequently turned on the two cardinal points of poetry, the power of exciting the sympathy of the reader by a faithful adherence to the truth of nature, and the power of giving the interest of novelty by the modifying colours of imagination. The sudden charm which accidents of lig^i*; and shade, which moonlight or 8ua«it diffused o r I irtsMont OP woftDswosnt 9 •\i over a known and familiar landscape, appeared to represent the practicability of combining both. These are the poetry of nature. The thought suggested itself (to which of us I do not recollect), that a series of poems might be composed of two sorts. In the one, the incidents and agents were to be, in part at least, supernatural ; and the excellence aimed at was to consist in the interesting of the affections by the dramatic truth of such emotions, l|i would naturally accompany such situations, suppos- ing them real. For the second class, subjects were to be chosen from ordinary life ; the characters and incidents were to be such as will be found in every village and its vicinity, where there is a meditative and feeling mind to seek after them, or to notice them, when they present themselves. '* In this idea originated the plan of the Lyrical Ballads; in which it was agreed, that my en- deavours should be directed to persons and characters supernatural, or at least romantic ; yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a human interest and a semblance of truth safficient to procure for these shadows of imagination that willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith. Mr. Wordsworth, on the other hand, was to propose to himself as his object, to give the charm of novelty to things of every day, and to excite a feeling analogous to the supernatural, by awakening the mind's attention to the lethargy of custom, and directing it to the loveliness and the wonders* of the world before us ; an inexhaustible treasure, but for which, in consequence of the film of familiarity and selfish solicitude, we have eyes, yet see not, ears that hear not, and hearts that neither feel nor under- 10 MEMOIR OP WORDSWORTH. I! Stand." It is interesting to learn from him that «* Tlie Dark Ladle " and " Christabel " were intended to appear in this collection, but had not been written when Wordsworth was ready with his contribution. It is superlluous to remark that every word of Cole- ridge's criticism is of value, and deserves to be weighed by those who would understand the Lyrical Ballads and the genius of Wordsworth in general. It should be mentioned that several of the most beautiful poems in the second volume of the Lyrical Ballads were written in Germany during the winter of 1798 and 1799. Wordsworth and his sister were accompanied by Coleridge as far as Hamburg ; and when he proceeded first to Ratzeburg, where he spent four months, and afterwards to Gottingen, for five more, where he studied German philosophy and other subjects, Wordsworth and Dora proceeded to Goslar, in Hanover, on the borders of the Hartz Forest, where they spent a bitter winter in compara- tive isolation. Unlike Coleridge, who became satu- rated with German ideas, Wordsworth was living his old English life over again, producing, among other poems, "Lucy Gray," the four poems on "Lucy," "Ruth," "The Fountain," ''Matthew," and "Nutting." The last of these poems, he tells us, was intended as part of a poem on his own life, but struck out as not being wanted there. The verses arose out of the remembi-ance of feelings he had often had when a boy, and particularly in the woods that stretch fj'om the side of Erthwaite Lake towards Grasmere. He left Goslar on the 10th of February, 1799, and at this time wrote the opening passage of the "Pre- lude." In December of the same year he and his Bister removed to Grasmere, where the i)oet spent I: tU St( 18| ye at I tld I IIEMOIR OF WORDSWORTB. 11 k . the remaining years of his life, first in a two- storied cottage at Town-End, where they lived until 1808. They were at Allan Bank until 1811, two years at the Parsonage of Grasmere, and afterwards at Eydal Mount. It has already been mentioned that tlio second volume of Lyrical Ballads was published in 1800, shortly after his removal to (Jrasmerc. About midsummer in 1802 the poet and his sister paid a visit to France. In crossing Westminster Bridge he comi)()sed the sonnet beginning " Earth has noi anything to show more fair," which, he tells us, he wrote on the roof of a coach on his way to France. Bat this year was notable for a much more memorable event in his history, his marriage to his cousin, Mary Hutchinson, of whom three years later he wrote the lines beginning : •' She was a phantom of delight," sketching the comparison of her life as girl, as woman, as wife, in lines of inimitable beauty, concluding *' A perfect Woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of an angel-light" In the year of his marriage he wrote some of his finest poems, "Alice Fell," "Beggars," "My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold," containing the famous line, "The Child is Father of the Man," "Resolution and Independence," and others. In 1803 Wordsworth, his sister, and Coleridge made their visit to Scotland. They visited the Land of Burns and proceeded to the Highlands ; but Cole- ridge fell ill and was forced bO leave them at Loch 12 MEMOIR OF WORDSWORTK i Lomond. During this tour Wordsworth wrote a good many poems which give evidences of the circum- stances of their origin. Perhaps tho most striking of these are the beautiful lines, "To a Highland Girl," written at Inversnaid, on Loch Lomond, beginning : " Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower Of beauty ia thy earthly dower I " But there are others not unworthy to hold a place beside these lines, among which may be mentioned "Stepping Westward," "The Solitary Reaper," "At the Grave of Burns," and " Yarrow Unvisited," to be followed in after years by "Yarrow Visited" and "Yarrow Revisited." It has been said that the first or youthful period of Wordsworth's poetical life and work came to an end in 1808, his middle and mature period in 1818, the remaining years representing his decadence. Among the poems belonging to the first period special men- tion should be made of the noble "Ode to Duty," beginning, "Stern Daughter of the Voice of God," the ode "To the Skylark," and "The Waggoner," written in 1805, the glorious "Ode on Intimations of Immor- tality" (1803-1806), which has contested with "Lycidas," the honor of being the high-water mark of English poetry. We should also mention the "Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle," and "The White Doe of Rylestone," written in 1807. During the next ten years Wordsworth produced many minor poems, such as "Laodameia " (1814), the "Lines to Haydon," beginning, "High is our calling, Friend" (1815), the "Ode to Lycius" (1817), the ode "Composed upon an Evening of Extraordinary Splen- dour and Beauty " (1818), beginning " Had this efful- 1 MEMOIR OP WORDSWORTH. 18 >> gonce disappeared," which has been called the last fine poem which Wordsworth wrote, and "The Excursion," which belongs mainly to this second period, his longest, but" not his greatest poem (1795- 1814.) Wordsworth's longest poem was to consist of three parts, "The Prelude," which was the earliest written (1799-1805), although it was not published until after his death in 1850; "The Excursion," consisting of IIAWKSIIEAD SCHOOr. IIOUSK. nine books, probably written, for the most part, after the Prelude and published in 1814. '^ The Recluse," which remained a mere fragment, and was first pub- lished in 1888, was intended to be the first division of the second part. The third was only planned. We shall best explain the poet's intention with regard to this work by following the guidance which he affords us in the Preface to the edition of 1814 : 14 MEMOIR OP WORDSWORTH. "The portion then published," lie remarks, "be- longs to the second part of n long and laborious work which is to consist of three parts." He would have preferred to publish these parts in their natural order; but "as the second division of the work was designed to refer more to passing events, and to an existing state of things, than the others were meant to do, more continuous exertion was naturally bestowed upon it, and greater progress made here than in the rest of the poem," and so he had complied with the earnest request of friends .to give that por- tion of his work to the public. The general title intended to be given to the work, "The Recluse," was derived more particularly from the first part, known as "The Prelude." Intending the whole poem to be the principal monument of his genius, "a literary book that might live," he thought it "a reasonable thing to take a review of his own mind and examine how far Nature and Education had qualified him for such employment. . .That work, addressed to a dear Friend [S. T. Coleridge], most distinguished for his knowledge and genius, and to whom the author's intellect is deeply indebted, has been long finished .... The preparatory poem is bio- graphical, and conducts the history of the author's mind to the point when he was emboldened to hope that his faculties were sufficientlv matured for enter- ing upon the arduous labour which he had proposed to himself." This portion, as we have said, was published in 1850, under the title of " The Prelude, or. Growth of a Poet's Mind ; an Autobiographical Poem." Coleridge, who had seen the Prglu^^ \n M% described it as V h; m . MEMOIR OP WORDSWORTH. l5 " An Orphic song indeed, A son;:^ divine, of hi^ti and passionate tlioughts, To tliclr own music clianted ! " Colci'idgc may possibly have been right and the Public wrong ; but this poem can hardly be said to have added to its writer's reputation in any way. The nine books of the ** Excursion " have manv fine passages, but their general effect is heavy and pi'osaic. The principal personage introduced is The Wanderer, described as a Scotch Pedlar, but really representing Wordsworth himself. The other princi- pal characters are The Solitary and The Pastor. There are many passages of great poetic beauty, of subtle thought, of deep spiritual insight in this poem ; but the reader is provoked by the air of superiority with which the tamest and the dullest work is forced on his attention. As Mr. Matthew Arnold remarks : " Work altogether inferior, work quite uninspired, flat, and dull, is produced by him with evident unconsciousness of its defects, and he presents it to us with the same faith and seriousness as his best work." After 1818 Wordsworth published a good deal, perhaps a full third of the whole of his literary work, and there are some charming odes, which may be culled from his various collections, but the old level is not maintained. In 1820 he visited the Continent again, and two years later he published a series of Odes commemorating the localities visited. In the same year (1820) he wrote and published his Sonnets on the River Duddon. In 1821 he wrote the long series of Ecclesiastical Sonnets, following the course of British and English Church history. They were published in the following year. One poem ^1 16 MEMOIR OP WORDSWORTH. :{ is given to Yarrow Revisited, written in 1831, tlu year of his visit to Walter Scott. Tlic last poem of his which we possess is his Ode on the Installation of Prince Albert as Chancellor of the University of Cambridge, July, 1847. AVc reluctantly abstain from indicating lines and poeins which are not unworthy of earlier days ; and we will notice onlj one, written in 1824, and published in 1827, addressed to his wife, and beginning : " dearer far than light and life are dear." A general view of Wordsworth's genius is given in this volume by a genaine admirer, Principal Grant, the mere mention of whose name is sufficient to commend his work ; so that it may be enough merely to add a few words in reference to some of the poet's personal characteristics, and some of the outward incidents of his life not vet mentioned. Wordsworth is an example of the spiritual man and the mystic who lives above the world, or rather who sees the spiritual aspect and meaning of the world. A man of utter simplicity of character and absolute faith in his own spiritual perceptions, and theories of art, he holds in his way with a calmness, a definiteness of aim, and a certainty of purpose which are at least astonishing. This utter disregard of any worldly advancement was present with him throughout his whole life ; and for a good many years he lived on a very small income, yet always with too much self-respect to run into debt. In 1813, at the time of his removal to Rydal Mount, he was made Distributor of Stamps for the County by the Earl of Lonsdale. The duties of the office were performed by a deputy, so that his time was free for his work ; and the income of the poet, which wa» iiEMom OP woRDswoirm 17 jCSOO, together with his own slight resources, sufficed amply for all his needs. His marriage was of the happiest, and brought him three sons and two daughters. In 1839 he received the degree of D.C.L. from Oxford. In 1842 he resigned his post which was given to his second son, Thomas, whilst the poet received a retiring pension of £300 a year. In 1843 he succeeded Southcy as Poet Laureate ; and he died in 1850, on the 23rd of April, the anniversary of the birth and death of Shake- speare. Wordsworth's character as a man and as a poet is written in his works. A purer, truer, and more spiritual man could hardly have lived. He loved nature, and he loved it as a living thing. To those who are indifferent to nature and disinclined for meditation Wordsworth is a sealed book. What his contemporaries thought of him we can still read on his tombstone* in Grasmere Churchyard, and the words are guilty of no exaggeration. See next page. rpi MEMOKIAL TABLET, ST. OSWALDS. fv THE LITERARY MISSION OF WORDSWORTH. BV G. M. GRANT, M.A., D.D., LL.D. (Queen's University, Kingston. In these days we have come to speak of a poet's mission, implying by the phrase that in liis work we recognize something of tliat spirit and devotion which consecrated the life of propliet or apostle. This point of view, whicli we might have difficulty in using with some poets, is especially appropriate to Wordsworth. He said himself that he had made no vows, but that unknown to him vows were made for him ; and never did ancient prophet or priest feel his call more deeply or live up to it more truthfully. An enthusiastic admirer declared that what he did " was the work which the Baptist did, when he came to the pleasure- laden citizens of Jerusalem to work a reformation ; the work which Milton tried to do when he raised that clear calm voice of his to call back his country- men to simpler manners and to simpler laws."* Wordsworth himself expressed what he felt to be his mission in the comparison of the poet to Phoebus. "The sun," he said, "was personified by the ancients as a charioteer, driving four fiery steeds over the vault of heaven ; he was called Phoebus, and was regarded as the god of Poetry, of Prophecy, and of Medicine. Phoebus combined all these characters. And every poet has a similar mission on earth : he *Jjecture8 and Addresses, p. 241, Jlobertson of Brighton* 18 LITERARY MISSION OF WORDSWORTH, must diffuse health and life ; he must prophesy to his generation ; he must teach the present age by coun. selling with the future ; he must plead for posterity ; and he must imitate Phoebus in guiding and govern- ing all his faculties— liery steeds though they be — with the most exact precision, lest instectd of being a Phoebus he prove a Phaiton, and set the world on lire and be hurled from his car; he must rein in his fancy and temper his imagination with the control and direction of sound reason and drive on in the right track with a steady hand." * That we may understand what was the special work to which Wordsworth was called and how he did it, it is necessary to know something of his environment and also of his time in its relation to the past. Only thus can we understand the right place in history and literature of any great writer. The astonishing fulness of life, which received its highest expression in Shakespeare, continued through- out the Elizabethan age and became concentrated in. Milton, in v/hom the perfection of Greek art and the moral power of English Puritanism were combined. With the Restoration a new era commenced. The French writers were taken as the models of style and rigour of life was replaced by license. Shakespeare's realism was declared to be barbarous and Milton's religion to be in bad taste. In literature form and in poetry smoothness of versification became paramount. It was an age in which Poets were " most correct and least inspired." This spirit of formalism is no less evident in the religion than in the poetry of the time. The church, though established and armed with ter- t Memoii-fl, Vol. II., p. 7, LITBBARr MISSION OF WORDSWOBTH. 19 rible laws against non-conformity, scarcely pretended to deal with conduct. When poetry, the supreme expression of the thought of the age, has become largely a matter of conventional rules, a stereotyped form of elegy and pastoral or social satire rather than the intense utterance of a fervid life, it is a sure sign that there is little faith, even among those who in one sphere or another are the natural leaders of the peo- ple. The eighteenth century accordingly was not an inspiring time in which to live. France gives us pictures of Dragonnades in the interest of orthodoxy, and court splendour bought by the drudgery of mil- lions; of a nation burdened with debt to adorn a Pompadour, or hurried to the battlefield to avenge an insult offered to her ; of hungry crowds whose peti- tion of grievances was answered by a new gallows forty feet high ; of the Bastille and of feudal laws and privileges existing side by side with the refined corruption of a later age. In England the influence of the Puritan revival con- tinued to permeate society, but the isolation of classes, the cruelty of the punishments inflicted by law, the ignorance of the peasantry and the Squires, the de- servedly little influence of the clergy, the general coarseness of sentiment and manners, the haughty indifference of the aristocracy to the general welfare, were sure signs that unbelief reigned, and that the fire of heaven burned low and only in obscure cor- ners of the land. Glimpses of the actual state of things are given by Crabbe with prosaic truthfulness, but no prophet voice denounced them and inspired the heart of the people with a faith blossoming out in new heroisms and new psalms. Now, what characterizes the nineteenth century is that its great poets and — N 20 LITERARY MISSION OP WORDSWORTH. prose preachers have kept steadily ki view the spiri- tual meaning of life. The consequence is that they have contributed powerfully to all truly liberal tend- encies of the time. Reforms in every sphere have come, and they have come not with poets discoursing on the Rape of the Lock or perfumers' and milliners' shops, or on veiled prophets of Khorassan, or on* men and scenes far distant, but — as might have been expected — with poets profoundly impressed with the seriousness, we might say the sacred ness, of the work they had undertaken. There has been and there still is continual protest against materialism in philosophy and traditionalism in theology ; against unreality of all kinds and injustice of all kinds, and though the old evils are not dead and new ones appear every day, and the century has to bear the accumulated iniquities of the past and the present, yet reform has been made, things are getting better and the battle of truth is being fought hopefully by men of "inward- ness, faith and power." Of all this great movement Wordsworth may be considered the greatest pioneer. Not only so, the quantity and quality of his work is so notablg that Matthew Arnold places him, "among the poets who have appeared in the last two or three centuries, after Shakespeare, Moliere, Milton, Goethe indeed, but before all the rest." If he has so few superiors among modern poets, he must have done permanent and splendid work. Nature was Wordsworth's great teacher ; but his ideas took form and colour from the French Revolu- tion, that "grim protest against the Cv.nventional and the false," and from the critical philosophy which in Germany was replacing the barren illuminism of a -:^ LITERARY MISSIOM OP WORDSWORTIt 21 previous age. With the fii'.st of these forces he came in personal contact. The second influenced him throu«.rh Coleridge. He began life as an ardent Republican in politics, in poetry, in religion, in every- thing. Love had he found in huts where poor men lie, His daily teachers had been woods and rills. The silence that is in the starry sky The sleep that is among the lonely hills. No wonder that from the first he protested against the conventionalism that oppressed him in society and literature. When a student, who had learned to commune with the Eternal among the mountains and the lakes, was obliged at college to attend prayers that professors and tutors found superfluous for their own souls, he naturally revolted. But Wordsworth's rebellion was always controlled by his strong, Eng- lish common sense. A visit to France where he saw the Revolution devouring its own c^iildren, drove him almost to despair and atheism, but the very " mad- ness of extremes" taught him, after a while, where the true path lay, and that our highest wisdom is in loyal, loving obedience to the great primary affec- tions and duties of life. From that moment he began to teach the English speaking people the lessons they most needed, and he set himself to this high work with a patience, strength and faith that should at once guide and inspire every true teacher. No vulgar ambition for money, place, power or immediate suc- cess made him swerve for a moment from the straight path. " Every great poet is a teacher," he said ; "I wish to be considered either as a teacher or nothing." And he that believeth doth not make haste. He laid to heart the warning of Coleridge that " everj'' author as far as he is great, and at the same time original, I ¥ 22 LITERARY MISSION OP WORDSWORTH. must create the taste by which he is to be enjoyed." So, when his friends complained bitterly of the indiffer- ence and injustice of the public, he calmly answered, " Make yourselves at rest respecting me ; I speak the truths the world must feel at last." His heart was fixed. No matter what others might do, he had chosen the better part. In every sight and sound of nature he found beauty and truth. Keats could say, " Nothing startles me beyond the moment; the setting sun will always set me to rights, or if a sparrow come before my window, I take part in its existence and pick about the gravel," and Wordsworth was physically and spiritually a stronger man than Keats. To him '*Our noisy years seemed moments in the being of the eternal silence," but he saw men living as if their few moments were the whole of their life and as if eternal beauty and truth were nothing to them. Everywhere the spirit of worldliness prevailed. He wrote to Lady Beau- mont : " It is an awful truth that there neither is, nor can be, any genuine enjoyment of poetry among nineteen out of twenty of those persons who live or wish to live in the broad light of the world, among those who either are, or are striving to make them- selves, people of consideration in society. This is a truth and an awful one ; because to be incapable of a feeling of poetry, in my sense of the word, is to be without love of human nature and reverence for God."* Even to the professed teachers of the day, nature seemed little more than a machine and the Bible a catechism. They were in bondage to time and sense Memoirs of Wordsworth, Vol. I., p. 333-3481 '-1 LITERARY MISSION OP WORDSWORTH. 23 and could not interpret either nature or the Bible. It was laid upon the poet to cry out against their idolatry, and he did so with the sternness of a Hebrew prophet. His first work was to bring men back to natm'e, to reveal nature to them as an eternal foun- tain of beauty, truth and joy ; as from God and god- like ; and to show them " that there is really notliing around us common and negligible." We can hardly understand the revolution that the Lakers, as they were called, effected, or realize how vitiated was public taste and how artificial were the standards and the points of view. James Tobin implored Wordsworth not to publish " We are Seven," because. " it would make him everlastingly ridiculous," and when the " Cumberland Beggar " was read to another gentleman, his comment was, "Why! that is very pretty, but you may call it anything but poetry." The world then could make nothing of a poet to whom The meanest flower that blows could give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears, or of an epic the hero of which was an old Scotch p\llar. But the world did ''feel at last." In 1817, Black- wood's Magazine was started with men on its staff who judged poetry by other canons than those of Lord Jeffrey ; and in the next year John Wilson pro- claimed in its pages what manner of man Words- worth was. The tide turned and it rose so high that when he went up to Oxford to receive the honorary degree that had been conferred on him, "scarcely had his name been pronounced, than from three thousand voices at once there broke forth a burst of t i I* 24 LITBRABT MISSION OP WORDSWORTH. applause, echoed and taken up again and again, when it seemed about to die away, and that thrice re- peated " by undergraduates and Masters of Arts alike. Arnold of Rugby, who was present, tells how striking the scene was to him, "remembering how old Cole- ridge had inoculated a little knot of us with the love of Wordsworth, when his name was in general a byword." Wordsworth had taught England once more to appreciate spiritual truth. Wordsworth then in his teaching started from nature. So did the Great Teacher — with reverence be it said — who taught men to see the character of God in the lilies of the field, and taught them the best of the good news of the Kingdom by pointing to the sun that shone and the rain that fell on the evil as on the good. Wordsworth felt that in bringing us to nature he was bringing us to God ; that thus we would be freed from those petty self-seeking aims that mean death to the intellect as well as to the spirit, and turn us into human beavers, or tigers, or apes ; and he believed that we would get with the new points of view, a serene atmosphere, angels' food, and deliverance from self-imposed burdens. For said he, " not by bread alone is the life of man sustained, not by raiment alone is he warmed ; but by the genial and vernal inmate of the breast, which at onc-^ pushes forth and cherishes ; by self-support and self- sufficing endeavours ; by anticipations, apprehensions, and active remembrances ; by elasticity under insult and firm resistance to injury ; by joy and by love ; by pride which his imagination gathers in from afar ; by patience, because life wants not promises; by admiration ; by gratitude, which — debasing him not when his fellow being is its object — habitually ex- LTTBRABY MISSION OP WOBlfSWORTH. 25 pands itself, for his elevation, in complacency towards his Creator."* The religion of nature so far as it goes is true, but man is the interpreter and high priest of nature, and in his life and heart are the riddles of existence read. Wordsworth gave back to the world not only the love of nature which it had well nigh lost, but also faith in humanity. To the all-absorbing love which is the stock-in-trade of the average novelist, he paid little heed, probably because that passion intensifies individualism and is always perilously near to sel- fishness. He dealt rather with the perennial affec- tions, the love of husband and wife, of mother and child, of brother and sister, and with the primary duties, those that we owe to home, to friends, to coun- try, and to that which is highest in 'man. He has been accused of losing his own faith ; of beginning as a democrat and ending as an aristocrat, and even Browning assailed him with his indignant "Just for a handful of silver he left us," but Browning confessed afterwards that he was wrong. Stationariness is not consistency. A man must sometimes change the form of his ideas to be true to their principle. When Wordsworth was a Radical, he did not mean that one man was as good as another, but that if he were true to the divine in him, no matter at what work he was engaged, he was worthy of all honour. In later years when he was a Tory, he did not mean that the name, wealth or plush made the man, but that the best way of discovering and of encouraging insight, independence and worth, was to have different orders in society ou a just basis i ' 1 • convention of Clntra, p. 164-5. 26 LITERARY MISSION OP WORDSWORTH. and to have the lines of each frankly defined. He may have been extreme at both periods, but in aim and principle he never varied. He was the great teacher to his age of the oneness and the essential worth of humanity. In opposition to the conventional habit of looking at "persons of quality" and "the masses " as two distinct orders of beings, as well as in opposition to the two great facts of modern society — the accumulation of wealth and the division of labour, — he drew his characters to show that there is but one human heart, and that the great lack in the land was the lack of sympathy between the different classes. Duty was to him the supreme watchword, because the supreme reality, and in his loftiest con- ception of it, the greatest of the Greek Poets scarcely surpassed him'either in sympathy with beauty or in perfection of artistic form : Stera Lawgiver ! Yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace ; Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face. Flowers laugh before thee on their beds And fragrance in thy footing treads ; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong. When he identified duty with patriotism -and he did so at the right moment — Burns himself was not more intense. The man who had welcomed the French Revolution cried out at the prospect of an invasion of England : We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake, the faith and morals hold Which Milton held. This then was "Wordsworth's mission ; to deliver men from conventionalism and insincerity, and to reveal to them nature and the living God ; to exalt the tr£ all ac of int mi Ke an< Im tlTBRARY MISSION OF tVOftDSWOllTfl. 27 the spiritual over the material, the eternal over the transitory, duty over appetite. In Christ he found all truth ; and the essence of Christian education was a contemplating of the character and personal history of Christ. " Work it," he said, " into your thoughts, into your imagination, make it a real presence in the mind." The spiritual law so powerfully affirmed by Keats, applies to every manifestation of the Eternal and most fully therefore to the highest, " What the Imagination seizes as beauty must be Truth." i%^' ./>• WORDSWOKTH'S POETRY. i BY CHARLES a D. EOBKRTS, M. A., F. R. S. 0., JUng's College, Whidsor, N.8. If it be true, as Arnold said, that "almost every one who has praised Wordsworth's poetry has praised it well," the explanation is perhaps not far to seek. It lies partly in the poetry itself, whose charm stands so small a chance of beinft- discovered by thu undis- crirainating' or vulgarized by the familiarities of in- competent enthusiasm ; and partly in the fact that the lovers of Wordsworth have felt the task of justify- ing tlicir passion to the world to be one that required the exercise uf their utmost powers. At the present day, when Wordsworth criticism, having freed itself from the personal element, has ceased to be contro- versial, it is easy to understand the vehement differ- ences of opinion between critics on the subject of WordsAvorth's genius. We can comprehend, and per- haps make allowance for, the attitude of Jeffrey when, on reading the "Lyrical Ballads," he exclaimed "This will never do ! " We can appreciate, on the other hand, the veiled enthusiasm of .Arnold, which led him to set Wordsworth immediately after Shakespeare, Milton, Goethe, in the pantheon of modern poets, and to claim for him a definite superiority over his equals — Hugo, Byron, Shelley, Heine, Burns, and others. Thei'c could hardly le a more persuasive and seem- * I WORDSWORTH'S POETRY. 2d ingly disinterested statement of an extravag'nnt claim than is affbrded by Arnold's famous essay. For all the pains he took to divest himself of prejudice, Arnold was biased by that very Wordsworthianism which, in some of its more obtrusive phases, he impales so deli- cately on the point of Jiis urbane derision. Arnold was brought up in the camp of militant Wordsworth- ianism ; and there was that in Wordsworth's poetry which r(!spondcd irresistibly to Arnold's personal needs, as also to the personal needs of many others of the best minds of England, fretted as they were by the modern unrest. Hence it was as inevitable that Arnold should tend to an overestimate of Words- worth, as that he should fall into a depreciation of Shelley ; — so hard is it to be absolutely judicial in regard to a concern so personal and so intimate as poetry. Had Arnold belonged a generation later, or had he looked with the eyes of continental criticism, we can hardly doubt that he would have placed Wordsworth amid, rather than above, the little band of great singers who made the youth of this century magnificent. With a fairness all too rare among critics, Arnold himself warns us that he is under the sway of an enthusiasm ; for at the close of his plea he confesses that which proclaims him incapable of estimating Wordsworth by those rigid standards of criticism which to others he applied with a precision so unerr- ing. He says : — " I can read with pleasure and edi- fication Peter Bell, and the whole series of Ecclesi- astical Sonnets, and the address to Mr. Wilkinson's spade, and even the Thanksgiving Ode ; — everything of Wordsworth, I think, except Vaudracour and 80 WORDSWORTIl^S POBTRt. If I. t: t ' Julia. It is not for nothing that one has been brought up in the veneration of a man so truly worthy of homage ; that one has seen and heard him, lived in his neighborhood, and been familiar with his country." We may be reasonably sure that only a profound personal veneration could enable Arnold to read with pleasure and edification such lines as •* But when the pony moved his legs, Oh I then for the poor Idiot boy I For joy he cannot hold the bridle, For joy his head and heels are idle, He's idle all for very joy." This is not an unfair specimen of the puerility which goes to make up a large part of what Arnold con- fesses to reading with pleasure and edification. A vastly larger portion is distinguished mainly by a colossal dullness, a platitude which can only be realized in the mass, and of which no quotation could convey an adequate idea. There is little room to hope that the intelligent reader, who begins his acquaintance with Wordsworth by The Idiot Boy, or Peter Bell, or even by the lines on Simon Lee (which Mr. Palgrave has unhappily included in his admir- able anthology), can easily be brought to share in Arnold's veneration, or to believe that Wordsworth was a man "so truly worthy of homage." It is very unprofitable to ignore the fact that the larger portion of Wordsworth's verse is worthless ; and only by a frank avowal of the fact can we expect to secure a fair judgment. By such a frank avowal we rule out all that mass of commonplace, or worse, which has hopelessly alienated so many lovers of poetry ; and WORDSWORTH'S POETRY. 81 we bring under consideratioi) nothing but that select body of verse by which alone Wordsworth ought to be judged, — verae meagre indeed in quantity, but of a quality hardly to be matched. It is pretty safe to assume that criticism will continue to agree with Arnold as to the supreme excellence of that portion of Wordsworth's verse which was truly inspired. Where the elimination of the personal clement is likely to tell most markedly against Arnold's conclusions, will be seen in the shrinkage which must, I think, take place in the number of Wordsworth's poems accepted as ranking among the truly inspired. In the foregoing paragraphs I tave endeavored to show that severe selection was called for in order that full justice might be done to the genius of Wordsworth, — a selection more severe and discrimi- nating than would be necessary in the case of any other poet equally great. For the present volume there is yet more sufficient justification. Justice to the student whose mind is in a state to receive and to accept first impressions, makes it inperative that he should be brought first in contact with Wordsworth's genius through the medium of a volume of selections, and thus saved from the false impression he would be sure to receive if he plunged at once into the stupifying wilderness of Wordsworth's Complete WorJcs. The distinctive excellence of Wordsworth's poetry is something so high, so ennobling, so renovat- ing to the spirit, that it can be regarded as nothing short of a calamity for one to acquire a preconception which will seal him against its influence. One so sealed is deaf to the voice which, more than any other in modern song, conveys the secret of repose. To be t 82 WORDSWORTH'S POETRY. I ^ii shut out from hearing "vVordsworth's message is to lose the surest guide we have to those regions of luminous calm which this breathless age so needs for its soul's health. Wordsworth's peculiar province is that border-land wherein Nature and the heart of Man act and react upon each other. His vision is occupied not so much with Nature as with the relations between Nature and his inmost self. No other poet, of our race at least, has made so definite and intelli- gible the terms of our communion Avith external Nature. But it must be always born in mind that of great poets there are those, like Dante, Shakespeare, Goethe, whose greatness is orbic and universal, and those again, of a lower station, whose greatness may be set forth as lying within certain more or less de- terminable limits. Among these latter, and high among them, we may be sure that Wordsworth will hold unassailable place. ^ J §. ^.£^ ^miSr, X u-iy .'i'W; 3 lose inous soul's that Man ipied tions poet, telli- ;rnal at of eare, and may i de- hig-h will i '<5 V ■>55*>r/*'"'',:;' X o ml. Xmi W^ORDSWORTH^S POEMS. THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a thrush that sings loud ; it has sung for three years. Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird. 'Tis a note of enchantment ; what ails her.? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; Bright volumes of vapor through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripped with her pail ; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but they fade. The mist and the river, the hill and the shade ; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise. And the colors have all passed away from her eyes. WE ARE SEVEN. A simple child, That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death ? I! 34 WORDS WOR Til ' S POEMS. I mei a little cottage girl : She was eight years old, she said ; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round ncr h^ad. W She had a rustic, woodland air, x\nd she was wildly clad ; Her eyes were fair, and very fair Her beauty made me glad. "Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be ? " ** How many? Seven in all," she said, And, wondering, looked at me. ** And where are they ? I pray you tell.' She answered, *' Seven are we ; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two arc gone to sea. ** Two of us in the church-yard lie. My sister and my brother ; And in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother." "You say that two at Conway dwell. And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven ? — I pray you tell. Sweet maid, how this may be." M Then did the little maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we ; Two of us in the church-yard lie. Beneath the church-yard tree. " WORDS IVOR Tli ' S POEMS. 35 "You run about, my little maid, Your limbs they arc alive ; If two arc in the church-yard laid, Then ye eire only five." "Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied, " Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. " My stockings there I often knit. My kerchief there I hem ; And there i^pon the ground I sit — I sit and sing to them. "And often after sunset, sir. When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there. " The first that died was little Jane ; In bed she moaning lay. Till God released her of her pain ; And then she went away, "So in the church-yard she was laid ; And when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. \i 'li ii: ' ' And w^hen the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide. My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." ^6 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. *' How many are you, then, ''said I, "If they two are in heaven ? *' The httle maiden did reply, " O master ! we are seven ! " " But they are dead ; those two are dead Their spirits are in heaven ! " 'Twas throwing words away ; for still The little maid would have her will, And said. ' ' Nay, we are seven 1 " LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISIT- ING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR, JULY 13, 1798. Five years have past ; five summers, with the length Of five long winters ! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a sweet inland murmur.* Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs. That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion, and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits. Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves Among the woods and copses, nor disturb * The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Tintern. WORDSWORTirs POEMS, The wild green landscape. Once again I see These licdge-rows — hardly hedge-rows — little lines Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral farms, Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, froni among the trees. With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some hermit's cave, where by his lire The hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye ; But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration : feelings, too, Of unremembered pleasure ; such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life — His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift. Of aspect more sublime : that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world Is lightened ; that serene and blessed mood In which the affections gently lead us on, Until the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul ; While with an eye made quiet by the power Zl ^^ ^8 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We sec into the life of things. If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft, In darkness, and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight, when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart — How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, O sylvan Wye ! Thou wanderer through the woods. How often has my spirit turned to thee ! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, With many recognitions dim and faint. And somewhat of a sad perplexity. The picture of the mind revives again : While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I came among these hills ; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led : more like a man Flying from something that he dreads than one Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days. And their glad animal movements all gone by) To me was all in all. I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion ; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colors and their forms, were then to me WORDS WOR TirS POEMS. 39 rht, An appetite, a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, or any interest Unborrowed from the eye. That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts Have followed, for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on Nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity. Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts : a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused. Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods And mountains, and of all that we behold From this green earth ; of all the mighty world Of eye and ear, both what they half create* And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize In Nature and the language of the sense The anchor of my purest thoughts ; the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being. * This line has a close resemblance to an admirable line of Young, the exact expression of which I do not recollect. 11 m w iss \ I 40 IVO/^DS irOA' '/'// ' .V POEMS. Nor, perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay : For thou art with me here upon the luinks Of this fair river ; thou, my dearest friend, My dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once, My dear, dear sister! and this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved h&r ; 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy : for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; And let the misty mountain winds be free To blow against thee ; and in after-years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms. Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then, If solitude or fear or pain or grief Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, WORDSWOR TIPS POEMS. 41 And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance If I should be where 1 no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence, wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together ; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service : rather say With warmer love, oh ! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake. ii LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE. Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray : And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary Child. No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; She dwelt on a wide moor, — The sw^eetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door ! You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green ; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never moie be seen. % 1 1 1 42 i I- WOKDSlVOh' Til ' S POEMS. " To-night will be a stormy night — You to the town must go ; And take a lantern, Child, to light Your mother through the snow." " That, Father! will I gladly do : 'Tis scarcely nfternoon — The iMinster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the Moon. " At this the Father raised his hook, And snapped a faggot-band ; He plied his work ; — and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe : With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow That rises up like smoke. The snow came on before its time : She wandered up and down ; And many a hill did Lucy climb ; But never reached the town. The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide ; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At day-break on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor ; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. IVORPSIVOR Til \s ro/uus. They wept, — and turnin": homeward, cried, *' In Heaven we all shall meet : " — When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Half breathless from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small ; And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, A.nd by the long stone-wall ; And then an open field they crossed : The marks were still the same ; They tracked them on, nor ever lost ; And to the Bridge they came. They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks one by one, Into the middle of the plank ; And further there were none ! — Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child ; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along And never looks behind ; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. 43 )■! i M? 44 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS, THE FOUNTAIN. A CONVERSATION. We talked with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true — A pair of friends, though I was young, And Matthew seventy-two. We lay beneath a spreading oak, Beside a mossy seat ; And from the turf a fountain broke, And gurgled at our feet. " Now, Matthew," said I, "let us match This water s pleasant tune With some old border-song, or catch, That suits a summer's noon ; "Or of the church-clock and the chimes Sing here beneath the shade, That half-mad thing of witty rhymes Which you last April made." In silence Matthew lay, and eyed The spring beneath the tree ; And thus the dear old man replied, The gray-haired man of glee : "Down to the vale this water steens, How merrily it goes ! 'Twill murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows. WORDSWORTH'S POEAh. "And here, on this delightful day, I cannot choose but think How oft, a vigorous man, I lay Beside this fountain's brink. 45 " My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred ; For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard. i "Thus fares it still in our decay : And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what age takes away Than what it leaves behind. "The blackbird in the summer trees. The lark upon the hill, Let loose their carols when they please, Are quiet when they will. "With Nature never do ilicy wage A foolish strife : they see A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free ; " But we are pressed by heavy laws, And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore. " If there be one who need bemoan His kindred laid in earth, The household hearts that were his own, It is the man of mirth. m 46 VVORDSWOKTirS POEMS. " My days, my friend, arc almost gone. My life has been approved ; And many love me, but by none Am I enough beloved." " Now both himself and mc he wrongs, The man who thus eomplains. I live and sing my idle songs Upon these happy plains. "And, Matthew, for thy children dead I'll be a son to thee ! " At this he grasped my hand, and said, "Alas ! that cannot be." We rose up from the fountain side. And down the smcoth descent Of the green sheep-track did we glide And through the wood we went ; And ere we came to Leonard s rock, He sang those witty rhymes About the crazy old church-clock, And the bewildered chimes. MicriAEr. A I' ASTOR A L I'O K M. If from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle ; in such bold ascent WORDS VVOR TH 'S POEMS. 47 The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. But, courage ! for around that boisterous brook The mountains have all opened out themselves, And made a hidden valley of their own. No habitation can be seen ; but they Who journey hither find themselves alone With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites That overhead arc sailing in the sky. It is, in truth, an utter solitude ; Nor should I have made mention of this dell But for one object which you might pass by, Might see and notice not. Beside the brook Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones ; And to that place a story appertains, Which, though it be ungarnished with events, Is not unfit, I deem, for the fireside Or for the summer shade. It was the first Of those domestic tales that speak to me Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men Whom I already loved — not, verily. For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills Where was their occupation and abode. And hence this tale, while I was yet a boy Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life. Therefore, although it be a history Homely and rude, I will relate the same For the tlelight of a few natural hearts ; And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sak© Of youthful poets, who fimong these hills Will be my seconcl self when I am gone, 1^^ mi > V ' 'im 48 IVOA'DS IVOR TWS POEMS. Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale There dwelt a shepherd, Michael was his name; An old man, stout of heart and strong of limb. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength : his mind was keen, Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs. And in his shephertl's calling he was prompt And watchful more than ordinary men. Hence had he learnt the meaning of all winds, Of blasts of every tone ; and oftentimes, When others heeded not, he heard the south Make subterraneous music, like the noise Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. The shepherd, at such warning, of his flock Bethought him, and he to himself would say, " The winds are now devising work for me ! " And, truly, at all times, the storm — that drives The traveller to a shelter — summoned him Up to the mountains : he had been alone Amid the heart of many thousand mists That came to him and left him on the heights. So lived he till his eightieth year was past. And grossly that man errs who should suppose That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, Were things indifferent to the shepherd's thoughts. Fields where with cheerful spirits he had breathed The common air ; the hills which he so oft Had climbed with vigorous steps, which had im- pressed So many incidents upon his mind Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear ; Which, like a book, preserved the memory Of the dumb animals whom he had saved. Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts The certainty of honourable gain — WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 49 Those fields, those hills (what could they less ?), had laid Strong hold on his affections ; were to him A pleasurable feeling of blind love, The pleasure which there is in life itself. His days had not been passed in singleness. His helpmate was a comely matron, old — Though younger than himself full twenty years. She was a woman of a stirring life, Whose heart was in her house. Two wheels she had Of antique form — this large for spinning wool, That small for flax ; and if one wheel had rest, It was because the other was at work. The puir had but one inmate in their house, An only child, who had been born to them When Michael, telling o'er his years, began To deem that he was old — in shepherd's phrase, With one foot in the grave. This only son, With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm, The one of an inestimable worth. Made all their household. I may truly say. That they were as a proverb in the vale For endless industry. When day was gone, And from their occupations out-of-doors The son ami father were come home, even then Their labor did not cease ; unless when all Turned to their cleanly supper-board, and there, Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk. Sat round their basket ])iled with oaten cakes, And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal Was ended, Luke (for so tlic son was named) And his old father both betook themselves To such convenient work as might employ 4 1 ; it. 50 \VOK2)SlVOR 77/ 'S POEMS. m Their hands by the fireside : perhaps to card Wool for the housewife's spindle, or repair Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, Or other implement of house or field. Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge. That in our ancient uncouth country style Did with a huge projection overbrow Large space beneath, as duly as the light Of day grew dim the housewife hung a kimp — An aged utensil, which had performed Service beyond all others of its kind. Early at evening did it burn, and late. Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, Which, going by from year to year, had found. And left the couple neither gay, perhaps, Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes. Living a life of eager industry. And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year, There by the light of this old lamp they sat, Father and son, while late into the night The housewife plied her own peculiar work, Making the cottage through the silent hours Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. This light was famous in its neighborhood, And was a public symbol of the life That thrifty pair had lived. For, as it chanced, Their cottage on a plot of rising ground Stood single, with large prospect, north and south, High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, And westward to the village near the lake ; And from this constant light, so regular And so far seen, the house itself, by all Who dwelt within the limits of the vale. Both old and young, was named The Evening Star. WOA'ns WOK TIJ ' S POEMS. Thus livinjif on through such a ItMigth of years, The shepherd, if he hwed himself, must needs Have loved his helpmate ; but to Michael's heart Tills son of his old ag'e was yet more dear — Less from instinctive tenderness, the same Blind spirit which is in the blood of all — Than that a child more than all other gifts Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, And stirrings of inquietude, when they By tendency of nature needs must fail. Exceeding was the love he bare to him, His heart and his heart's joy. For oftentimes Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, Had done him female service, not alone For pastime and delight, as is the use Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced To acts of tenderness ; and he had rocked His cradle with a woman's gentle hand. 51 ■iM And, in a later time, ere yet the boy Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love — Albeit of a stern, unbending mind — To have the young one in his sight, when he Had work by his own door, or when he sat With sheep before him on his shepherd's stool. Beneath that large old oak which near their door Stood, and from its enormous breadth of shade Chosen for the shearer's covert from the sun. Thence in our rustic dialect was called The Clipping Tree,* a name which yet it bears. There, while they two were sitting in the shade, With others round them, earnest all and blithe. Would Michael exercise his heart with looks I 1 * Clipping is the word used in the North of England for shearing. !' I ^i 5* WORDS WORTH'S POEMS. Of fond correction and reproof bestowed Upon the child, if he disturbed the sheep By catching at their legs, or with his shouts Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. And when, by Heaven's good grace, the boy grew up A healthy lad, and carried in his cheek Two steady roses that were five years old, Then Michael from a winter coppice cut With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped With iron, making it throughout in all Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff, And gave it to the boy ; wherewith e(|uipt He as a watchman oftentimes was placed At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock ; And, to his office prematurely called, There stood the urchin, as you will divine, Something between a hindrance and a help ; And for this cause not always, I believe. Receiving from his father hire of praise; Though naught was left undone which staff, or voice. Or looks, or threatening gestures could perform. But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand Against the mountain blasts, and to the heights. Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, He with his father daily went, and they Were as companions, why should I relate That objects which the shepherd loved before Were dearer now ? that from the boy there came Feelings and emanations — things which were Light to the sun and music to the wind ; And that the old man's heart seemed born again 1 WORDSWOKTirS POEMS. 53 Thus in his father's si^ht the boy grew uj^ : And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year, He was his comfort and his daily hope. While in this sort the simple household lived From day to day, to Michael's car there came Distressful tidings. Long before the time Of which I speak, the shepherd had been bound In surety for his brother's son, a man Of an industrious life and ample means ; But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly Had prest upon him ; and old jNIichael now Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture — A grievous penalty, but little less Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim, At the first hearing, for a moment took More hope out of his life than he supposed That any old man ever could have lost. As soon as he had gathered so much strength That he could look his trouble in the face, It seemed that his sole refuge was to sell A portion of his patrimonial fields. Such was his first resolve ; he thought again, And his heart failed him. " Isabel," said he, Two evenings after he had heard the news, " I have been toiling more than seventy years, And in the open sunshine of God's love Have we all lived ; yet if these fields of ours Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think That I could not lie quiet in my grave. Our lot is a hard lot ; the sun himself Has scarcely been more diligent than I; And I have lived to be a fool at last To my own family. . An evil man ^j That was, and made an evil choice, if he if ifif 4 54 IVOA'/JSIFOA' riJ'S POEMS. Were false to us ; and if he were not false, 'I'here arc ten thousand to whom loss like this Had been no sorrow. I for^nve him ; but 'Twcre better to be dumb than to talk thus. When I becifan, my purpose was to speak Of remedies, and of a cheerful hope. Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel : the land Shall not go from us, and it shall be free ; He shall possess it, free as is the wind That passes over it. We have, thou know'st. Another kinsman ; he will be our friend In this distress. He is a prosperous man. Thriving in trade ; and Luke to him shall go. And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift He quickly will repair this loss, and then May come again to us. If here he stay, What can be done .'' Where every one is poor, What can be gained ? " At this the old man paused. And Isabel sat silent, for her mind Was busy looking back into past times. There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself, He was a parish-boy ; at the church door They made a gathering for him — shillings, pence, And half-j)ennies — wherewith the neighbors bought A basket, which they filled with peddler's wares ; And, with this basket on his arm, the lad Went up to London, found a master there, Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy To go and overlook his merchandise Beyond the seas ; where he grew wondrous rich, And left estates and moneys to the poor. And, at his birthplace, built a chapel floored With marble, which he sent from foreign lands. These thoughts, and many others of like sort Passed nuicklv through the mind of Isabel. i;| WORDS IVOR TirS POEMS. 55 And her face brigfhtened. The ohl man was }^lad, And thus resumed : "Well, Isabel! this scheme, These two days, has been meat and drink to me. Far more than we have lost is left us yet. We have enough. I wish, indeed, that I Were younj^er : but this hope is a good hope. Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best Ikiy for him more, and let us send him forth To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night : If he cotild go, the boy should go to night." Here Michael ceased, and to the lields went forth With a light heart. The housewife for five days Was restless morn and night, and all day long Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare Things needful for the journey of her son. But Isabel was glad when Sunday came To stop her in her work : for when she lay By Michael's side, she through the two last nights Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep ; And when they rose that morning she could see That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon She said to Luke, while they two by themselves Were sitting at the door, " Thou must not go : We have no other child but thee to lose, None to remember. Do not go away ; For if thou leave thy father, he will die." The youth made answer with a jocund voice ; And Isabel when she had told her fears, Recovered heart. That evening her best fare Did she bring forth, and altogether sat Like happy people round a Christmas fire. % With daylight Isabel resumed her work ; And all the ensuing week the house appeared As cheerful as a grove in spring : at length lr*i I ■ I j6 ii'o/iDsiyoh''j7/\s po/:ms. The expected letter from their kinsmnn came, Willi kiiul assurances that he woiiUl do His utmost for the welfare of the boy ; To which requests were added that forthwith He might be sent to him. 'I en times or more The letter was read over ; Isabel Went forth to show it to the neis^hbors round ; Nor was there at that time on English land A prouder heart tlian Luke's. When Isabel Had to her house returned, the old man said, " He shall depart to-morrow." To this word The housewife answered, talking much of things Which, if at such short notice he should go, Would surely be forgotten. But at length She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. ., \\\ Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, In that deep valley, Michael had designed To build a sheepfold ; antl, before he heard The tidings of his melancholy loss, For this same purpose he had gathered up A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge Lay thrown together, ready for the work. With Luke that evening thitherward he walked ; And soon as they had reached the place he sto]i]->ed, And thus the old man spake to him : " My son. To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with full heart I look upon thee, for thou art the same That wert a promise to me ere thy birth. And all thy life hast been my daily joy. I will relate to thee some little part Of our two histories ; 'twill do thee good When thou art from me, even if I should speak Of things thou canst not know of. After thou First earnest into the world — as oft befalls WORDSWORTirs POEMS, 57 To nevv-burn infants —thou didst sleep aw ay 'I'vvo days, and blcssinj^s from thy father's tongue Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on, And still I loved thee with increasintc love. Never to livinii^ car came sweeter sounds Than when I heard thee by our own fireside First uttering, witliout words, a natural tune ; When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy Sing at thy mother's breast. Month followed month, And in the open tields my life was i)assed And on the mountains ; else I think that thou Iladst been brought up upon thy father's knees. But we were playmates, Luke : among these hills, As well thou knowest, in us the old and young Have played together, nor with me didst thou Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." Luke had a manly heart ; but at these words He sobbed aloud. The old man grasped hi:; hand, And said, "Nay, do not take it so ; I see That these are things of which I need not speak. Even to the utmost I have been to thee A kind and a good father. And herein 1 but repay a gift which I myself Received at other's hands ; for, though now old Beyond the common life of man, I still Remember them who loved me in my youth. Both of them sleep together. Here they lived, As all their forefathers had done, and when At length their time was come, they were not loath To give their bodies to the family mould. I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived. But 'tis a long time to look back, my son, And see so little gain from threescore years. These fields were burthened when they came to me, Till I was forty years of age, not more i i '^- 58 WORDS IVOR Tirs POEMS. Than half of my inheritance was mine. I toiled and toiled. God blessed me in my work, And till these three weeks past the land was free. It looks as if it never could endure Another master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good That thou shouldst go." At this the old man paused. Then, ])()inting to the stones near which they stood, Thus, after a short silence, he resumed : "This was a work for us ; and now, my son, It is a work for me. Wwi lay one stone — Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. Nay, boy, be of good hope ; we both may live To see a better day. At eighty-four I still am strong an . I I f.' A rout this morning left Sir Walter's hall That as they galloped made the echoes roar ; But horse and man are vanished, one and all ; Such race, I think, was never seen before. ' ■ 62 WOMDS WO A' Til ' S FOE MS. ■ Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain ; Blancli, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind, Follow, and up the weary mountain strain. i If The kniirht hallooed, he cheered and chid them on With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern ; But breath and eyesight fail ; and, one by one, The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern. Where is the throng, the tumult of the race ? The bugles that so joyfully were blown ? This chase it looks not like an earthly chase ; Sir Walter and the hart are left alone. I- The poor hart toils along the mountain-side ; I will not stop to tell how far he fled, Nor will 1 mention by what death he died ; But now the knight beholds him lying dead. Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn ; He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy : He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his horn, But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned. Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat ; Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned, And white with foam as if with cleavmg sleet. Upon his side the hart was lying stretched ; His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill, And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched The waters of the spring were treml)ling still. WORDSWORTirS POEMS. 63 And now, too happy for repose or rest, (Never had Hving- man such joyful lot), Sir Walter walked all round, north, south and west. And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot. And climbing up the hill (it was at least Nine roods of sheer ascent), Sir Walter found Three several hoof-marks which the hunted beast Had left imprinted on the grassy ground. Hi Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, ' ' Till now Such sight was never seen by living eyes : Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow, Down to the very fountain where he lies. " I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot, And a small arbor, made for rural joy ; ■'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot, A place of love for damsels that are coy. " A cunning artist will I have to frame A basin for that fountain in the dell ! And they who tlo make mention of the same, From this day forth shall call it Hart-leap Wf.ll. •'■ . In " And, gallant stag ! to make thy praises known. Another monum.ent shall here be raised ; Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone, And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed. " And, in the summer-time, wiien days are long, I will come hither with my paramour ; And with the dancers and the minstrel's song We will make merry in that pleasant bower. » m U I 1 >! ! 64 WORDSWORTirS POEMS. " Till the foundations of the mountains fail IVIy mansion with its arbor shall endure — The joy of them who till the iields of Swale, And them who dwell among the woods of Urc ! " Then home he went, and left the hart, stone-tlead, Witii breathless nostrils stretcheil above the spring. Soon did the knight perform what he had said, And far and wide the fame thereof did ring. Ere thrice the moon into her port had steered, A cup of stone received the living well ; Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared, And built a house of pleasure in the dell. And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall With trailing plants and trees were intertwined^ Which soon composed a little sylvan hall - A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. And thither, when the summer days were long, Sir Walter led his wondering paramour ; And with the dancers and the minstrel's song Made merriment within that i>leasant bower. The knight. Sir Walter, died in course of time. And his bones lie in his paternal vale, Hut there is matter for a second rhyme, And I to this would atld another talc. PA RT S F.C O N D. The moving accident is not my trade ; To freeze the blood 1 have no ready arts : 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. ! " >a(l, the U'OK'r>S\VOh'77/\S rOEMS. 65 As 1 from Ilawes to Richmond did repair, It chanced that 1 saw standing in a dell Three aspens at three corners of a square ; And one, not four yards distant, near a well. What tills imported I could ill divine ; And, pullintif now the rein my horse to stop, I saw three pillars standing- in a line, The last stone pillar on a dark hill-top. The trees were gray, with neither arms nor head ; Half-wasted the square mound of tawny green ; So that you just might say, as then I said, " Here in old time the hand of man hath been." 1 looked upon the hill both far and near, INIore doleful plac«? did never eye survey ; It seemed as if the spring-time came not here. And Nature here were willing to decay. I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, When one, who was in shepheril's garb attired. Came up the hollow. Him did 1 accost, And what this place might be I then inquired. m The shepherd stopped, and that same story told Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed. "A jolly place, " said he, " in times of old ! But something ails it now ; the s})ot is curst. " You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood — Some say that they are beeches, others elms — These were the bower ; and here a mansion stood, The finest palace of a hundred realms ! 66 ll'OA'DSiyO/^ Til 'S rOEAi'S. : :■ ',. "The arbor does its own condition tell ; You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream ; But as to the ,ufrcat lodj^fe ! you niij^ht as well Hunt half a day for a forc^otten dream. " There's neitlier dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep, Will wet his lips within that cup of stone ; And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep. This water doth send forth a dolorous groan. " Some say that here a murder has been done. And blood cries out for blood; but, for my part, I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun, That it was all for that unha])py hart. " What thoughts must through the creature's braii> have passed ! Y.\Q.\\ from the topmost stone, upon the steep, Are but three bounds ; and look, sir, at this last — () master! it has been a cruel leaj). " For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race ; And in my simple mind we cannot tell What cause the hart might have to love this plac- And come and make his death-bed near the well. " Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank. Lulled by the fountain in the summer-tide ; 'I'his water was perhaps the first he drank When he had wandered from his mother's side. " In April here betieath the scented thorn He heard the birds their morninir carols sine ; And he, jierhaps, for aught we know, was born Not half a furlong from that self-same spring. IVOKDS IVOA' 77/ ' .9 POEMS. 67 *• Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade : The sun on drearier hollow never shone ; So will it be, as I have often said, Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are gone." "Gray-headed shepherd, thou hast spoken well ; Small difference lies between thy creed and mine : This beast not unobserved by Nature fell ; His death was mourned by sympathy divine. "The Being that is in the clouds and air. That is in the green leaves among the groves, Maintains a deep and reverential care For the unoffending creatures whom he loves. "The pleasure-house is dust — behind, before, This is no common waste, no common gloom ; But nature, in due course of time, once more .'^hall here put on her beauty and her bloom. '• She leaves tliese objects to a slow decay, That what we are, and have been, may be known ; But, at the coming of the milder day. These monuments shall all be overgrown. "One lesson, shepherd, let us two divide, Taught both by what she shows and what conceals — Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." ill! ■i : 1; TO THE DAISY. Brkjht flower, whose home is everywhere ! A ))ilgrim bold in Nature's care, And oft, the long year through, the heir Of joy or sorrow. 11 I 68 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. ?.Icthinl I': iroA'nsivoA' th\s poems. Thou wcar'st upon thy forclR'ad clear The freedom of a mountaineer — A face with tjlaihiess overspread ! Soft smiles by human kindness bred ! linet-^s complete, that swavs And l^hy vSeemJ courtesies, 'I about thee play With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eaj^er visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech : A bondage sweetly brooketl, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life ! So have I, not unmoved in mind. Seen birds of tempest-loving kind. Thus beating up against the wind. What hand but would a garland cull For thee who art .so beautiful i happy pleasure ! here to tlwell Beside thee in some heathy dell ; Adopt your homely ways and dress, A shepherd, thou w shei)herdess ! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality : Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea ; and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could, Though but of common neighborhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see ! Thy elder brother 1 would bo. Thy father, anything to thee ! Now thardcs to Heaven ! that of its grace ITath led me to this lonely place. Joy have I had ; and going hence 1 bear away my recompense. woRDswoR rirs poi- ms. 73 In spots like these it is we prize Our memory, feel that she hath eyes ; Then, why should I be loath to stir? I feel this jilaee was made for her ; To give new ])leasure like the past. Continued long- as life shall last. Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart. Sweet Highland girl ! from thee to part ; For I, methinks, till I grow old, As fair before me shall behold, As 1 do now, the cabin small, The lake, the bay, the waterfall, And thee, the spirit of them all ! STEPPIXCI WESTWARD. [While my I'ellow-travcllcr and I were walkin}» by tlic side of Loch Katrine, one fine eveninij after sunset, in our road to a hut \vhere, in the course of our tour, we had been hospitably enter- tained some weeks Ixitorc, we met, in one ol'the loneliest parts of that solitary region, two well-dressed women, one of wlion? saiil to u'!, by way of greeting, " ^\^lat, you are stcnpin[j westward ? "] •* What f you arc s/cppin^ wcs^hvard P" — '* 'Twould be a 7vi/dish destiny If we, who thus together roam In a strange land, and far from home. Were in this j^lace the guests of Chance : Vet who would stop, or £car to advance, 'I'hough home or shelter he had none, With such a sky to lead him on? The dewy ground was dark and cold ; Behind, all gloomy to behold ; And stepping westward seemed to bp A kind of Jiruvenh destinv, I'ca," m ■ . i^i I iM \-m ■! -"•^ ( 74 -■ I "l| tVOA'/JS I VGA' TH ' S POEMS. I liked the greeting ; 'twas a sound Of something without place or bound, And seemed to give me spiritual right To travel through that region bright. The voice was soft, and she who spake Was walking by her native lake : The salutation had to me The very sound of courtesy : Its power was felt ; and while my eye Was fixed upon the glowing sk\', The echo of the voice enwrouirht A human sweetness with the thou'dit Of travelling through the world that lay Before me in my endless way. f5j THI-: SOLITARY REAPER. Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland lass. Reaping and singing by herself ; Stop here, or gently pass ! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain ; Oh, listen ! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No nightingale did ever chant So sweetly to reposing bands Of travellers in some shady haunt Among Arabian sands : A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In s])ringtime from the cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the fa .thest Hebrides. ivoA'nsiroA' nrs poe us. Will no one tell nie what she sings ? Perhaps the plaintive numbers tlow For old, unhappy, far-oft' things, And battles long ago : Or is it some more humble lay P'amiliar matter of to-day ? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again ? Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending ; 1 saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending. I listened till I had my till ; And when I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore Long after it was heard no more. 75 i; ' .. AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS, 1803, SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH. I SHIVER, spirit fierce and bold. At the thought of what I now behold : As vapors breathed from durgeons cold Strike pleasure dead. So sadness comes from out the mould Where Hums is laid. And have I, then, thy bones so near. And thou forbidden to appear ? As if it were thyself that's here I shrink with pain ; And both my wishes and my fear Alike are vain. 76 • WOKDSlVOKTirs J'OKMS. Off, wciiifht ! nor press on vvcijj^ht ! Away, Dark thouii^hts I— they came, but not to stay. With cluistenecl feelings would 1 pay The tribute tlue To him, and aught that hides his clay From mortal view. Fresh as the flower whose modest worth He sang, his genius " glinted " forth. Rose like a star that touching earth, For so it seems, Doth glorify its humble birth With matchless beams. The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow. The struggling heart, where be they now ? Full soon the aspirant of the jilough. The prompt, tlie brave. Slept, witli the obscurest, in the low And silent grave. Well might I mourn that he was gone, Whose light I liailed when first it shone, When, breaking forth as natures own, It showed my youth How verse may build a i)rincely throne On humble truth. Alas ! where'er the current tends, Regret pursues and with it bl-Muls — Huge Criffel's hoary toj) ascends By Skiddav/ seen : Neighbors we were, and loving friends We might have been ! iroA DSivoN n/'s /'0/':Afs. True friends though diversely inclined ; But heart with heart and mind with mind, Where the main iibres are entwined, Through Nature's skill. May even by contraries be joined More closely still. The tear will start, and let it flow ; Thou "poor inhabitant below,' At this dread moment — even so — Mij^ht we toj^ethcr Ilavesate and talked where gowans blow, Or on wild heather. What treasures would have then been ])laccd Within my reach ; of knowledge y^raced By fancy what a rich repast ! But why go on? Oh ! sjiare to sweep, thou mournful blast, His grave grass-grown. There, too, a son, his joy and pride (Not three weeks ]-)ast the stripling died). Lies gathered to his father's side. So il-moving sight ! Yet one to which is not denied Some ,-ad delight. 77 For Iir is safe, a quiet bed Hath early found amo .g the dead, HarbonMl where none can be misled, Wronged, or distrest ; And surely here if may be said That such are blest. yS ivoh'DsiroK Tn ' s poems. AikI oh for thcc, by pityinp: j^race Checked ofttimes in a ilevious race, May He who halloweth the place Where man is laid Receive thy spirit in the embrace For which it prayed ! Sighing, I turned away : but ere Night fell. I heard, or seemed to hear, Music that sorrow comes not near — A ritual hymn, Chaunted in love that casts out fear By seraphim. THOUGHTS SUGGESTED THE D.\Y FOLLOWINCJ, ON THE BANKS OK NITH, NEAR THE POETS RESIDENCE. Too frail to keep the lofty vow That must have followed when his brow Was wreathed — "The Vision " tells us how — With holly spray, He faltered, drifted to and fro, And passctl away. Well might such thoughts, dear sister, throng Our minds when, lingering all too long- Over the grave of Hums wc hung In social grief- Indulged as if it were a wrong To seek relief. But, leaving each unquiet theme Where gentlest judgments may misdeem. WORDS WOR 77/ 'S POEMS. 79 And prompt to welcome every gleam Of good and fair, Let us beside this limpid stream Breathe hopeful air. Enough of sorrow, wreck, anleasure varying at command Of each sweet lay. if m i How oft inspired must he have trode These pathways, yon far-stretching road I There lurks his home ; in that abode, With mirth elate, Or in his nobly pensive mood, 'l"he rustic sate. Proud thoughts that image overawes, Before it humbly let us pause, And ask of Nature from what cause And by what rules She traineil her Burns to win apj^lause That shames the schools. ■ Through busiest street and loneliest glen Are felt the Hashes of his pen ; 8o \voRi\s\voKTirs ro/'.Ms. lie rules inid winter snows, aiul wlicn Hees till their liives. Deep in the i^eneral lieart of men 11 IS power survives. What need of tiehls in some far elime Where heroes, sai^a's, bards subhme, And all that feteheil the llowini; rhyme From j^enuine si)rlni^^s, Shall dwell to,i^et!\er till old 'I'ime Folds up ins wind's ? Sweet Mercy ! to tlic i^^ates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins tV^rgiven ; The rueful conllict, the heart riven With vain endeavor, And memory of earth's hitter leaven F.ffaced forever. But why to Him confme the |*rayer, When kindred thouj^hts and yearninjjs bear On the frail heart the purest share With all that live ^ The best of what we do and arc, Just (lod, fori^ive ! TO I'lIK CUCKOO. O ni.iTHF, new-comer I I have hean', I hear thee and rejoice. O cuckoo ! shall I call thee birtl. Or but a wanderini^ voice.-' While I am lyini^ on the ^n\^s, Thy twofold shout I hear : From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once fur ot^' and nea.. L- IVOh'DSiyOK Til's POEMS. Thouiifh bal)l)linj^ only to the vale Of sunshine and of llowers, Thou brinLcest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the spring^ ! Even yet thou art to me No bird — but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery ; The same whom in my schoolboy days I listened to ; that cry Which n.ade me look a thousand ways In bush and tree and sky. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green ; And thou wert still a hojie, a love — Still longed for, never seen. And I can listen to thee yet ; Can lie upon the ])lain And listen, till 1 do beget That L'-olden time airain. 8i ^.' *i~.* O blessed bird ! the earth wc pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, fairy place. That is fit home for thee I I ■■;■■ ■■■V , THE CUCKOO AGAIN. Yes, it was the mountain Echo, Solitary, clear, profound, Answering to the shouting Cuckoo, Giving to her sound for sound I 6 ! jj9 iri>A'/)siri)A'y7/'s j'o/:.us. Unsolicited rcj)!/ To a Itabbling' wanderer sent ; Like lier ordinary cry, Like — but oh, liow different I Hears not also mortal life? Hear not we, unthinkinj;- creatures ! Slaws of folly, love or strife — Voices of two different natures? Have not 7re too? — yes, we have Answers, and we know not whence ; Echoes from beyond the j^rave Kecoi^ni/eil intelligence ! f )ften as thy niward ear Catches such rebounds, beware !- • Listen, ponder, hokl them dear ; For of God, — of God they are. >k: FIDELITY. A BARKING sound the shepherd hears, A cry as of a doi^ or fox ; He halts, and searches with his eyes Among the scattered rocks ; And now at distance can discern A stirring in a brake of fern ; And instantl)'' a dog is seen, Glancing through that covert green. The dog is not of mountain breed ; Its motions, too, are wild and shy ; With something, as the shepherd thinks, Unusual in its cry. tf<>M>.siroK rirs roi:.\/.s. S3 Nor is tl\crc any one in sight All rounil, in Ik^Uow or on height ; Nor sliout nor whistle strikes his ear; What IS the creature doing here ? It was a cove, a huge recess, That keeps, till June, December's snow ; A lofty prcci])ice in front, A silent tarn* below ! Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, Remote from public road or dwelling, Pathway or cultivated land, I'Vom trace of human foot or hand. ill There sometimes doth a leaj)ing llsh Send through the tarn a lonely cheer ; The crags rei)eat the raven's croak In symjihony austere. Thither the rainbow comes — the cloud, And mists that spread the flynig shroud ; And sunbeams ; and the sounding blast 'i'hat, if it could, would hurry past ; But that enormous baVrier binds it fast. Not free from boding thoughts, a while The shepherd stood ; then makes his way Towards the dog, o'er rocks and stones, As quickly as he may ; Nor far liad gone before he found A human skeleton on the ground ; The appalled discoverer with a sigh Looks round, to learn the history. i » m I ■■ iw * Tim is a small mere or lake, mostly high up in the mountains. ^, IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // ^./ ^ IL 1.0 I.I if 1^ K£ ■^ 1^ 12.2 \^ 12.0 Ui ■It IIJ5 i 1.4 I 1.6 m ^ >^>^) ^v> ^^. '/ Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14SM (716)872-4503 m ^ V iV 4 '^<^ ^^<^ ^. '^ ^^ z sj i V' 84 WORDS IVOR Til ' S POEMS From those abrupt and perilous rocks The man had fallen, that place of fear ! At length upon the shepherd's mind It breaks, and all is clear. He instantly recalled the name. And who he was, and whence he came ; Remembered, too, the very day On which the traveller passed this way. But hear a wonder, for whose sake This lamentable tale I tell ! A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well. The dog, which still was hovering nigh Repeating the same timid cry, This dog had been through three months' space A dweller in that savage place. Yes, proof was plain that, since the day When this ill-fated traveller died, The dog had watched about the spot, Or by his master's side. How nourished here through such long time He knows who gave that love sublime ; And gave that strength of feeling, great Above all human estimate. iS ELEGIAC STANZAS, SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE I\ A STORM PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT. I WAS thy neighbor once, thou rugged pile ! Four surnn: -r weeks I dwelt in sight of thee : I saw thee every day, and all the v/hile Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea. WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 85 So pure the sky, so quiet was the air ! So Hke, so very Hke, was day to day ! Whene'er 1 looked, thy image still was there : It trembled, but it never passed away. How perfect was the calm ! it seemed no sleep : No mood which season takes away or brings : I could have fancied that the mighty deep Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. Ah ! then, if mine had been the painter's hand, To express what then I saw, and add the gleam, / The light that never was, on sea or land, v \ The consecration, and the poet s dream, I I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile, Amid a world how different from this ! Beside a sea that could not cease to smile ; On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. A picture had it been of lasting ease, Elysian quiet, without toil or strife ; No motion but the moving tide, a breeze. Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. Such, in the fond illusion of my heart. Such picture would I at that time have made ; And seen the soul of truth in every part, A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed. So once it would have been ; 'tis so no more ; I have submitted to a new control ; A power is gone which nothing can restore ; A deep distress hath humanized my soul. Not for a moment could I now behold A smiling sea and be what I have been. The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old ; This, which I know, T speak with mind serene. I :;■ I \'\ f^^ Mi m 86 WOJWS IVOA' 77/ ' S J 'OEMS. Then, Beaumont, friend! who would have been the friend, If he had lived, of him whom I deplore, This work of thine I blame not, but commend — This sea in anger and that dismal shore. Oh, 'tis a passionate work — yet wise and well, Well chosen is the spirit that is here ; That hulk which labors in the deadly swell, This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear. And this huge castle, standing here sublime, I love to see the look with which it braves, Cased in the unfeeling armor of old time, The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, Housed, in a dream, at distance from the kind ! Such happiness, wherever it be known. Is to be pitied, for 'tis surely blind. But welcome fortitude and patient cheer. And frequent sights of what is to be borne ! Such sights, or worse, as are before me here — Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. FRENCH REVOLUTION, AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS COMMENCEMENT. Oh! pleasant exercise of hope and joy ! For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood Upon our side, we who were strong in love ! Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive. But to be young was very heaven I Oh, times :'t And now a stranjj^cr's privilege I took ; And, drawing to his side, to him did say, "This morning gives us promise of a glorious day." A gentle answer did the old man make In courteous speech, which forth he slowly drew : And him with further words I thus bespakc : " What occupation do you there pursue? This is a lonesome place for one like you." Me answered, while a flash of mild surprise Broke from the sable orbs of his yet vivid eyes. His words came feebly from a feeble chest, i3ut each in solemn order followed each, With something of a lofty utterance drest — Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach Of ordinary men ; a stately speech. Such as grave livers do in Scotland use, Religious men, who give to God and man their dues. He told that to these waters he had come To gather leeches, being old and poor : Employment hazardous and wearisome 1 And he had many hardships to endure. From pond to pond he roamed ; from moor to moor ; Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance ; And in this way he gained an honest maintenance. The old man still stood talking by my side ; But now his voice to me was like a stream Scarce heard ; nor word from word could I divide ; And the whole body of the man did seem Like one whom I had met with in a dream ; Or like a man from some far region sent, To give me human strength by apt admonishment. lis .'■ WOKDSWORTirS POEMS. 103 My former thoughts returned : the fear that kills, And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; Cold, pain, and labor, and all fleshly ills, And mighty poets in their misery dead. Perplexed, and longing to be comforted. My question eagerly did I renew, "How is it that you live, and what is it you do ?" He with a smile did then his words repeat ; And said that, gathering leeches, far and wide He travelled ; stirring thus about his feet The waters of the pools where they abide. **Once I could meet with them on every side; But they have dwindled long by slow decay ; Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may " While he was talking thus, the lonely place. The old man's shape and speech, all troubled me : In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace About the weary moors continually, Wandering about alone and silently. While I these thoughts within myself pursued, He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. And soon with this he other matter blended, Cheerfully uttered, with demeanor kind, But stately in the main ; and when he ended, I could have laughed myself to scorn to find In that decrepit man so firm a mind. "God," said I, "be my help and stay secure ; rU think of the leech-gatherer on the lonely moor ! ' 104 WORDS IVOR Til ' S POEMS. \' i',« I'l i„ \m 1 YARROW UNVISITED. [See the various poems, the scene of which is laid upon the banks of the Yarrow ; in particular, the exquisite ballad of Hamilton, beginning " Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow ! " j From Stirling Castle wc had seen The mazy Forth unravelled ; Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, And with the Tweed had travelled ; And when we came to Clovenford, Then said my "winsome Marrow," "Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, And see the braes of Yarrow. " " Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk Town, Who have been buying, selling. Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own ; Each maiden to her dwellinp-. On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ; But we will downward with the Tweed, Nor turn aside to Yarrow. "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, Both lying right before us ; And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed The lintwhites sing in chorus ; There's pleasant Teviotdale, a land Made blithe with plough and harrow : Why throw away a needful day To go in search of Yarrow ? WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 105 ' ' What's Yarrow but a river bare, That glides the dark hills under ? There are a thousand such elsewhere As worthy of your wonder." Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn ; My true-love sighed for sorrow ; And looked me in the face, to think I thus could speak of Yarrow. *' Oh, green," said 1, " are Yarrow's holms, And sweet is Yarrow's flowing ! Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,* But we will leave it growing. O'er hilly path and open strath, We'll wander Scotland thorough ; But, though so near, we will not turn 'Into the dale of Yarrow. ' ' Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; The swan on still Saint Mary's lake Float double, swan and shadow 1 We will not see them ; will not go To-day, nor yet to-morrow ; Enough if in our hearts we know There's such a place as Yarrow. "Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown ! It must, or we shall rue it ; We have a vision of our own ; Ah ! why should we undo it ? V The treasured dreams of times long past, We'll keep them, winsome Marrow ! For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 'Twill be another Yarrow. * See Hamilton's ballad, as above. i 1 I06 WORDSU'OK IJJ \S I'Oh MS. " If care with freezing years should come, And wandering seem but folly ; Should we be loath to stir from home, And yet be melancholy ; Should life be dull and spirits low, Twill soothe us in our sorrow, That earth has something yet to show, The bonny holms of Yarrow ! " -it;-. ■ : r .1 1 ' 5! YARROW VISITED, SEPTEMBER, 1814. And is this — Yarrow ? — This the stream Of which my fancy cherished, So faithfully, a waking dream ? An image that hath perished ! Oh, that some minstrel's harp were near, To utter notes of gladness. And chase this silence from the air. That fills my heart with sadness I Yet why ? a silvery current flows With uncontrolled meanderings ; Nor have these eyes by greener hills Been soothed in all my wanderings. And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake Is visibly delighted ; For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted. . * A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, Save where that pearly whiteness Is round the rising sun diffused, A tender hazy brightness ; l^ WORDS IVOR 77/' S POEMS, Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes All profitless dejection ; Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection. Where was it that the famous Flower Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ? His bed perchance was yon smooth motmd On which the herd is feeding : And haply from this crystal pool, Now peaceful as the morning, The water-wraith ascended thrice — And gave his doleful warning. Delicious is the lay that sings The haunts of happy lovers. The path that leads them to the grove, The leafy grove that covers : And pity sanctifies the verse That paints, by strength of sorrow, The unconquerable strength of love ; Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! But thou, that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation : Meek loveliness is round thee spread, A softness still and holy ; The grace of forest charms decayed, And pastoral melancholy. That region left, the vale unfolds Rich groves of lofty stature. With Yarrow winding through the pomp Of cultivated nature ; 107 ', i Io8 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. And rising from those lofty groves, Behold a ruin hoary ! The shattered front of Newark's towers, Renowned in Border story. Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, For sportive youth to stray in ; For manhood to enjoy his strength ; And age to wear away in ! Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, A covert for protection Of tender thoughts that nestle there, The brood of chaste affection. How sweet on this autumnal day, The wild-wood fruits to gather, And on my true-love's forehead plant A crest of blooming heather. And what if I enwreathed my own ! 'Twere no offence to reason ; The sober hills thus decked their brows To meet the wintry season. I see — but not by sight alone, Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; A ray of fancy still survives — Her sunshine plays upon thee ! Thy ever-youthful waters keep A course of lively pleasure • And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, Accordant to the measure. The vapors linger round the heights, They melt — and soon must vanish ; One hour is theirs, nor more is mine — Sad thought, which I would banish, i< ^' I VOKDS WOR rii ' JT POEMS, But that I know, where'er I go, Tliy genuine image. Yarrow ! Will dwell with me — to heighten joy, And cheer my mind in sorrow. 109 YARROW REVISITED. [The following stanzas arc a memorial of a day passed with Sir Walter Scott, and other friends visiting the banks of the Yarrow under his guidance, immediately before his departure from Abbotsford for Naples.] The gallant youth, who may have gained, Or seeks, a " winsome Marrow," Was but an infant in the lap When first I looked on Yarrow ; Once more, by Newark's castle-gate Long left without a warder, I stood, looked, listened, and with thee Great Minstrel of the Border ! Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, Their dignity installing In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves Were on the bough or falling ; But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed, The forest to embolden ; Reddened the fiery hues, and shot Transparence through the golden. For busy thoughts the stream flowed on In foamy agitation ; And slept in many a crystal pool For quiet contemplation. i ! 1 1 o WORDS IVOR TH'S POEMS. No public and no private care The freeborn mind enthralling, We made a day of happy hours, Our happy days recalling. Brisk youth appeared, the morn of youth, With freaks of graceful folly — Life's temperate noon, her sober eve, Her night not melancholy ; Past, present, future, all appeared In harmony united. Like guests that meet, and some from far, By cordial love invited. And if, as Yarrow, through the woods And down the meadow ranging. Did meet us with unaltered face. Though we were changed and changing ; If, then, some natural shadows spread Our inward prospect over. The soul's deep valley was not slow Its brightness to recover. Eternal blessings on the Muse, And her divine employment ! The blameless INIuse, who trains her sons For hope and calm enjoyment ; Albeit sickness, lingering yet, Has o'er their pillow brooded ; And Care waylays their steps — a Sprite Not easily eluded. For thee, O Scott ! compelled to change Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes. And leave thy Tweed and Teviot WORDS IVOR TH ' 6' POEMS. Ill For mild Sorrento's breezy waves ; May classic fancy, linking With native fancy her fresh aid, Preserve thy heart from sinking ! • Oh ! while they minister to thee, Each vying with the other, May Health return to mellow age With Strength, her venturous brother ; And Tiber, and each brook and rill Renowned in song and story. With unimagined beauty shine. Nor lose one ray of glory. For thou, upon a hundred streams. By tales of love and sorrow, Of faithful love, undaunted truth, Hast shed the power of Yarrow ; And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, Wherever they invite thee. At parent Nature's grateful call, With gladness must requite thee. A gracious welcome shall be thine, Such looks of love and honor As thy own Yarrow gave to me When tirst I gazed upon her ; Beheld what I had feared to see, Unwilling to surrender Dreams treasured up from early days. The holy and the tender. And what, for this frail world, were all That mortals do or suffer. Did no responsive harp, no pen. Memorial tribute offer .? IfeJ W 112 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. Yea, what were mighty Nature's self Her features, could they win us, Unhelped by the poetic voice That hourly speaks within us ? « Nor deem that localized romance Plays false with our affections ; Unsanctifies our tears — made sport For fanciful dejections. Oh, no ! the visions of the past Sustain the heart in feeling Life as she is — our changeful life — With friends and kindred dealing. Bear witness ye whose thoughts that day In Yarrow's groves were centred ; Who through the silent portal arch Of mouldering Newark entered ; And clomb the winding stair that once Too timidly was mounted By the "last Minstrel " (not the last I) Ere he his tale recounted. Flow on forever. Yarrow stream 1 Fulfil thy pensive duty, Well pleased that future bards should chant For simple hearts thy beauty ; To dream-light dear while yet unseen, Dear to the common sunshine, And dearer still, as now I feel, To memory's shadowy moonshine I WORDS IVOR TH ' S POEMS. 113 TO A SKYLARK. '\t\i' ,• ''r ' Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound ? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? — Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will Those quivering wings composed, that music still ' To the last point of vision and beyond. Mount, daring warbler ! that love-prompted strain ('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege ! to smg All independent of the leafy spring. Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ; A privacy of glorious light is thine, Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine : Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ; True to the kindred points of heaven and home ! A POET'S EPTfAPH. Art thou a Statesman, in the van Of public business trained and bred ? — First learn to love one living man ; Then may'st thou think upon the dead. A Lawyer art thou ? — draw not nigh ! Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practised eye, The hardness of that sallow face. 8 114 I i WORDS WOR TH'S POEMS. Art thou a Man of purple cheer? A rosy Man, right plump to see ? Approach ; yet, Doctor, not too near, This grave no cushion is for thee. Or art thou one of gallant pride, A soldier, and no man of chaff? WelcoHie ! — but lay thy sWord aside, And lean upon a peasant's staff. Physician art thou ? One all eyes. Philosopher ! a fingering slave, One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave? Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, O turn aside, — and take, I pray. That he below may rest in peace. That abject thing, thy soul, away ! A Moralist perchance appears ; Led, Heaven knows how ! to this poor sod : And he has neither eyes nor ears ; Himself his world, and his own God ; One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can clincr Nor form, nor feeling, great or small ; A reasoning, self-sufiicing thing, An intellectual All-in-all ! Shut close the door ; press down the latch Sleep in ihy intellectual crust ; Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch Near this unprofitable dust. But who is He, with modest looks. And clad in homely russet brown ? He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own. WORDSWORTH'S POEMS He is retired as noontide dew, Or fountain in a noon-day grove : And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love. The outward shows of sky and earth, Of hill and valley, he has viewed ; And impulses of deeper birth Have come to him in solitude. In common things that round us He Some random truths he can impart ; — The harvest of a quiet eye That broods and sleeps on his own heart. But he is weak ; both Man and Boy, Hath been an idler in the land ; Contented if he might enjoy The things which others understand. — Come hither in thy hour of strength Come, weak as is a breaking wave ! Here stretch thy body at full length ; Or build thy house upon this grave ! »J5 l||:;| THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET. Wherk art thou, my beloved son, Where art thou, worse to me than deatl ? Oh, find me, prosperous or undone ! Or, if the grave be now thy bed, Why am I ignorant of the same. That I may rest, and neither blame Nor sorrow may attend thy name? ii6 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. ■\ V ; ■ 3: i I I Seven years, alas ! to have received No tidings of an only child ; To have despaired, and have believed. And be for evermore beguiled, Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss ! I catch at them, and then I miss ; Was ever darkness like to this ? He was among the prime in worth. An object beauteous to behold ; Well born, well bred, I sent him forth Ingenuous, innocent, and bold : If things ensued that wanted grace, As hath been said, they were not base ; And never blush was on my face. Ah ! little doth the young-one dream, When full of play and childish cares, What power is in his wildest scream, Heard by his mother unawares ! He knows it not, he cannot guess : Years to a mother bring distress. But do not make her love the less. Neglect me ! no, I suffered long From that ill thought ; rind, being blind, Said, "Pride shall help me in my wrong : Kind mother have I been, as kind As ever breathed." And that is true ; I've wet my path with tears like dew. Weeping for him when no one knew. My son, if thou be humbled, poor, Hopeless of honor and of gain. Oh, do not dread thy mother's door ; Think not of me with grief and pain ; WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. I now can see with better eyes ; And worldly grandeur I despise, And fortune with her gifts and lies. Alas ! the fowls of heaven have wings, And blasts of heaven will aid their flight They mount — how short a voyage brings The wanderers back to their delight ! Chains tie us down by land and sea ; And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee. Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, Maimed, mangled by inhuman men ; Or thou upon a desert thrown Inheritest the lion's den ; Or hast been summoned to the deep, Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep An incommunicable sleep. I look for ghosts ; but none will force Their way to me : 'tis falsely said That there was ever intercourse Between the living and the dead ; For, surely, then I should have sight Of him I wait for day and night, With love and longings infinite. My apprehensions come in crowds ; I dread the rustling of the grass ; The very shadows of the clouds Have power to shake me as they pass. I question things, and do not find One that will answer to my mind ; And all the world appears unkind. 117 ' I M I Mf ill 'HI' '.r 1 1 8 WO/WS IVOR TH 'S POEMS. Beyond participation lie My troubles, and beyond relief : If any chance to lieave a sigh, They pity me, and not my grief. Then come to me, my son, or send Some tidings that my woes may end : I have no other earthly friend 1 THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN. [When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue hi^; journey with his companions, he is left behuid, covered over with deer-skins, and is supplied with water, food, and fuel,if the situa- tion of the place will afford it. He is informed of the track which his companions intend to pursue, and if he is unable to follow or overtake them, he perishes alone in the desert, unless he should have the good-fortune to fall in with some other tribes of Indians. The females are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. See that very interesting work, Wqzxxvq!?, Journey from Hudson's Bay to the Northern Ocean. In the high north- ern latitudes, as the same writer informs us, when the Northern Lights vary their position in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling noise, as alluded to in the following poem.] Before I sec another day, Oh, let my body die away ! In sleep I heard the northern gleams ;" The stars were mingled with my dreams ; In rustling conflict through the skies, I heard, 1 saw, the flashes drive. And yet they are upon my eyes, And yet I am alive ; Before I see another day, Oh, let my body die away 1 n i j 1 ' \ U . i IL WORDS IVOR TirS POEMS. 119 My tire is dead : it knew no pain ; Yet is it dead, and I remain. All stiff with ice the ashes lie ; And they are dead, and I will die. When I was well, I wished to live, For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire ; But they to me no joy can give, No pleasure now, and no desire. Then here contented will I lie ! Alone I cannot fear to die. Alas ! ye might have dragged me on Another day, a single one ! Too soon 1 yielded to despair ; Why did ye listen to my prayer .? When ye were gone my limbs were stronger ; And oh, how grievously I rue That, afterwards, a little longer, ISIy friends, I did not follow you ! For strong and without pain I lay, My friends, when ye were gone away. My child ! they gave thee to another, A woman who was not thy mother. When from my arms my babe they took. On me how strangely did he look ! Through his whole body something ran, A most strange working did I see. As if he strove to be a man. That he might pull the sledge for me : And then he stretched his arms, how wild ! Oh mercy ! like a helpless child. My little joy ! my little pride ! In two days more I must have died. 120 ,. M WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. Then do not weep and j^'ri(;ve for me ; I feel I must have died with thee. wind, that o'er my head art flying The way my friends their course did bend 1 sliouid not feel the pain of dying, Could I witii thee a message send. Too soon, my friends, ye went away ; For 1 had many things to say. I'll follow you across the snow ; Ye travel heavily and slow ; In spite of all my weary pain, I'll look upon your tents again. My fire is dead, and snowy-white The water which beside it stood ; The wolf has come to me to-night, And he has stolen away my food. Forever left alone am I, Then wherefore should I fear to die ? SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE, UPON THE RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, THE SHEPHERD, TO THE ESTATES AND HONORS OF HIS ANCESTORS. High in the breathless hall the minstrel sate, And Eamont's murmur mingled with the song. — The words of ancient time I thus translate, A festal strain that hath been silent long : ** From town to town, from tower to tower, The Red Rose is a gladsome flower. Her thirty years of winter past, The Red Rose is revived at last : WORDS IVOR TH 'S POEMS. 121 )end She lifts her head for endless spring, For everlasting blossoming : Both Roses flourish, Red and White. • In love and sisterly delight The two that were at strife are blended, And all old troubles now are ended. Joy, joy to both I but most to her Who is the flower of Lancaster ! Behold her how she smiles to-day On this great throng, this bright array I Fair greeting doth she send to all From every corner of the hall ; But, chiefly from above the board Where sits in state our rightful Lord, A Clifford to his own restored ! N ■'i ' ' They came with banner, spear, and shield ; And it was proved in Bosworth field. Not long the Avenger was withstood — Earth helped him with the cry of blood : St. George was for us, and the might Of blessed angels crowned the right. Loud voice the land has uttered forth, We loudest in the faithful North : Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring, Our streams proclaim a welcoming ; Our strong-abodes and castles see The glory of their loyalty. " How glad is Skipton at this hour — Though she is but a lonely tower 1 To vacancy and silence left ; Of all her guardian sons bereft — Knight, squire, or yeoman, page or groom : We have them at the feast of Brougham. 122 111 54 s jvoA'/Js IVOR rn ' s roEAfs. How glad Pendragon, though the sleep Of years be on her ! — She shall reap A taste of this great pleasure, viewing As in a dream her own renewing. Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem Beside her little humble stream ; And she that keepeth watch and ward Her statelier Kden's course to guard ; They both are happy at this hour, Though each is but a lonely tower : — But here is perfect jt)y and pride For one fair house by Eamont's side, This day distinguished without jjeer To see her master and to cheer — Him and his lady mother dear ! " Oh ! it was a time forlorn When the fatherless was born. Give her wings that she may fly. Or she sees her infant die ! Swords that are with slaughter wild Hunt the mother and the child. Who will take them from the light } Yonder is a man in sight ; Yonder is a house — but where .? No, they must not enter there. , To the caves and to the brooks. To the clouds of heaven she looks ; She is speechless, but her eyes Pray in ghostly agonies. Blissful Mary, Mother mild. Maid and jMother undefiled, Save a niother and her child ! "Now who is he that bounds with joy On Carrock's side, a Shepherd Boy } \ \ IVOA'nSlVOA' 77/ \S POEMS. No thoujj^hts luith lie hut thouj^hts that pass Li^ht as the wind alonj^ the ^rass. Can this be he who hiti\er came In secret, like a smothered tlame — O'er whom such thankfid tears were shed — For shelter and a poor man's bread? God loves the child ; and Cjod hath willed That those dear words should be fultilled, The lady's words, when forced away The last she to her babe did say, ' My own, my own, thy fellow-guest I may not be ; but rest thee, rest, For lowly shepherd's life Is best 1 ' "Alas 1 when evil men are strong No life is good, no pleasure long. The boy must part from IVIosedale's groves, And leave Blencathara's rugged coves, And quit the flowers that summer brings To Glenderamakin's lofty springs ; Must vanish, and his careless cheer Be turned to heaviness and fear. Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise 1 Hear it, good man, old in days. Thou tree of covert and of rest ! For this young bird that is distrest ; Among thy branches safe he lay, And he was free to sport and play When falcons were abroad for prey. " A recreant harp that sings of fear And heaviness in Clifford's ear I I said, when evil men are strong, No life is good, no pleasure long, A weak and cowardly untruth ! Our Clifford was a happy youth, 1^3 )!t ' I \ f 1 m, 124 WORDS IVOR TH'S POEMS. :!iiV And thankful through a weary t^'nie, That brought him up to manhood's prime. Again he wanders forth at will, And tends a fiock from hill to hill ; His garb is humble ; ne'er was seen Such garb with such a noble mien ; Among the shepherd-grooms no mate Hath he, a child of strength and state ! Yet lacks not friends for solemn glee, And a cheerful company, That learned of hini submissive ways ; And comforted his private days. To his side the fallow-deer Came, and rested without fear ; The eagle, lord of land and sea, Stooped down to pay him fealty ; And both the undying fish that swim Through Bovvscale Tarn did wait on him : The pair were servants of his eye In their immortality ; They moved about in open sight, To and fro, for his delight. He knew the rocks which angels haunt On the mountains visitant ; He hath kenned them taking wing ; And the caves where faeries sing He hath entered, and been told By voices how men lived of old. Among the heavens hiS eye can see Face of thing that is to be ; And if men report him right, He could whisper words of might. Now another day is come. Fitter hope and nobler doom ; He hath thrown aside his crook. I 1 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. I2i And hath buried deep his book ; Armor rusting in his halls On the blood of Clifford calls ; 'Quell the Scot,' exclaims the lance; Bear me to the heart of France Is the longing of the shield. Tell thy name, thou trembling field— Field of death, where'er thou be, Groan thou with our victory ! Happy day and mighty hour. When our Shepherd, in his power, IVIailed and horsed, with lance and sword, To his ancestors restored Like a reappearing star. Like a glory from afar, First shall head the flock of war ! " Alas ! the fervent harper did not know That for a tranquil soul the lay was framed, Who, long compelled in humble walks to go, Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed. Love had he found in huts where poor men lie ; His daily teachers had been woods and rills, The silence that is in the starry sky. The sleep that is among the lonely hills. In him the savage virtue of the race, Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts, were dead ; Nor did he change, but kept in lofty place The wisdom which adversity had bred. Glad were the vales, and every cottage hearth ; The shepherd lord was honored more and more ; And ages after he was laid in earth, "The good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore. I If ill ' 126 WORDS IVOR TH 'S FOE MS, ', - THE BROTHERS.* "These tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live A profitable life. Some glance along, Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air. And they were butterflies to wheel about Long as the summer lasted ; some, as wise, Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag, Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, Until a man might travel tv/elve stout miles Or reap an acre of his neighbor's com. But, for that moping son of idleness, Why can he i2ixxj yonder ? In our church-yard Is neither epitaph nor monument, Tombstone nor name — only the turf we tread And a few natural graves. " To Jane, his wife, Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. It v.'as a July evening ; and he sat Upon the long stone seat beneath the eaves * This poem was intended to conclude a series of pastorals, the scene of which was laid among the mountains of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I mention this to apologize for the abruptness with which the poem begins. WOKDSWORTWS POEMS. 127 Of his old cottage — -as it chanced, that day, Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool, While from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire He fed the spindle of his youngest child, Who turned her large round wheel in the open air With back and forward steps. Towards the field In which the parish chapel stood alone. Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, While half an hour went by, the priest had sent Many a long look of wonder ; and at last, Risen from his seat beside the snow-white ridge Of carded wool which the old man had piled, He laid his implements with gentle care, Each in the other locked ; and down the path That from his cottage to the church-yard led He took his way, impatient to accost The stranger, whom, he saw still lingering there. Twas one well known to him in former days, A shepherd lad ; — who ere his sixteenth year Had left that calling, tempted to intrust His expectations to the fickle winds And perilous waters, with the mariners A fellow-mariner, and so had fared Through twenty seasons ; but he had been reared Among the mountains, and he in his heart Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas. Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard The tones of waterfalls and inland sounds Of caves and trees : and when the regular wind Between the tropics tilled the steady sail, ^^m !, ■J .1 128 WOKDSlVOJil^H'S POEMS. And blew with the same breath through clays and weeks, Lengthening invisibly its weary line Along the cloudless main, he, in those hours Of tiresome indolence, would often hang Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze ; And while the broad green wave antl sparkling foam Flashed round him images and hues that wrought In union with the employment of his heart. He, thus by feverish passion overcome, Even with the organs of his bodily eye, Below him, in the bosom of the deep, Saw mountains, — saw the forms of sheep that grazed On verdant hills — with dwellings among trees. And shepherds clad in the same country gray Which he himself had worn.* And now, at last, From perils manifold, with some small wealth Acquired by traftic 'mid the Indian isles, To his paternal home he is returned. With a determined purpose to resume The life he had lived there ; both for the sake Of many darling pleasures, and the love Which to an only brother he has borne In all his hardships, since that happy time When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two Were brother shepherds on their native hills. They were the last of all their race ; and now, When Leonard had approached his home, his heart Failed in him ; and not venturing to inquire Tidings of one whom he so dearly loved. Towards the church-vard he had turned aside ; * This description of the calenture is sketched from an im- perfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, author of T/w Hurricane. WORDS fVOA' TH ' S POEMS. and 129 That, as he knew in what particular spot His family were laid, he thence might learn If still his brother lived, or to the file Another grave was added. He had found Another grave, near which a full half-hour He had remained ; but as he gazed there grew Such a confusion in his memory That he began to doubt ; and hope was his That he had seen this heap of turf before That it was not another grave, but one He had forgotten. He had lost his path, As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked Through fields which once had been well known to him : And oh ! what joy the recollection now Sent to his heart ! He lifted up his eyes And, looking round, imagined that he saw Strange alteration wrought on every side Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks And everlasting hills themselves were changed. By this the priest, who down the field had come Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate Stopped short, and thence, at leisure, limb by limb Perused him with a gay complacency. Ay, thought the vicar, smiling to himself, 'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path Of the world's business to go wild alone : His arms have a perpetual holiday ; 'i'he happy man will creep about the fields. Following his fancies by the hour, to bring Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles Into his face, until the setting sun Write fool upon his forehead. Planted thus Beneath a shed that overarched the gate 9 I30 WORDSWORTirS POEMS. Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared, The good man might have communed with himself, But that the stranger, who had left the grave, Approached ; he recognized the priest at once, And after greetings interchanged, and given By Leonard to the vicar as to one Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. Leonard. You live, sir, in these dales, a quiet life : Your years make up one peaceful family ; And who would grieve and fret if, welcome come And welcome gone, they are so like each other, They cannot be remembered ? Scarce a funeral Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months \ And yet some changes must take place among you : And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks, Can trace the finger of mortality, And see that with our threescore years and ten We are not all that perish. I remember (For many years ago I passed this road) There was a footway all along the fields By the brook-side — 'tis gone — and that dark cleft I To me it does not seem to wear the face Which then it had. Priest. Nay, sir, for aught I know, That chasm is much the same — (1 T A ( W Leonard. But, surely, yonder — Priest. Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend That does not play you false. On that tall pike WOA'DSiVOK TIPS POEMS. 131 (It is the loneliest i)lacc of all these hills) There were two springs which bubbled side by side, As if they had been made that they might be Companions for each other. The huge crag Was rent with lightning ; one hath disappeared ; The other, left behind, is flowing still.* For accidents and changes such as these We want not store of them ; — a water-spout Will bring down half a mountain ; what a feast For folks that wander up and down like you, To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff One roaring cataract ! A sharp May storm Will come with loads of January snow, And in one night send twenty score of shee]) To feed the ravens. Or a shepherd dies By some untoward death among the rocks ; The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge ; A wood is felled: — and then for our own homes ! A child is born or christened, a field ploughed, A daughter sent to service, a web spun, The old house-clock is decked with a new face ; And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates To chronicle the time, we all have here A pair of diaries — one serving, sir, For the whole dale, and one for each fireside — Yours was a stranger's judgment ; for historians, Commend me to these valleys ! '•: Leo7iard. Yet your church-yard Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, To say that you are heedless of the past : *This actually took place upon Kidstow Pike at the head I lawcs-water. 132 IVOA'DS IVOA' Til ' S POEMS. ;;} l1 '• ^i \i An orphan could not find his mother's grave ; Here's neither head nor foot stone, phite of brass, Cross-bones nor skull — type of our earthly state Nor emblem of our hopes : the dead man's home Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. Priest. Why, there, sir, is a thought that's new to me ! The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread If every English church-yard were like ours ; Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth. We have no need of names and epitaphs; We talk about the dead by our firesides. And then, for our immortal part ! we want No symbols, sir, to tell us that plain tale : The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains. Leo7iard. Your dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts Possess a kind of second life ; no doubt You, sir, could help me to the history Of half these graves } Priest. For eightscore winters past, With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard, Perhaps I might ; and on a winter evening, If you were seated at my chimney's nook. By turning o'er these hillocks one by one. We two could travel, sir, through a strange round ; Yet all in the broad hlgh\^'ay of the world. Now there's a grave — your foot is half upon it — It looks just like the rest ; and yet that man Died broken-hearted. liJ -;i U'OA'VSIVOA' TIPS POEMS, Leofiiird. Tis a common case. We'll take another : who is he that lies Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves? It touches on that i)iece of native rock Left in the church-yard wall. Priest. That's Walter luvbank. He had as white a head and fresh a cheek As ever were produced by youth and age Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. Through five long generations had the heart Of Walter's forefathers o'crflowed the bounds Of their inheritance, that single cottage — You see it yonder ! — and those few green fields, "^rhey toiled and wrought, and still from sire to son Each struggled, and each yielded as before A little — yet a little ; and old W^alter, They left to him the family heart, and land With other burdens than the crop it bore. Year after year the old man still kept up A cheerful mind, and buffeted with bond, Interest, and mortgages ; at last he sank. And went into his grave before his time. Poor Walter ! whether it was care that spurred him God only knows, but to the very last He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale : His pace was never that of an old man. I almost see him tripping down the path With his two grandsons after him. But you, Unless our landlord be your host to-night. Have far to travel ; and on these rough paths Even in the longest day of midsummer — m sJti lit % % 134 WORDS IVOR Tli 'S POEMS. Leonard. 1 ' 1 But those two orphans ! Priest. Orphans ! Such they were — Yet not while Walter lived ; for though their parents Lay buried side by side as now they lie, The old man was a father to the boys — Two fathers in one father : and if tears, Shed when he talked of them where they were not, And hauntings from the infirmity of love, Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart. This old man, in the day of his old age. Was half a mother to them. If you weep, sir, To hear a stranger talking about strangers. Heaven bless you when you are among your kin- dred ! Ay — you may turn that way — it is a grave Which will bear lookmg at. T A L W T Leonard. These boys — I hope They loved this good old man ? Priest. They did — and truly : But that was what we almost overlooked, They were such darlings of each other. For Though from their cradles they had lived with Walter, The only kinsman near them, and though he Inclined to them by reason of his age With a more fond, familiar tenderness, "cntj WORDS IVOR Til 'S POEMS. 135 They, notwithstandin^iif, luul much love to spare, And it all went into each other's hearts. Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months. Was two years taller. 'Twas a joy to see, To hear, to meet them ! From their house the school Is distant three short miles ; and in the time Of storm and thaw, when every watercourse And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, Was swoln into a noisy rivulet, Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps Remained at home, go staggering through the fords, Bearing his brother on his back. 1 have seen him On windy days in one of those stray brooks, Ay, more than once I have seen him, mid-leg deep, Their two books lying both on a dry stone Upon the hither side. And once I said, As I remember, looking round these rocks And hills on which we all of us were born, That God who made the great book of the world Would bless such piety — Leonard. It may be then- « I |i Priest. Never did worthier lads break English bread ; The finest Sunday that the autumn saw With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts Could never keep these boys away from church, Or tempt them to an hour of Sabbath breach. Leonard and James ! I warrant every corner Among these rocks and every hollow place Where foot could come to one or both of them 136 ivoKDsn'OA' ru ' i roEMs. Was known as well as to the flowers that j^row there. Like roebucks they went bounding o'er the hills ; They played like two young ravens on the crags. Then they would write, ay, and speak, too, as well As many of their betters. i\w(\ for Leonanl ! The very night before he went away, In my own house I put into his hand A Bible, and I'd wager house and lield That, if he is alive, he has it yet. Leonard. It seems these brothers have not lived to be A comfort to each other — Priest. That they might Live to such end is what both old and young In this our valley all of us have wished, And what, for my part, I have often prayed. But Leonard — Leonard. Then James still is left among you ? Priest. W: 'Tis of the elder brother I am speaking. They had an uncle ; he was at that time A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas: And but for that same uncle, to this hour Leonard had never handled rope or shroud ; For the boy loved the life which we lead here ; And, though of unripe years, a stripling only, His soul was knit to this his native soil. WORDSWOR Tirs POEMS, 137 icrc. ill Hut, as 1 said, old WaltiT was too weak To strive with such a torrent. When he died, The estate and house were sold, and all theirsheep, A j)retty flock, and which, for aught I know, Had clothed the Kwbanks for a thousand years : — Well — all was gone, and they were destitute. And Leonard, chiefly for his brother's sake, Resolved to try his fortune on the seas. Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him. If there were one among us who had heard That Leonard Kwbank was come home again, From the (jreat (iavel,* down by Leeza's banks, And down the Enna far as Egrcmont, 'I'he day would be a very festival ; And those two bells of ours, which there you see — LLanging in the open air — but, O g(/od sir 1 This is sad talk — they'll never sound for him — Living or dead. When last we heard of him, He was in slavery among the IVIoors Upon the Barbary coast. 'Twas not a little That would bring down his spirit ; and, no doubt, Before it ended in his death, the youth Was sadly crossed. Poor Leonard ! when we parted, He took me by the hand and said to me, If e'er he should grow rich, he would return To live in peace upon his father's land. And lay his bones among us. * The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resemblance to the gable-end of a house, is one of the highest of the Cumberland mountains. It stands at the head of the several vales ofEnner- dale, Wastdale, and Borrowdale. The Leeza is a river which flows into the Lake of Ennerdale. On issuing from the lake, it changes its name, and is called the End, Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the sea a little below Egremont, ^ :■ 1 ■!!i ,Uv '. n 138 WORDS IVOK 77/ ' S 7'OEMS. Leo)mrd. If that dr.y Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him. He would himself, no doubt, be happy then As any that should meet him — Priest. Leonard. Happy ! sir— You said his kindred all were in their graves, And that he had one brother — Priest. That is but A fellow tale of sorrow. From his youth James, though not sickly, yet was delicate ; And Leonard being always by his side Had done so many ofHces about him That, though he was not of a timid nature, Yet still the spirit of a mountain boy In him was somewhat checked ; and when his brother Was gone to sea, and he was left alone. The little color that he had was Sf)on Stolen from his cheek. He drooped and pined and pined — Leonard. But these are all the graves of full-grown men ! Priest. Ay, sir, that passed away : we took him to us ; He was the child of all tlie dale — he lived Three months witii one, and six motiihs with another; And wanted neither food nor clotlies nor love: IVOKDSWOKTirs POEMS. 139 And many, many happy days were his. But whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief His absent brother still was at his heart. And when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found (A practice till this time unknown to him) That often, rising from his bed at night, He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping He sought his brother Leonard. — You are moved ! Forgive me, sir. Before I spoke to you, I judged you most unkindly. Leonard. But this youth, How did he die at last ? Priest. One sweet INTay morning (It will be twelve years since when spring returns). He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs, With two or three companions, whom their course Of occupation led from height to height Under a cloudless sun, till he at length Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge The humor of the moment, lagged behind. You see yon precipice ; it wears the shape Of a vast building made of many crags ; And in the midst is one particular r(Kk That rises like a column from the vale, Whence by our shepherds it is called The Pillar. Upon its aery summit crowned with heath, The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades, Lay stretched at ease. But passing by the place On their return, they found that he was gone. No ill was feared ; but one of them by chance Entering, when evening was far spent, the house v: 140 WORDS WORTirS POEMS. I ! .1 1 { i-;ia!: iii Which at that time was James's home, there learned That nobody had seen him all that day. The morning came, and still he was unheard of. The neighbors were alarmed, and to the brook Some hastened, some towards the lake. Ere noon They found him at the foot of that same rock Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after I buried him, poor youth, and there he lies. Leofiard. And that, then, is his grave ! Before his death You say that he saw many happy years ? Ay, that he did- Priesl. Leonard. And all went well with him } — Priest. If he had one the youth had twenty homes. Leonard. And you believe, then, that his mind was easy .? Priest. Yes, long before he died, he found that time Is a true friend to sorrow ; and unless His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless for- tune, He talked about him with a cheerful love. Leonard. He could not come to an unhallowed end ! rned WORDS WOR TH ' S POEMS, Priest. 141 Jon lafter Nay, God forbid ! You recollect I mentioned A habit which disquietude and grief Had brought upon him ; and we all conjectured That, as the day was warm, he had lain down Upon the grass, and, waiting for his comrades. He there had fallen asleep ; that in his sleep He to the margin of the precipice Had walked, and from the summit had fallen head- long. And so, no doubt, he perished. At the time, We guess, that in his hand he must have held His Shepherd's staff; for midway in the cliff It had been caught ; and there for many years It hung — and mouldered there. The Priest here ended The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt A gushing from his heart, that took away The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence ; And Leonard, when they reached the church-yard gate, As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round, — And, looking at the grave, he said, " My Brother ! " The Vicar did not hear the words : and now, Pointing towards the Cottage he entreated That Leonard would partake his homely fare : The Other thanked him with a fervent voice ; But added, that the evening being calm. He would pursue his journe}^ So they parted. It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove That overhung the road ; he there stopped short, And sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed All that the Priest had said : his early years II ^■i I'M I'll ■ 142 WORDSWORTirs POEMS. Were with him in liis heart : his cherished hopes, And thoughts which had been his an hour before, All pressed on liim with such a weight, that now. This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed A place in which he could not bear to live : So he relincjuished all his purposes. He travelled on to Egremont : and thence, That night he wrote a letter to the Priest, Reminding him of what had passed betv/een them ; And adding, with a hope to be forgiven, That it was from the weakness of his heart He had not dared to tell him who he was. This done, he went on shipboard, and is now A Seaman, a gray-headed INIariner. " MY HEART LEAPS UP." My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky : So was it when my life began ; So is it now I am a man ; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die ! The child is father of the man ; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. 'I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD." 1 WANDERKD louclv US a cloud That floats on high o'er vales anil hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils ; WORDS IVOR 77/ ' .9 POEMS. Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky-way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of the bay : Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee. A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company ; I gazed and gazed, but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought. For oft when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood. They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude, And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. H3 TO A SKYLARK. , Up with me, up with me into the clouds ! For thy song, lark, is strong ; Up with me, up with me into the clouds ! Singing, singing. With clouds and sky about thee ringing, Lift me, guide me till I find That spot which seems so to thy mind ! I have walked through wildernesses dreary, And to-day my heart is weary ; i-iii: i 144 WORDS IVOR TH ' S POEMS. Had I now the wings of a faery, Up to thee would I fly. There's madness about thee, and joy divine In that song of thine ; Lift me, guide me high and high To thy banqueting-place in the sky. Joyous as morning, Thou art laughing and scorning ; Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, And, though little troubled with sloth, Drunken lark ! thou wouldst be loath To be such a traveller as I. Happy, happy Liver, With a soul as strong as a mountain river Pouring out praises to the almighty Giver, Joy and jollity be with us both ! Alas ! my journey, rugged and uneven. Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind; But hearing thee, or others of thy kind, As full of gladness and as free of heaven, I, with my fate contented, will ])lod on, And hope for higher raptures when life's day is done. TO MY SISTER. WRITTEN ATA SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE, AND SENT HV MY LinXE BOY. It is the first mild day of IVIarch, Each minute sweeter than before ; The redbreast sings from the tall larch That stands beside our door.. WORDSWORTH 'S POEMS. 145 There is a blessing in the air, Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare, And grass in the green held. My sister ! ('tis a wish of mine) Now that our morning meal is done, Make haste, your morning task resign ; Come forth and feel th^ sun. Edward will come with you ; and, pray, Put on with speed your woodland dress ; And bring no book : for this one day We'll give to idleness. No joyless forms shall regulate Our living calendar : We from to-day, my friend, will date' The opening of the year. Love, now a universal birth, From heart to heart is stealing ; From earth to man, from man to earth : It is the hour of feeling. One moment now may give us more Than fifty years of reason : Our minds shall tlrink at every pore The spirit of the season. Some silent laws our hearts will make, Which they shall long obey : We for the year to come may take Our temper from to-day. And from the blessed power that rolls About, below, al)Ove, We'll frame the measure of our souls : They shall be tuned to love. 10 ! ■' n ^ is! '^ m Nmi ,46 ll\)A'/)SII'OA'r//'S POEMS. Then come, my sister ! come, I |)ray. With speed j^ut on your vvoodhuul dress ; And brinijf no book ; for this one day Well give to idleness. !-u'i if'!' l\ ir LINKS WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. I HEARD a thousand blended notes While in a grove I sat reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran ; And much it grieved my iieart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts in that sweet bower The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played ; Their thoughts I cannot measure : But the least motion that they made, It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan To catch the breezy air ; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. From heaven if this belief be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man? WORDSWORTirS POEMS. H7 EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. " Why, William, on that old gray stone, Thus for the length of half a clay, Why, William, sit you thus alone, And dream your time away ? " Where are your books? that light bequeathed To beings else forlorn and blind ! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed From dead men to their kind. " You look round on your mother ]''arth As if she for no purpose bore you ; As if you were her first-born birth, And none had lived before you !" One mo:ning thus, by Esthwaite Lake, W^hen life was sweet, I knew not why, To me my good friend Matthew spake, And thus I made reply : "The eye — it cannot choose but see ; We cannot bid the ear be still ; Our bodies feel, where'er they be. Against or with our will. "Nor less I deem that there arc powers Which of themselves our minds impress ; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness. "Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum Of things forever speaking, That nothing of itself will come, But we must still be seeking ? H 11 % 148 ivoRjxsn'oA'T/rs poems. " Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I may, I sit upon this old gray stone, And dream my time away." THE TABLES TURNED. AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT. Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you'll grow double ; Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble? The sun, above the niountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread. His first sweet evening yellow. Books 1 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet ; How sweet his music ! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it. And hark 1 how blithe the throstle sings I He, too, is no mean preacher : Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless — Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. m IVOKDSlVORTirs POEMS. One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more oi man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the saires can. Sweet is the lore which Nature brings ; Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things : We murder to dissect. Enough of science and of art ; Close up these barren leaves : Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. 149 "STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I KNOWN." Strange tits of passion have I know^n ; And I will dare to tell, But in the lover's ear alone, What once to me befell. When she I loved was strong and gay, And like a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way. Beneath the evening moon. Upon the moon I tixcd my eye, All over the wide lea ; My horse trudged on, and we drew nigh Those paths so dear to me. iiit I50 i^oA'DsiyoK yv/'s poems. And now we rcrichcd tlic orcluircl plot ; And, as we climbed the lull, Towards the root' of Lucy's cot The moon descended still. In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! And all the while my eyes I kept On the descending moon. My horse moved on ; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopped ; When down behind the cottage roof At once the bright moon dropped. What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a lover's head ! " O mercy ! " to myself I cried, " If Lucy should be dead ! " '1 ! }? "THREE YEARS SHE GREW." Threk years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said, "A lovelier tlower On earth was never sown; This child I to myself will take ; She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own. " Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse ; and with me The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. IVOKDSIVOK Tirs POEMS. •* She shall ho sportive as the fawn That wild with ijlcc across the lawn Or up the mountain springs ; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the cahn Of mute insensate things. The floating clouds tlieir state shall lend To her ; for her the willow bend ; Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mould the maiden's form By silent sympathy. 151 I ■ The stars of midnight shall be dear To her ; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round. And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. I Pi And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height. Her virgin bosom swell ; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus nature spake — The work was done- How soon my Lucy's race was run ! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quJet scene ; The memory of what has been, And nevermore will be. 1^2 WORDS WOK TH ' S POEMS. I ** SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS." (( She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love ! A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye ! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me ! (( A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL" li ,t .■ \ ; ■ A SLUMDKR did my spirit seal ; I had no human fears : She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force ; She neither hears nor sees. Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks and stones and trees. WORDSWORTH^ S POEMS. 153 "I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN." I TRAVELLED amoiig uiiknown men, 111 lands beyond the sea ; Nor, England, did I know till then What love I bore to thcc. 'Tis past, that melancholy dream ! Nor will I quit thy shore A second time ; for still I seem To love thee more and more. Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire ; And she I cherished turned her wheel Beside an Englisli fire. Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed The bovvers where Lucy played ; And thine is too the last green field That Lucy's eyes surveyed. i " SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT." She was a Phantom of dcliglit When first she gleamed upon iny sight; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornamciit ; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; But all thintrs else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; 154 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. lu.'- m^ A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty ; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet ; A Creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food ; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine ; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveller between life and death ; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; A perfect Woman, nobly planned. To warm, to comfort, and command ; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of an angel light. I WORDSWORTirs FOE MS. 155 LAODAMEIA. ** With sacrifice, before the rising morn Performed, my slaughtered lord have I required ; And in thick darkness, amid shades forlorn Him of the infernal gods have I desired : Celestial pity I again implore : Restore him to my sight, great Jove, restore ! " So speaking, and by fervent love endowed With faith, the suppliant heavenward lifts her hands ; While, like the sun emerging from a cloud, Her countenance brightens and her eye expands ; Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows ; And she exi)ects the issue in repose. • I i O terror ! v^^hat hath she perceived ? O joy ! What doth she look on ? whom doth she behold ? Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy ? His vital presence? his corporeal mould? It is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis he ! And a god leads him, winged IMercury ! Mild Hermes spake, and touched her with his wand That calms all fear: "Such grace hath crowned thy prayer, Laodameia, that at Jove's command Thy husband walks the paths of upper air : He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space ; Accept the gift, behold him face to face! " 56 W0RD6WORTrrS POEMS, Forth v^pranpf the impassioned (juucu \\i\x lard to clasp : Ag'ain that consummation she essayed; ]kit unsubstantial form ehules her s^^rasp As often as tliat cayfcr sj^rasp was made. The phantom parts, but ])arts to reunite, And reassume his place before her sij^ht. " Protesilaos, lo ! thy g;uide is g-one ! Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice : This is our palace, yonder is thy throne ; Speak, and the floor thou trcadst on will rejoice. Not to appal me have the j^ods bestowed This precious boon, and blest a sad abode." (( ** Great Jove, Laodameia ! tloth not leave His ^ifts imperfect. Spectre thoug'h I be, I am not sent to scare thee or deceive : But in reward of thy fidelity. And something- also did my worth obtain ; For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. "Thou knowcst, the Delphic oracle foretold That the first (ireek who touched the Trojan strand Should die ; but me the threat could not withhold. A generous cause a victim did demand ; And forth I leapt ui)on the sandy ])lain ; A self-devoted chief — by Hector slain." " Supreme of heroes — bravest, noblest, best! Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest By doubt, propelletl thee to the fatal shore ; Thou found'st, and I forgive thee — hL*re thou art — • A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. W. WORDS IVOR 7// 'S POEMS. 157 ** But thou, th()uy;h capable of sternest deed, Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave ; And he whose power restores thee hath decreed That thou shouldst cheat the malice of the grave : Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair As when their breath enriched Thcssalian air. "No spectre greets me — no vain shadow this ; Come, blooming hero, place thee by my siile ! Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss To me, this tlay, a second time thy bride ! " Jove frowned \w heaven : the conscious Parcoi threw Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. " This visage tells thee that my doom is past : Know, virtue were not virtue, if the joys Of sense were able to return as fast And surely as they vanish. Karth destroys Those raptures duly, Krebus disdains ; Calm pleasures tl\ere abide, majestic pains. I " Be taught, O faithful consort, to control Rebellious passion : for the gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul ; A fervent, not ungovernable love. Thy transports moderate ; and meekly mourn When 1 depart, for brief is my sojourn." " Ah, wherefore? Did not Hercules by force Wrest from the guardian monster of the tomb Alcestis, a reanimated corse. Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom ? Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, And /Eson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers. II 158 IVOKDSlVO/^T/rS POEMS. "The gfods to us arc merciful, and they Yet furtlier may relent ; fur mightier far Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest. And thouL^h his favorite seat be feeble woman's breast. "But if thou goest, I follow." — " Peace ! " he said. She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered ; The ghastly color from his lips had fled ; In his deportment, shape, and mien appeared Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place. He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is ecpiable and pure ; No fears to beat away, no strife to heal. The i)ast unsiglicd for, and the future sure ; Spake of heroic arts in graver mood Revived, with liner harmony pursued ; Of all that is most beauteous — imaged there In ha)~>pier beauty : more pellucid streams. An ampler ether, a diviner air. And fields invested with purpureal gleams ; Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. Yet there the soul shall enter which hath earned That privilege by virtue. " 111," said he, " The end of man's existence I discerned, Who from ignoble games and revelry Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight. While tears were thy best pastime, day and night : Wl IVORDSWORTirS POEMS. ijc^ " And while my youthful peers before my eyes (Eaehhero fon()vvin<^his pecuhar bent) Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise By martial sports, or seated in the tent, Chieftains and kings in counsel were detained ; What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained. "The wished-for wind was given : I then revolved The oracle, upon the silent sea ; And, if no worthier led the way, resolved That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. " Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter, was the pang When of thy loss 1 thought, beloved wife ! On thee too fondly did my memory hang. And on the joys we shared in mortal life, The paths which we have trod — these fountains, flowers ; My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. " But should suspense permit the foe to cry, 'Behold, they trenible ! haughty their array, Yet of their number no one dares to die.'' ' In soul I swept the indignity away : Old frailties then recurred ; but lofty thought, In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. " And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak ; In reason, in self-government too slow ; I counsel thee by fortitude to seek Our blest reuniTEMI3KI<, l802. O FRIEND ! 1 know not ^vhich way I must look For comfort, being, cis I am, opprest To think that now our life is only drest For show ; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook, Or groom ! We must run glittering like a brook In the open sunshine, or we are unblest ; The wealthiest man among us is the best; No grantleur now^ in Nature or in book Delights us. Rai>ine. avarice, expense. This is idolatry ; and these we adore ; Plain living and high thinking ari' no more : The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone ; our peace, our fearful innocence. And pure religion breathing household laws. VIII. The world is too much with us ; late and soow, (letting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we sec in Nature that is ours ; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon I This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers- — For this, for everything, we are out of tune : It moves us not. Great (jod ! I'd rather be he iiVA'y)s if'OA' rn 's poems. 163 A Paj^an suckled in a creed outworn, So niij^ht I, standinj^'- on this pleasant lea, Have ^limjises that would make nie less forlorn ; Have sig'ht of Proteus risinj^ from the sea. Or hear old Triton blow his wreathCid horn. IX. LONDON, 1802. Milton ! thou shouldst be living- at this hour : Eng^land hath need of thee ; she is a fen Of stagnant waters ; altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient I'Jiirlish dower Of inwaril happiness. We are sellish men ; Oh ! raise us u]"), return to us again ; And give us maiuiers, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart ; Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea; Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free. So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful g-odliness ; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. XVIL TO THOMAS CLAKKSOX, ON THE FINAL I'ASSINC. OK WW. HILL FOR THE ABOLITION OF THE SLAVE-TKADIC, MARCH, 1 807. C'lakkson ! it was an obstinate hill to climb : How toilsome — nay, how dire it was by thee Is known ; by none, perhaps, so feelingiy; But thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime, Didst first lead forth this pilgrimage sublime. 1 64 m) A' /)S I !'(.)/: 77/'S /'(V-.J/.V. Ilast heard the eonstant Voice its ehari^^e repeat, Wliich, out of thy younj^ heart's oracuhir srat, First roused tliee. O, true yoke-feUow ol" Time, Duty's intrepid Uei^euian, see, the jxilin Is won, and hy all nations shall be worn I The bloody writing; is forever torn, And thou heneeforlh shall have a ,i;ood man's calm, A jjfrcat man's happiness ; thy zeal shall find Repose at leny^th, firm frienipe did Tasso sound ; Camoens soothed with it an exile's .li^rief ; The sonnet Liflittered a ij^ay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which l)anlc> crowned IJis visionary brow ; a jj^low-worm lamp, It cheered mild Spenser, called from faery-land To strug-gle throujdi dark ways ; and wlu-n a damp Fell round the ]>ath of 'Milton, in his liand The thinj^ became a trum])et, whence he blew Soul-animating strains — alas, too few ! XX. Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room, And hermits are contented with their cells, And students with their pensive citadels ; Maids at the wheel, the v.'eavc>r at liis loom, Sit blithe and happy ; bees that soar for bloom Ilijj^h as the highest peak of Furness l-'ells Will murmur by the hour in fox-glove bells : IVOA'DSIVOK Til ' .V POEMS. 165 In tnilh, tlu' prison, unto which \vc doom ( )ur.sclvfs, no prison is; and hence to nic, In stnidry moods, 'twa:^ pastime to he hound W'itidn the sonnet's scanty plot of ground; Pleased if S(jme souls (for such there needs must be) Who have felt the weight of too much lihertv Should lind brief solace there, as I have found. win. I'KKSONAF, TALK. I AM not one who much or oft delij;ht To season my lireside with i)ersonal talk Of friends, who live within an easy walk, Or neii^dd)ors daily, v/eekly, in my si^dit ; And, for my chance-ac(iuaintance, ladies bright, Sons, mothers, maidens withering;; on the stalk. These all wear out of me, like forms with chalk Painted on rich men's floors for one feast-niji^ht. Ik'tter than such discourse doth silence long;, Loncf, barren silence, S(piare with my desire ; To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, Tn the loved presence of my cottat^e-flre, And listen to tlie t1ai)])in<^ of the llame, Or kettle whisi)erin^ its faint underson*^. NXIV. CONTIMKl). WiXfis have we, — and as far as we can g-o We may find pleasure : wilderness and wood, Blank ocean and mere sky, supi>ort that mood Which with the lofty sanctifies the low. Dreams, books, are each a world ; and books, we know, 1 66 llVA'/JSirOA' 77/ '.V rOF.MS. illj A i \' Alv a substantiiil world, l)()tli pure and g'ood : Round llicsc, \\'\\\\ t'Midrils stronj;' as tlcsh and blood, Our pastinic and (/.r happiness will i^row. 'There lind I personal Ihenies, a i)lentcous store, Matter wherein right voluble I am, To wh"''h I listen with a read)' ear; 'Two sliall be named, i)re-eniincntly dear — The j^aMitle Lady married to the Moor ; And heavenly Una with her milk-white lamb. A XV. coNci.rnF.D. N'oii ean I not believe but that hereby (Ireat sj^ains are mine ; for thus 1 live remote From cvil-si)eakinL^ ; raneor, never sought, Comes to me not ; maliiii^nant truth, or lie. Hence have I {T^enial seasons, hence have I Smooth ]iassions, smooth discourse, and joyous thouj^hl : And thuS from da\' to day my little boat Rocks in its liarbor, Iodising' ])eaciably. l^lessings be with them, and eternal ])raisc, Who gave us nobler lo\'es and nobler eares- I'he Pouts v.'ho on earth ha\'e made us heirs Ot' truth and pure deliglit by heavenly lays ! Oh ! mi'du my name be numbered amoniif tlieirs, Then gladly would I (>nd my mortal days. XXVI, TO SLKEF. A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely ]>ass by, One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring ; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky, iroA'/)siroA'7vrs ro/cArs. 167 J}y turns li.'ivi' all bom tliniioht (jf, yet I lie SkH'plcss ; and soon the small Mnls' melodies -Must iK'ar, first uttered from my orchard trees ; And the lirst cuckoo's nu'lancholy cry. I'",\ en thus last nij^dit, and two nij^'hts mori-, I lay, And I'ould not win thee, Sleep, hy any stealth : So do not K't me wear to-nii^ht away : Without thee, what is all the morniui^-'s wealth? (."ome, blessi'd barrier between day and day, Dear motiier of fresh thouj^hts and joyous health ! xxvir. COMI'OSF.I) i:P0\ TMK I!I:A( II M.AK I'AI.AIS, 1 8o2. 1 1 is a beauteous eveninj^, calm and free ; 'i'he hoi)' time is (|uiet as a nun lireathless with adoration ; the broad sun Is sinking,'' down in its traiHjuillity ; The s^enlleness of hea\en is on the sea: Listen I the miichty IJeiiiL;* is awalce. Ami dolh with his etei'nal motion make A sound like thunder i'veilastinj;-l\'. Dear child I di\Hr i^irl ! that walki>st with me hero. If thou appear'st untoui'hed b}' solenm thouj^hl. Thy nature is not therelore less divine, Thou liest in Abi'aham's bosom all the }'ear ; And worshipi>'st at the temple's inner shrint.\ (lod bein_!j^ with thee when we kiiow it not. XXIX. coMPosF.n ii'ON wi:sTMi\srKi< lu^inuK, sri'TFoinKR 3, 1803. Kaktm has not anythini^ to show more fair Dull would he be .)f soul who could i)ass by A si,i^ht so touchinjjf in its majesty ; This city now doth, like a garment, wear i68 iroA'DsiroA' Tirs i 'oems. 't The beauty of tlie inoniintif ; silent, baiv, Ships, towers, iloiiies, tluatrcs, and temples lie Ope-n unto the iit^'ids and to tht-' sky ; All l)ri^-iit and irlittcrini/ in the snn)keless air. Never did sun nion^ beautifully steep In his lirst splendor. \ alley, roek, or hill ; Ne'er saw 1, ne\'er felt, a calm so deep ! The river im!f rain. Nor of the settint^ sun's pathetic liL^ht Ent^endered, haticifs o'er I'-ildon's triple hein;-ht : Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain \m m. IVOA'DSIVOR 771 \S /'OK MS. \(m) For kindred I'owcr dopartiiitj^ iVoni llicir sii^lit ; While Tweed, best pleased in ehantiuL^ a blithe strain. Saddens his voice airain and vet as^ain. Lift up your hearts, yc mouniers ! for the niii^dit Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes ; Blessings ami jirayers, in nobler retinue Than sceptred king or laurelled contpieror knows, Follow this wondrous Potentate. He true, Ve winds of ocean and the midland sea, Wafting your charge to soft Parthenope ! xi.v. They called thee Merry iMigland in old time ; A hai)])y people \\'on for thee that name, With envy heard in many a dislaiit clime; And spile of change, for me thou keei)"st the same Endearing title, a responsive chime To the heart's fond belief; though some there arc Whose sterner judgments deem that word a snare For inattentive fancy, like the lime Which foolish birds are caught with. Can, I ask, This face of rural beauty be a mask For discontent and jioverty and crime ; These spreading towns a cloak for lawless will? Forbid it, Heaven ! and ^Nlerry England still Shall be thy rightful name in prose and rhyme ! XLVII. A port!— ho hath put his heart to school, Nor dares to move unpropped up(3n the staff Which Art hath lodged within his hand -must laugh By precept only, and shed tears by rule. Thy Art be Nature ; the live current quaff, lyo // (>A'/)siroA' r//'s /'o/-:j/s. And lot the i^rovdlcr si|i his stag'nant \h)o], 111 four that clso, whon critics j^ravc aiul cool Have killed him, Scorn 5 houlcl write his epiUiph. How does the meadow-flower its bloom unroUl? iR'causr the lovely little flower is free Down to its root, and in that freedom bold; And so the t^randeur of the forest tree ( 'oines not by castinj^'- in a formal mould, but from its own divine vitality. Mr u LI. THE TROSSACHS. Thf.rk's not a nook within this solemn Pass, but weri' an ai)t confessional for one Tauj^ht by his summer spent, his jiutumn j^'onc, 'I'liat life is but a tale of mornin<; ^^rass Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase That thoui^ht away, turn, and with watchful eyes l''eed it niid Xatures old felicities, Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than jdass Untouche(l, unbreatheointed race. If e'er, throui^h fault of mine, in mutuiil pain We breatheil together for a moment's si)aee, The wrong-, by love jirovoked, let love arraign, And only love keej) in your hearts a j)laee. MATTIIKW. [In the school of Ilawkslicad \\ a t.ibK^t on which arc inscribed, in j^ilt Ictti.Ts, the names of the several persons who have been schoohiiasters there since the foumlation of the school, with the time- at which they entered upon and ([uitted their office. Op- posite to one tif those names the author wrote the following lines.] If Nature, for a favorite child. In thee hath tempered so her clay, That every hc^'ir thy heart runs wild, \'et never once doth g-o astray, Read o\'r tlu^se lines ; and then review This tablet, that thus humbly rears In such diversity of hue Its history of two hundred years. —When through this little wreck of fame, Cijiher and syllable ! thine eye lias travelled down to Matthew's name, Pause with ;io common sympathy. ; 72 iyOA'/)SU 'i)A' / // " A' / 'DAA/S. Ami, if. 'I slcc|)ing' {>-.yv should wake, Then be it neither checked nor stayeil For Mattliew a recjuest I make Which lor himself he had not made. I'oor ^lattliew, all his frolics o'er, Is silent as a slaiithni;- ])ool ; I'ar from the chimneys merry roar, And murmur of the villaire school. The sij^hs winch Matthew heaved were sii^hs Of one tired out with fun and madness ; The tt'ars which i\'une to ]\latthew"s eyes Were tears of liy;ht, the dew of gladness. Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thoug-ht went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, lie felt with spirit so profound. it ' Tiiou soul of Cxod's best earlhl}' niouM ! Thou hai)py soul ! and can it be Tliat these two words of j^litterins^ ^V*'!*! Are all that must remain of thee ? THE TWO AFRIL MORNINGS. Wk walked alont^, while bright and red U])rose the morning- sun ; And iSIatthcw stopped, he looked and .said, "The will of Ood be done ! ' -■«■- '"^f—- ; nVA'/)SirOA' 77/' S rOEMS. 173 A villai^c vSchoolmastcr u as he", W'itli hair ot" jj^lilterin^^ Js^'"'iy ; As blithe a man as you could sec On a sprini^ holiday. And on that morninL!^; through the jj^rass And by the steandni^'' rills, We travelled merrily, to pass A tlay amon<; the hills. "Our work," said J, "was well bet^un ; Then, from thy breast wliat tluniglil, ]3enealh so beautiful a sun, So sad a sigh has brought?" A second time tlid Matthew stop ; And lixing still his eye Upon the eastern mountain-top, To n)'/ he made reply : " Von eloud with that long i)uri>le clelt Brings fresh into my mind A day like this which I have left Full thirty years behind. " And just above yon slope of corn Such colors, and no other, Were in the sky, that April morn, Of tins the very brother. " W^ith rod and line I sued the sport Which that sweet season gave, And, coming to the church, stoj^ped short Beside my daughter's grave. ^ 174 " Nine suiiiincrs luul she scarcely secMi, Till' pride ot all the vale ; And then slie sang' ; — she would have been A \'i.'rv niidiliii'^ale. "Six leet in earth my Ijiinia hiy ; And }-et 1 l()\ed lier nu)re, I'or so it seemed, tlian till ihaL dav I e'er had loN'ed before. "And. turnuii^'- from lier i^n-ave, J met, I>eside the ehurch-yard yew, A blooming- ,he seemed as liap-py as a wa\'e That dances on tlie sea. "There eame from me a sigh of pain Wiiich I could iU conline : 1 looked at her. aii«l lookt'd a"(iiii — .\nd did nol wish her mine." Mattiiew is in his grave, yet now. Methinks, I sec him stand. As at that moment, with a bou-di Of wilding in his hand. iVORDU I VOR Til ' S J 'OEMS. »75 TIIKWISHING-GATK. [In tlic vale of (ira^nKTL', by the side ul" the highway katliiig to Ambleside, is a ^;ate which, time out of miiul, has been calletl the Wishing. gale, frouj a belief that wishes formed or indulged there have a favorable issue.] lIoi'K rules u hiiul forever green : All i)()\vers that serve the brii^^ht-cyed (juecn Are contldent ami gay ; Clouds at her l)itlding lisa|)])ear ; Points she to aught? the bliss draws near, And Fancy smooths the way. Not such the land of wishes — there ] J well fruitless day-dreams, lawless prayer, And thoughts with things at strife ; Yet how forlorn, should ye dejjart, Ye sui)erstitit»ns of tl\e Jicnrt, How poor were lunnan life ! When magic lore abjured its might. Ye did not forfeit one dear right, One tender claim abate; Witness this symbol of your sway, Surviving near the public way — The rustic Wishing-gate ! Impiire not if the faery race SJK'd kindly iiillueiice on the j^lrice, Mre northward they retired ; If here a warrior left a si)ell. Panting for glory as he fell ; Or here a saint expired. ijft ir()A'/).sii'o/r/v/'s j'o/-:ms. I-'nou^^^h that all aroimd is tair, Coinposcil with Xaluiv"s tlnost care, Aiul lit hL-r hnidc'^.t iox'c ; IVace to cnihosoiii anrl content, 'I'o overawe the turbulent, The seltlsh to rej)rovc. Yea ! even the strans^'er from afar, Reclininij^ on this moss-^^rown bar, Unknowinic and unknown, The infection of the jj^round partakes, LonLcinLj for his beloved, who makes All happiness her own. Then why should conscious spirits fear The mystic stirrinj^^s that are here, The ancient faith disclaim? The local Jifenius ne'er befriends Desires whose course in folly ends, Whose just reward is shame. Smile if thou wilt, 1)ut not in scorn, If some, by ceaseless pains outworn, Here crave an easier lot ; 1 1 some have thirsted to renew A broken now, or bind a true. With lirmer, holier knot. .\n(i not in \-ain. when thoujdds are cast Upon the irrevocable past, Some ptnitent sincere May for a worthier future sii^h. While trickies from his do\vncast eye No unavailing tear. ll^OA' DSIVOK TH\S rOEMS. The worldlinj^, ])inin,uf to be freed From turmoil, wlio would turn or speed The current of his late, Might stop before this favored scene, At Nature's call, nor blush to lean Upon the Wishinj^^-gate. The sat^e, who feels how blind, how weak Is man. though loath such help to s^ck. Yet, ])assing, here might pause, And yearn for insight to allay Misgiving, while the crimson day In (juietness withdraws ; Or when the church-cloclc's kncll profound To Time's lirst step across the bound Of midnight makes reply ; Time pressing on with starry crest, To filial sleep upon the breast ( )f dread Eternity ! 177 TO THE REV. DR. WORDSWORTH. WITH THE SONNETS TO THE KIVER DUDUON, AND OTHER POEMS. The minstrels played their Christmas tune To-night beneath my cottage eaves : While, smitten by a lofty moon. The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen, That overj)owercd their natural green. I 2 IMAGE EVALUATION YEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 1.1 ttit2A MIS ■ 5.0 ■■■ mm ■ 2.2 I 2.0 11.25 iu 1.6 Photographic Sdences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14S80 (716)«73-4S03 m \ ^\^ <> 6^ .5^ ;\ \ 6^ i:<< ''• P! I 78 WOKDS WOK Tirs POEMS. Through hill and valley every breeze Had sunk to rest with folded wings ; Keen was the air, but could not freeze Nor check the music of the strings ; So stout and hardy were the band That scraped the chords with strenuous hand. And who but listened ? — till was paid Respect to every inmates claim : The greeting given, the music i)layed, In honor of each household name, Duly pronounced with lusty call. And " merry ChrivStmas " wished to all ! J; 11^ O Brother ! I revere the choice That took thee from thy native hills ; And it is given thee to rejoice : Though public care full often tills (Heaven only witness of the toil) A l)arren and ungrateful soil. Yet would that tliou, with me and mine, Hadst heard this never-failing rite ; And seen on other faces shine i\ true revival of the light Which Nature and these rustic powers, In simple childhood, spread through ours ! For pleasure had not ceased to wait On these expected annual rounds, Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate Call forth the unelaborate sounds. Or they arc offered at the door That guards the lowliest of the poor. WORDSWORTIPS POEMS. How touching, wlicn, at midnight, sweep Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark, To hear — and sink again to sleep ! Or, at an earlier call, to mark, By blazing fire the still suspense Of self-complacent innocence ; The mutual nod — the grave disguise Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er ; And some unbidden tears that rise For names once heard, and heard no more- Tears brightened by the serenade For infant in the cradle laid ! Ah ! not for emerald fields alone, With ambient streams more pure and bright Than fabled Cytherea's zone Glittering before the Thunderer's sight. Is to my heart of hearts endeared The ground where we were born and reared ! Hail, ancient manners ! — sure defence, Where they survive, of wholesome laws ; Remnants of love whose modest sense Thus into narrow room withdraws. Hail, usages of pristine mould. And ye that guard them, mountains old ! Bear with me, brother! quench the thought That slights this passion, or condemns ; If thee fond fancy ever brought From the proud margin of the Thames, And Lambeth's venerable towers, To humbler streams and greener bowers. 179 li 1 80 WORDS WOR TH 'S POEMS. Yes, they can make, who fail to find, Short leisure even in busiest days, Moments to cast a look behind, And profit by those kindly rays That through the clouds do sometimes steal And all the far-off past reveal. Hence, while the Imperial City's din Breaks frequent on thy satiate ear, A pleased attention I may win To agitations less severe. That neither overwhelm nor cloy, But fill the hollow vale with joy 1 DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS. "Ascend to heaven." "Not to the earth confined, Where will they stop, those breathing Powers, The spirits of the new-born flowers ? They wander with the breeze, they wind Where'er the streams a passage find ; Up from their native ground they rise In mute aerial harmonies ; From humble violet, modest thyme. Exhaled, the essential odors cHmb, As if no space below the sky Their subtle flight could satisfy : Heaven will not tax our thoughts with pride If like ambitions be their guide. Roused by the kindliest of May showers, The spirit quickener of the flowers, WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. That with moist virtue softly cleaves The buds, and freshens the young leaves, The birds pour forth their souls in notes Of rapture from a thousand throats — Here checked by too impetuous haste, While there the music runs to waste. With bounty more and more enlarged, Till the whole air is overcharged. Give ear, O Man ! to their appeal. And thirst for no inferior zeal. Thou who canst think as well as feel. Mount from the earth ; aspire ! aspire ! So pleads the town's cathedral quire. In strains that from their solemn height Sink, to attain a loftier flight ; While incense from the altar breathes Rich fragrance in embodied wreaths ; Or, flung from swinging censer, shrouds The taper-lights, and curls in clouds Around angelic forms, the still Creation of the painter's skill, That on the service wait concealed One moment, and the next revealed. Cast off your bonds, awake, arise, And for no transient ecstasies ! What else can mean the visual plea Of still or moving imagery — The iterated summons loud, Not wasted on the attendant crowd, Nor wholly lost upon the throng Hurrying the busy streets along ? i8i Alas ! the sanctities combined By art to unsensualize the mind l82 WORDS IVOR TH ' S POEMS. Decay and languish ; or, as creeds And humors change, are spurned hke weeds, The priests arc from their aUars thrust ; Temples are levelled with the dust ; And solemn rites and awful forms Founder amid fanatic storms. Yet evermore, through years renewed In undisturbed vicissitude Of seasons balancing their flight On the swift wings of day and night, Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door Wide open for the scattered poor. Where flower-breathed incense to the skies Is wafted in mute harmonies ; And ground fresh-cloven by the plough Is fragrant with a humbler vow ; Where birds and brooks from leafy dells Chime forth unwearied canticles. And vapors magnify and spread The glory of the sun's bright head — Still constant in her worship, still Conforming to the Eternal Will, Whether men sew or reap the fields, Divine monition Nature yields, That not by bread alone we live. Or what a hand of flesh can give ; That every day should leave some part Free for a Sabbath of the heart ; So shall the seventh be truly blest, From morn to eve, with hallowed rest. r; . NOTES. THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. •y This poom was written in 1797, and published in 1800. Wordsworth says in his notes : " This arose out of my obser- vation of tlie affecting music of these birds hanging in this way in the London streets during the freshness and stillness of the spring morning." Somewhat of the human interest of the poem has been lost by the omission of the following stanza, appended to the piece in the edition of 1800 : *' Poor outcast ! retm-n— to receive thee once more The house of the father will open ita door, And thou once apain, in thy plain russet gown, May 'st hear the thrush sing irom a tree of its own." Wood Street. — There are four streets of this name in London, but the one hei'e meant runs northward from Cheapside. Lothbury. — A street near at hand, behind the Bank of Eng- land. ^:..:^V "Wordsworth's limitations were inseparably connected with liis strength. And just as the flat scenery of Cambridgeshire had only served to intensify his love for such elements of beauty and grandeur as still were present in sky and fen, even so tho bewilderment of London taught him to recognize with an in- tense joy such fragments of things rustic, such aspects of things eternal, as were to be found amidst fhat rush and r6ar. He became the poet, as one may say, not of London considered as London, but of London considered as a part of the country. Among the poems describing these sudden shocks of vision and memory, none is more exquisite than the Reverie of Poor Susan. The picture is one of those which come home to many a country heart with one of those sudden ' revulsions into the m idi NOTES On WORDSWORTH^S POBMa natural' which philosophors assert to he the (wsiMice of human joy. But nohlest uivl })ost known of all those poems is the Sonnet on Wcniininnfrr Brhlge, in which nat>ure has re-asserted her dominion over the works of all the multitude of men ; and in the early clearness the poet hehoMs the great city 'not as full of noise and dust and confusion, hut as something silent, grand, and everliistiny;. ' And even in later life, when Words- worth was often in Liuidon, ho never lost this external manner of regarding it"— MVEliS. WE ARE SEVEN. This poem was first printed in the Lijriral lialfads, 1708. It had been lying dormant in the author's mind for about four years. Wordsworth gives the history of the poem as follows : "Written at Alfoxdon in the spring of 1798, under circum- stances somewhat remarkable. The little girl who is the heroine I met within the area of Goodrich Castle in the year 1793. Having left the Isle of Wight and crossed Salisbury Plain I prococdiid by Bristol up the Wye, and so on to North Wales, to the Vale of Clwydd, whoi'o I spent my summer undei tlie roof of the father of my friend, Robert Jones. In reference to this poem I will here mention one of the most remarkable facts in my oAvn poetic histoi-y and that of Mr. Coleridga In the spring of the year 1798, he, my sister, and myself started from Alfoxden, pretty late in the afternoon, with a view to visit Lenton and the "Valley of Stones near it ; and as our united funds were very small, we agreod to defray the expense of the tour by writing a ]">()em, to be sent to the New Monthly Magazine, set up by Phillips the bookseller, and edited by Dr. Aikin. Accordingly we set off and proceeded along the Quan- tock Hills towards Watchet. and in the course of this walk was planned the poem of the Ancient Mariner, founded on a dream, as Mr. Coleridge said, of his friend, Mr. Cruiksliank. . . . As we endeavored to proceed conjointly (I speak of the same evening) our respective manners proved so widely different that it would have been quite presumptuous in mo to do anything but sepa- rate from an undertaking upon which I could only have been a clog. We returned after a few days from a delightful tour, of which I have many pleasant, and some of them droll enough, recollecjtions. Weaeturned bj' Dulverton to Alfoxden. The Ancient Mariner grew and grew till it became too important for our first object, which was limited to our expectation of live pounds, and we began to talk of a volume, which was to consist, as Mr. Coleridge has told the world, of poems chiefly on supernatural subjects taken from common life, but looked at, as much as might be, through an imaginative medium. Accordingly I wrote * The Idiot Boy,"* ' Her Eyes are Wild, ' ■^i ,■>*' ':'<'-/. % NOTES ON WORnSWOU Ill's POFOMS. la') otc, ^We are Sevmi/ '■ Tke Thorn,' and soiiui nthoi-fl. To return to 'We are. Seven,'' the |ncco that called forth thi^ note, I coin]>osod it while walking in the grove at Alfoxdi'ii. My (riendrH will not deem it too trifling to relate that while walking to and fro I composed the last stanza i'w'^t, having begun with the last line. When it was all hut finished, I came in and recited it to Mr. Coleridge and my sister, and said, ' A prefa- tory stanza must be added, and I should sit down to our little tea-meal with greater ph'asure if my task were finished.' I mentioned in substance what I wished to express, and Coleridge iuunediately thi'ew off the stanza thus : • A Uttlo child, dear brother Jem,' etc. I objected to the rhyme, ' dear brother ,Tem,' as being ludicrous, but we all enjoyed the jcdce of hitching in our friend, .Tames Tobin's name, who was familiarly calUid .Teni. Jle was the brother of the dramatist, and this roniiuds mo of an uneciloto which it may be worth while hero to notice. The said .Feni got a sight of the Lt/rial lUtllads as it was going through tho press at Bristol, during which time I Avas residing in that city. One evening ho caine to me with a grave face, and said, * Wordsworth, T have seen the volume that Coleridge and .you are about to publish. There is one poom in it which I earn- estly entreat you will cancel, for, if ])ublished, it will make you everlastingly ridictilous.' I answered that I felt much obliged by the interest ho took in my good name as a writer, and begged to know what was tho imfortunate piece he alluded to. He said, ' It is called '■* We are Seven.'''' ^ 'Nay!' said I, ' that shall take its chance, however,' and he left me in despair. I have only to add that in the spring of 18U I revisited Good- rich Castle, not having soon that part of the Wye since I met the little girl there in 179H. It would 1 ave given me greater pleasure to have found in the neighboring himlet traces of one who had interested me so much ; but that was impossible, as unfortunately I did not even know her name." A simple child. — Coleridge's initial line was abbreviated thus in the edition of 1815. Conway. — A town in North Wales. Porringer. — A bowl for porridge. But they are dead.— The artistic reason for the length of the final stanza is obvious. The following variants are found : (1) V. 44. " And sing a .song to them." (1836.) (M. Al. has preferred the original reading of 1798. ) (2) V. 54. " And all the summer day. " (1798.) (3) V. 63. " Quick was the little maid's reply." (1836.) (M. A. has retained the original reading of 1798u) 186 NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMiJ. (i) "Popular as the little poem has become in virtue of ita unwithering beauty, it cannot be fully appreciated until it is placed in its proper relation to the great Ode. Where- ever Wordsworth deals with the subject of death it is Avith calmness and childlike simplicity. Wisely does he rest the solution of the great question of Immortality, not upon the dicta of the wise and prudent, but upon the heaven-taught wisdom of the child, before its ideas are corrupted by the senses, and the ' trailing clouds of glor3' ' disappear. "—GEORGE. (2) -'Whosoever looks searchingly into the characteristic genius of Wordsworth will see that he does not willingly deal with a passion in its direct aspect, or presenting an unmodified contour, but in forms more complex and oblique, and Avhen passing under the shadow of some secondary passion. Joy, for instance, that wells up from constitut ional sources, joy that is ebullient from youth to age, and cannot cease to sparkle, he j'-et exhibits in the person of Matthew (see The Fountain), the village school- master, as touched and overgloomed by memories of sor- row. In the poem of " We are Seven,'''' which brings into day for the first time a profound fact in the abysses of human nature, namely, that the mind of an infant cannot admit the idea of death, any more than the fountain of light can comprehend the aboriginal darkness ; the little mountaineer, Avho furnishes the text for this lovely strain, she whose fulness of life could not brook +he gloomy faith in a grave, is yet (for the effect upon the reader) brought into connection with the reflex shadows of the grave : and if she herself has not, the reader has, the gloom of that con- templation obliquely irradiated, as rai>lt Gleams like the flnshinp: of a shield;— the earth And common face of Nature spake to me Rememberable things." Other gifts have followed. — Compare " Ode on Immortality : " Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower, We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind." For I have learned, etc. Spring : Compare Linen written in Early " I heard a thousand blended notes, "While in a grove I sat reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thonglits Bring sad thoughts to my mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran : And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. " A sense sublime.- " These lines are a wonderfully beautiful expression of what has been called Wordsworth's ' Pantheism.' To the poet, filled with visions of the harmony and ideal life of « - NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 189 the universal nature, all phases of beauty and power, Avhether in animate or inanimate things, appear to be parts of one mighty and eternal spirit." — Turner. " The invisible voice that came to him through the visible universe was not in him, as has often been asserted, a Panthe- istic conception. Almost in the same breath he speaks of and ' Nature's self, wlilch is the breath of God,' ' His pure word by miracle revealed.' He tells us that he held the speaking face of earth and heaven to be an organ of intercourse with man, — ' Established by the sovereign intellect Who through that bodily iniape hath diffused, As mi{?ht appear to the eye of fleeting time, Adeatlilcss spirit' And again, he says that e-en if the earth was to be burnt up and to disappear, 'Yet would the living Presence still subsist victorious.' To assert this, whatever it may be, is not to preach Pantheism. It is only to make the earth not a mere piece of mechanism but a vital entity, and to regard it as in living and intimate relation with Him who made and upholds it, and speaks to man more or less distinctly through it." — Shairp. From this green earth. — "What is ths force of 'from'? World of eye and ear. — Where in the preceding context has the latter been referred to ? Half create. — Compare the beautiful little poem : " Yes ! thou art fair, yet be not moved To scorn the declaration, That sometimes I in thee have loved My fancy's own creation. Imagination needs must stir ; Dear maid, this truth believe. Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive. Bepleased that nature made thee fit To feed my heart's devotion, By laws to which all Forms submit In sky, air, earth and ocean." "He discovered that in order to attain the highest and truest vision of Nature, the soul of man must not be altogether pas- sive, but must act along with and in unison with Nature, must send from itself abroad an emanation, which, meeting with natural objects, produces something better than either the soul itself or Nature by herself could generate. This creation is, 190 NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. ■^ ^ .: ! as has been observed, ' partly given by the object, partly by the poet's mind,' is neither wholly mind, nor wholly object, but something, call it aspect, effluence, emanation, which par- takes of both. It is the meeting or maiTiage of the life that is in the soul with the life that is in the universe, which two are akin to each other, that produces the truest vision and the highest poetry." — Shairp. It would be interesting here to compare Wordsworth's philo- sophy with that of Coleridge. See Dejection r An Ode : — " O Lady ! we receive but what we ^ive, And in our life alone does natui'e live : Ours is her wedding-jjannent, ours her shroud ! And would we aught behold, of higher worth, Than that inanimate cold world allowed To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, Ah ! from the so«l itself must issue forth, A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud Enveloping the Earth— And from the soul itself must there be sent A sweet and potent voice, of its ovn\ birth, Of all sweet sounds the life and element ! " -In Nature as In nature and the language of the sense.- interpreted by the senses. Genial spirits. — Compare Coleridge's "My genial spirits fail " in the Ode on Dejection. My dearest Friend. — His sister Dorothy, than whom there is no sweeter character in the whole range of literary history. " Birds in the bower, and lambs in the green field, Could they have known her, would have loved ; methought Her very presence such a sweetness breathed, That flowers, and trees, and even the silent hills, And everything she looked on, should have had An intimation now she bore herself Towards them, and to all creatures." An account of the life-long intimacy between the poet and his wonderfully gifted sister will be found elsewhere in this volume, in an article from the Athenceum: "Dorothy and William Wordsworth. " Nature never did betray, etc. — Compare with the present s]ilendid passage the following apostrophe in Book II. of Th« Prelude : " If this be error, and another faith Find easier access to the pious mind. Yet were I grossly destitute of all Those human sentiments that make this earth So dear, if I should fail wth grateful voice To speak of you, ye mountains, and ye lakes And sounding cataracts, ye mists and winds That dwell among the hills where I was born. If in my youth I have been pur»^ in heart. If, mingling with the world, I im content With my own modest pleaaure,., and have lived NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. m by ject, par- atis are the Lilo- e as drits Ihere :ory. Ihig ime, liam sent Th6 With Gk)d and Nature communing, removed From little enmities and low desires, The gift is youi's ; if in these times of fear. This melancholy waste of hopes o'erthrown, If, 'mid indifference and apathy, And wicked exultation when good men On every side fall off, we know not how. To selfishness, disguised in gentle names Of peace and quiet and domestic love, Yet mingled not unwillingly with sncera On visionary minds } if, in this time Of dereliction and dismay, I yet Despair not of our nature, but retain A more than Roman confidence, a faith That fails not, in all sorrow my support, The blessing of my life ; the gift is yours, Ye winds and sounding cataracts ! 'tis yours. Ye mountains ! thine, O Nature, Thou hast fed My lofty speculations ; .and in thee, For this uneasy heart of ours, I find A never-failing principle of joy And purest passion." Inform the mind. — In the earlier sense of * animate. ' Of solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. — "What profound pathos do these words assume when we remember how long and mournfully, ere life ended, those wild eyes were darkened ! " — Shairp. " ' The shooting lights of her wild o,ycs' reflected to ihe full the strain of imaginative emotion which was mingled in the poet's nature with that spirit of steadfast and conservative vir- tue which has already given to the family a Master of Trinity, two bishops, and other divines and scholars of weight and con- sideration. In the poet himself the conservative and ecclesi- astical tendencies of his character became more and more apparent as advancing years stiffened the movements of the mind. In his sister the ardent element was less restrained ; it showed itself in a most iimocent direction, but it brought with it a heavy punishment. Her passion for nature and her affec- tion for her brother led her into mountain rambles which were beyond her strength, and her last years were spent in a condi- tion of physical and mental decay. " The following variants may be noticed : — (1) V. 4. ' Sweet ' was changed to ' soft ' in 1845. (2) w. 13-15. The reading of 1798 was " Among the woods and copses lose themselves, Nor with thuir green and simple hue disturb The wild green landscape. Once again I see," etc. The present is the reading of 1802. A later variant (1815) reads thus— " Arc clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and copses. Once again 1 see," etc. m 192 NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEM& ;•;- n: , s: ! (3) V. 19. "Sent up," etc. In tho edition of 1798 there occurs immediately after the present lino the following : " And the low copses— coming from the trees," (4) vv. 23, 2d. The present is the reading of 1827. In the 1798 edition the lines stood thus : "Though absent long, These forms of beauty have not 1)euii to me," etc. (5) V. 33. "As have no slight," etc. Tlie original leading was — " As may have had no trivial influonce." (1) ' ' [This poem] is unsurpassed in English blank verse for sweeps of rhythm, long but not cumbrous, and exquisitely musical cadence." — Turner. (2) "It is the seed- thought of all tho poetry of the first half of the eighteenth century. " — Whipple. (8) ' ' To those who are strangers to this state of impassioned contemplation, Wordsworth's poetry, or all that is highest in it, is a sealed book." — Dowden. LUCY GRAY. This poem was written at Goslar in Germany, in 1799. Begarding the poem Wordsworth says : " It was founded on a circumstance told me by my sister, of a little girl who, not far from Halifax, in Yorkshire, was bewild- ered in a snow-storm. Her footsteps were tracked by her par- ents to the middle of a lock of a canal, and no other vestige of her, backward or forward, could be traced. The body, however, was found in the canal. The way in Avhich the incident was treated, and the spiiitualizing of the character, might furnish hints for contrasting the imaginative influences which I have endeavored to throw over common life, with Crabbe's matter- of-fact style of handling subjects of the same kind." "Lm('2/ Gray," says Matthew Arnold, " is a beautiful suc- cess. " The poem, apparently so simple, demands the close attention of the student. The sub-title, Solitude, which to the superficial reader appears almost an affectation, furnishes in reality the key to the interpretation of the poem. The poet has taken a concrete incident and has so employed its vital essence that the lonely child becomes a representation and embodiment of Solitude. "The Solitary Child" has neither ur» NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 193 mate nor comrade and she dwells on a lonely moor. Although she is not fatherless and motherless like Alice Fell, still in a sense she is without father and mother. Lonely in life she meets a lonely death and her wraith haunts the lonesome wild and sings evermore a solitary song. These variants may be noticed : (1) " The storm came on," v. 29. (2) " Then downwards from the steep hill's edge," v. 45. (1) State the poetic value of vv. 7, 8, — —"The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door ! " (2) "And yonder is the moon " — What lias this to do with the girl's situation ? (3) ' ' Not blither is the mountain roe. " Why does the poet represent her as happy ? (4) "Before its tima " What bearing has this phrase on th« story ? (5) " And thence they saw the bridge of wood." Does this aight give them an inkling of the girl's fate? If not, Avhy is it mentioned here ? THE FOUNTAIN. This poem and the other two "Matthew" poems — "Matthew" and "The Two April Mornings "—were written at Goslar in Germany, in 1799, when the temperature was below freezmg point. In " The Two April Mornings " Matthew is thus described : *' A village Schoolmaster wa« he, With hair of glittering gray ; As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday." In the poem called "Matthew" the varying moods of the old man are thus indicated : " The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs Of one tired out with fun and madness ; The tears which came to Matthew's eyes Were tears of light, the dew of gladness. Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thougl\t went round. It seemed as if he drank it up - He felt with spirit so profound.'" 194 NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. il : K?i* ( Border-song. — Some song of the wild life of the Scottish Border. Wordsworth belonged to the Border country. Catch. — A song sung in succession, one catching it from another. 'Twill murmur, etc.— Compare Tennyson's lines — ** I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildenicsscs ; I linger by my shingly bars ; I loiter round my creases. I chatter, cliatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go But I go on for ever." Idly. — His team's are childish and vain. Mourns less, etc. — Compare Tennyson's treatment of the same theme — the yearning for an irrevocable past — in the song of " The Princess " : 1 ! i '* Tears, idle tears. I know not what they mean, Teara from the depth of some divine oespair Rise In the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the luippy autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more." Hutton thus comments on the motive of Wordsworth's poem : *' Thus meditating, he wrings from the temporary sadness fresh conviction that the ebbing away, both in spirit; and in appear- ance, of the brightest past, sad as it must ever be, is not so ss& a thing as the weak yearning which, in departing, it often leaves stranded on the soul to cling to the appearance when the spirit is irrevocably gone; " Their old age. — ' Their ' is emphatic But we are pressed, etc. — Because we have been cheerful the world expects us to be cheerfal. We cannot carol when we will and be silent when we will. It is the man of mirth. — The ties that bound him to his kin- dred were those of real affection. I live. — The pronoun is emphatic. Plains. — "In Italian poetry, as in Spanish and Portuguese, words identical in sound may be rhymed if they differ in sensa Chaucer, Spenser, and Milton indulge in the same license. " We rose, etc. — "The last two stanzas are a very artistic close to the poem, and have great dramatic force, leaving the reader in a state of wonder at the complexity of the human heart " — Turner. NOTfiS ON WORDSWORTH'S POBM& 196 Itish rom the ong 'esh 3ar- ten iion bhe we in- In this poem several variants must be noticed : — (1) V. 9. The original reading was: "Now, Matthew, let us try to match. " (2) V. 21. The reading of the text in the original reading. In 1836 it was changed for the worse to "No check, no stay, this streamlet fears. " (3) vv. 87, 38. Here again we have the original reading. The edition of 1836 has : " The blackbird amid leafy trees, Tlie lark above the hill." (4) v. 63. The original reading was " At this he grasped his hands. " Hutton compares the two readings thus : " The earlier reading looks like hard fact, and no doubt sounds a little rough and abrupt ; but I feel pretty sure, not only that the earlier version expressed the trutii as it was present to Wordsworth's inner eye when ho wrote the poem, but that it agreed better with the mood of those earlier days, when the old man's wringing of his hands, in a sort of passion of protest against the notion that any one could take the place of his lost child, would have seemed much more natural and dignified to Wordsworth than the mere kindly expi*ession of grateful feeling for which he subsequently exchanged it." (1) (2) (3) by Show the suitability of the title, " The Fountain, connecting it with the motive of the poem. ' ' The mingling of deep emotion and ' witty rhymes, ' the alternation of sadness and lightness, gives to the poem such an uncertainty of tone, that, although the lines seem so boldly simple as hardly to bear repetition, its full charm is felt only after repeated readings. " — Dillard. See (2) under "We are Seven": "Whosoever looks searchingly, " etc le, 36 ar MICHAEL. This poem, written in 1800, atGrasmere, was first published in the second volume of the Lyrical Ballads. Of this poem Wordsworth writes : ' ' The character and cir- cumstances of Luke were taken from a family to whom had bell njed, many years before, the house we lived in at Tow^- End, along with some fields and woodlands on the eastern shores of Grasmera" ;iH 196 NOTBS ON WOUDSWORTH'S POEMa « ' i In this poem we have a portrait of one of the dalesmen, or utateavien., as they were called, of Westmoreland. Of this robust class Myers writes : " To those who wish to deduce the character of a population from the character of their race and surroundings the peasantry of Cumberland and Westmoreland form an attractive theme. Drawn in great part from the strong Scandinavian stock, they dwell in a land solemn and beautiful as Norway itself, but without Norway's rigour an And trust, the imiversal plan Will all protect." • And wear thou this,' she solemn said. And hound the holly round viy head : The polish 'd loaves and berries red, Did rustling play ; And like a passing thought, she fled In light away." to I N0TB8 ON WOKDS worth's POEM& 218 ifries. e the On tanco Nith, rising and a rxf his A'n of Nith. ry in \vs of )f the w his Those Througfh busiest street, oto.— What a sublime tribute this to the genius of one who had taught him in his youth : " How Vereo may build a princely throne On humblo truth." Here may be quoted the first and the last stanza of the poom "To the Sous of Burns, after visiting the Grave of their Father " : •' 'MM crowdcfl obelisks and urns I Bougbt t\w untimely prave of Bunim ; Sons of tbo Bard, my heart still mourns With sorrow true ; And more would grieve, but that It turns Tremblinp to you ! Ijct no mean hope your souls enslave ; He Independent, generous, brave; Your Father such example gave, And such revere ; But be admonished by his grave, And think, and fear I " TO THE CUCKOO. This poem was composed in the orchard at Town-End, Grasniere, 1804 The note and the habits of the American cuckoo are very unlike those of the European variety. One who has not heaivl the European cuckoo cannot possibly unders+^^and Wordsworth's enthusiasm. New-comer. — The earliest appearance of the cuckoo recorded in White's Sel borne is on April 7 th. Wandering voice. — The bird avoids observation, because tho sight of a cuckoo is a signal for all the small birds to be up in its pursuit. Wordsworth, in dealing with Fancy and Imagination in an essay prefixed to the 1815 edition of his poonis, takes the third and fourth lines of the first stanza as an instance of the power of imagination: "This concise interrogation charac- terizes the seeming ubiquity of the voice of tho cuckoo, and dispossesses the creature almost of a corporeal existence ; the imagination being tempted to this exertion of her power by a consciousness in the memory that the cuckoo is almost per- petually heaixi throughout the season of the Spring, but Seldom becomes an object of si^ht^ " '■'[* -' !•»: ■i£i I! i 214 NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. From hill to hill, etc. — How much better is this than the rea-ding in many editions : •' That seems to fill the whole air's space, As loud far off as near." Visionary hours. — His memory and imagination summon up the past (1) C-^) (3) ' ' This lyric, notwithstanding its ethereal imaginative beauty, was stigmatized as affected and ridiculous by the blindness of contemporary criticism. Of all his own poems this was Wordsworth's favorite." — Turner. " Of all Wordsworth's illustrations of the effect of sound upon the spiritual nature this is the finest Pearly in life he had a firm assurance that the life of the soul was more real than the external world. It is this that makes Wordsworth the most spiritual and most spiritualizing of all English poets. " — George. Besides these two poems to the cuckoo, Wordsworth s ti-ibute to the cuckoo at Laverna may be quoted : " List— 'twas the Cuckoo. O with what delif^ht Heard I that voice ! and catch it now tliou{?h faint, Far off and faint, and meltinp: into air. Yet not to be mistaken. Harlc af,'aiii ! Those loader erics gi\'e notice that the Bird, Although invisible as Echo's self, Is wheeling hitherward ! " FIDELITY. On his tour through Scotland in 1803 Wordsworth had visited Scott In 1805 this visit was returned by Scott. It was during this visit that Scott's lines on ' ' Helvellyn " and Wordsworth's ' ' Fidelity " were written a proyos of the sad incident of a young tourist's death and the fidelity of his dog. In the ascent of the mountain the two ])oets wqvq accompanied by Sir Humphrey Davy. In speaking of this occasion, Wordsworth says that it would be difficult to express tlie feelings with Avhich he, who so often had climbed Helvellyn alone, found himself standing on the summit with two such men as Scott and Davy. Of the incident that gave rise to this poem, Wordsworth saj'S : "The young man whose death gave occasion to this poem Avas named Charles Gough, and had come early in the spring to Pattei'dale for the sake of angling. While attempt- ing to cross over Helvellyn to Grasinore, he slippci from a steep part of the rock Avhero the ice was not thawed, and perished. His body was discovered as described in thi^ iJOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEM& 215 It and poem. Walter Soott heard of the accident, and both he and I, without either of us knowing that the other had taken up the subject, each wrote a poem in admiration of the dog's fidelity. His contains a most beautiful stanza, ' How long did'st thou think,' etc." The young student would do well to compare ' ' Fidelity " and "Helvellyn," as to the style of the authors and the mode in which the sad incident has been treated. HELVELLYN. " I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lake and mountain boneath me gleamed misty and white ; All was still, save, by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right. Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending. And Catchedicam its left verge was defending. One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, Wlien I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died. Dark-green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain -heather, Where the Pilgrim of Nature laj-^ stretched in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather, Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay. Not yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For. faithful in death, his mute favourite attended, The nuich-loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber ? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start ? How many long days and long nights didst thou number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart ? And, O ! was it meet, that, no requiem read o'er him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him,— Unhonoured the Pilgrim from life should depart ? When a Prince to the fate of a Peasant has yielded. The tapestry waves dark round the dim-liglited hall ; With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded. And pages stand mute by the canojMed pall : Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming : In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming ; Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streamhig. Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall. Hut meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in stature, And ''raws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thv obsequies sung l)y the gray plover flying. With ore faithful friend but to witness tny dying, In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam." PEELE CASTLE. This poem was written in 1805 at Town-End, Grasmetv. Early in the j'^ear WordsAvorth had lost his brother, Captain John Wordsworth, who A\-as drowned at sea. The poet's sorrow at the death of i..s brother su])plies the key-note of these beautiful and characteristic stanzas. 1^1 \\% 216 NOTES OK woudsworth's poema Wordsworth's friendship with Sir George Beaumont began in the year 1803. Beaumont, as a descendant of ^he Elizabe- than dramatist, had an hereditary appreciation of poetry, and was one of the first men of rank and influenco who saw in the new poet signs of transcendant genius. He was a lover and a patron of art, and indeed himself a painter of some reputation. The brother whose death is lamented in these verses has been thus'described by Wordsworth : "Of all human beings wliom I ever mot he Avas the man of the most rational desires, the most sedate habits, and the most perfect self-command. He was modest and gentle, and shy even to disease, but this Avas wearing off. In everything his judgment was sound and original and his eye for the beauties of nature was as fine and delicate as ever poet or painter was gifted with I never heard an oath or even an indelicate expression or allusion from him in my life ; his modesty was equal to that of the purest woman. " Peele is on the west coast of the Isle of Man. The castle is on a small rocky islet, separated from the mainland by a narrow channel. Beaumont's picture of the castle in a storm as contrasted with the peaceful picture in Wordsworth's memory is to him like a parable of the change which his brother's death brought into his own life. w. 15, 16. — These famous lines are an emendation of the original reading : — " And add the gleam Of lustre known to neither sea or land, But borrowed from the youthful poet's dream." vv. 21-24 : The following stanza appears as the sixth in early editions : " Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure-house divine Of peaceful years, a chronitle of heaven ; Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine The very sweetest had to thee been given." A chronicle of Heaven. — A record of happiness more than earth alone could give. The soul of truth. — Before his bereavement the poet would have seen nothing false in such a picture of perfect peace. A steadfast peace, etc. — A peace so secure as to defy changa The earlier reading of this line was : "A faith, a trust that could not be betrayed," i.e., such a peaceful picture would have produced such a faith in the happiness of human life as could never be lost. Palgrave compares the Lines on Peele Castle with Shelley's )et's Dream. "Each," he says, "is the most perfect ex- pression of the innermost spirit of his art given by these great Poets NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 217 began [lizabe- \y, and in the and a tation. les has [beings lesires, imand. Lt this id and |ne and I ion or o that defy poets ; of that idea which, as in the case of the true painter, subsists only in the mind ; the sight never beheld it, nor has the hand ex]n-essed it. It is an idea residing in the breast of the artist, -which he is always laboring to impart, and which he dies at last without imparting." In addition to the present poem Wordsworth wrote three others relating to the death of his brother, ' ' The Happy Warrior," the elegiac verses beginning "The sheep-boy whistled loud," etc., and "To the Daisy," beginning "Sweet Flower," etc. FRENCH REVOLUTION. During the vacation of 1790 Wordsworth visited France and had all his symjjathies enlisted in favor of the Girondist party of the French Eevolution, then in its full tide of progress. In the beginning of 1791 he went over again to France, where he resided, partly at Blois, Oi'leans, and Paris, for about thir- teen months, ' ' shewing such active sympathy, and maintaining such intimate relations with some of the leading Girondists, that it is not improbable his career might have been cut short by the guillotine, had he not been obliged to return to England a little Def ore King Louis suffered death." "The meek and lofty did both Auxiliars. — Compare below find helper 9.^ When Reason, etc. — Myers s«ys : " The course of affairs in France was such as seemed by an irony of fate to drive the noblest and firmest hearts into the worst aberrations. For first of all in that Eevolution, Eeason had appeared, as it were, in visible shape, and hand in hand with Pity and Virtue ; then, as the welfare of the oppressed peasantry began to be lost sight of amidst the brawls of the factions of Paris, all that was attrac- tive and enthusiastic in the great movement seemed to dis- appear, but yet Eeason might still be thought to find a closer realization here than among scenes more serene and fair ; and, lastly, Eeason set in blood and tyranny, and there was no more hope for France." The whole earth, etc. — The independence of the United States had been recognized in 1784. The spirit of republicanism was strong in the Netherlands. The whole world seemed on the brink of change. The budding rose, etc. — ' ' The budding rose " has a beauty tSf suggestiveness and promise that makes it more attractive >i4an "the rose full-blown." 218 NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POBMa .Hi; S! if' i"i> Some lurking right, etc. — For the effect produced upon man's spirit by the freedom existing "among the grandest objects of the sense," see Coleridge's France : O ye loud Waves ! and ye Forests high ! And O ye Cioiuls that far above me soav'd 1 Thou rising Sun ! thou blue-rejoicing Sky I Yea, everything that is and will be free ! Bear witness for me, whereso'cr ye be, With what deep worship I have still ador'd The spirit of divlntst Liberty." Secreted island. — Compare remote. ' the Latin secretus, 'ajjart,' W: ^ '; Wordsworth soon learned that the French Revolution had failed to produce the fruits which enthusiasts had expected from it. The hopes of social regeneration with which he had gi'eeted the fall of the Bastille and his subse. colostial tlioiifiht ; When yet I had not walked alwve A mile or two, from my first love, And lookinf? back— at that short space— Could see a si:lim|ise of His brif>:ht face ; When on some f^lldod cloud or flo\v(!r My {razinfr soul would dwell an hour, Aiui in those weaker plorics si)y Some shadows of eternity ; Before I tautrht my tonsriie to wound My conscience wiih a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispense, A sev'ral sin to ev'ry sense. But felt throu^'li all "this fleshly dress, Bright shoots of everlastiiisncss." THE HAPPY WARRIOR. This poem was written in 1806, and published in 1807. [n his MS. i o es on his poems Wordsworth says : "The course of the great war with the French naturally ilxed one's attention upon tho militarj' character, and, to the honour of our country, there were many illustrious instances cf tbe qualities that constitute its highest excellence. Lord KOTBS ON WORDSWORTH'S POBM& ^ Nolson carrio0S}MS. (1) "Nor is there any portrait fitter than that of The Jfappp Warrior to go forth to all lands as representing the English character at its height — a figure not ill-matching ■with ' Plutarch's men ' For indeed this short poem is in itself a manual of greatness ; there is a Roman majesty in its simple and weighty speech. And tvhat eulogy was ever nobler than that passage where, without definite allusion or quoted name, the poet depicts, as it were, the very summit of glory in the well-remem- bered aspect of the Admiral (Nelson) in his last and greatest hour ? ' Is happy as a lover, and attired With sudden brigrhtness, lilie a man inspired.* or again, where the hidden thought of Nelson's womanly tenderness, of his constant craving for the green eartli and home affections in the midst i>i storm and war, melt-^ the stern verses into a sudden change of tone : ' Is yet a soul whose master-bias leans To nomefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes.*" — Myers. (2) "Wordsworth's experience in connection with the French Revolution made him a close observer of the effect of war upon character. In the Sonnets to Liberty we have a gallery of illustrious portraits. "Wordsworth's poetry is a great store-house of political and patriotic eloquence, for although the homely Poet was as ' retired as noon- tide dew, ' he had a nature which was capable of mani- festing a Roman fortitude."— (reor^e. (3) Mrs. Jameson suggests the experiment of "substituting the word wovian for the word tcarrior. and changing tlic masculine for the feminine pronoun " in the first 56 lines of this poem. She says it will read e'^ually well : " In all these 56 lines there is only one which cannot be feminized in its significance and which is totally at variance with our ideal of a Ha]3py Woman. It is the line 'And in himself possess his own desire' No woman could exist happily or virtuously in such com- plete independence of all external affections as theso words express." RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE. This poem was written at Town-End, Grasniere, May 7th 1802, and published in 1807. The poet's prefatory note says • ' This old man I met a few hundred yards from my cottage ; and the account of him is taken from his own mouth. I was in the state of feeling described in the beginning of the poem, KOTBS Git WOSOSWOKTA'S F0E1I& 229 while crossing over Barton Fell from Mr. Clarkson's at the foot of Ullswater, towards Askham. The image of the hare I then observed on the ridge of the FelL " Wordsworth further refers to this poem thus : "I describe myself as having been exalted to the highest pitch of delight by the joyousness and beauty of Natui'e ; and then as depressed, even in the midst of those beautiful objects, to the lowest dejection and dispair. A young poet in the midst of the happi- ness of Nature is described as overwhelmed by the thoughts of the miserable reverses which have befallen the happiest of all men, namely, poets. I think of this till I am so deeply impressed with it that I consider the manner in which I am rescued from my dejection and despair almost as an inter- Ijosition of Providenca A pereon reading the poem with feelings like mine will have been awed and controlled, expect- ing something s])iritual or supernatural What is brought forward ? A lonely place, ' a pond, by which an old man was, far from all house or home : ' not stood, nor sat, but was — the figure presented in the most naked simplicity possible. The leeling of spirituality or siipematuralness is again referred to us being strong in my mind in this passage. How came he here ? thought I, or what can he be doing ? I then describe him. whether ill or well is not for me to judge with perfect confidence ; but this I can confidently affirm, that though I believe God has given me a strong imagination, I cannot con- ceive a figure more impressive than that of an old man like this, the survivor of a wife and ten children, travelling alone among the mountains and all lonely places, oarrjring with hiui his own fortitude, and the necessities which an unjust state of society has laid upon him. You speak of his speech as tedious. Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feelings of the author .... It is in the character of the old man to tell his story, which an impatient reader must feel tedious. But, good heavens ! such a figure, in such a place ; a pious, self-respecting, miserably infirm and pleased old man, telling such a tale ! ^^ Chatterton. — Thomas Chatterton, bom in 1752. His career is one of the most romantic in English literature. His forgeries of old English poetry for a time deceived the scholars and critics. If any man ever had consummate genius it was Chatterton. All his work was done before he had completed his 18 th year, for on the verge of starvation he ended his life by arsenic in August, 1770. Him who walked in glory.— Eobert Bums. As a huge stone, etc. — This passage is used by Wordsworth in the preface to the 1815 edition of ms poems to illustrate one of the ways in which the imagination acts : "I pass from the m 'Pn I 280 NOTES ON WORDSWORTH^S 1»0BM& imagination acting upon an individual image to a considerd- tion of the same faculty employed upon images in a conjunc- tion by \\hicli tho3' modify each other. .... Take those images separately, and how unafTecting the pictui'e compared with that pi'oduced by their being thus connected Avith, and opposed to each other ! In these images, the conferring, the abstracting, and the modifying jxnvers of the imagination, immediately and mediately acting, are all brought into con- junction. The stone is endowed with something of the power of life to approximate it to the sea-beast ; and the sea-beast stripped of some of its vital qualities to assimilate it to the stone ; which intermediate image is thus treated for the purpose of bringing the original image, that of the stone, to a nearer resemblance to the figure and condition of the aged Man ; who is divested of so much of the indications of life and motion as to bring him to the point where the two objects unite and coalesce in just comparision." Many variants occur in this poem : (1) V. 13. The early reading was "which, glittering." (2) V. 29. Till 1820 the reading was "singing in the sky." (3) V. 44. The original reading was ' ' its pride. " (4) V. 46. The early reading was "Behind his plough, upon the mountain-side." (5) vv. 53, 54 The original reading was : " When 111) 'Ti'l down my fancy thus was drivan, And I with these untoward thoughts had striven." After this stanza appeared the following in the early editions : " My course I stopped as soon as I espied The old man in that naked wildevnt^ss ; Close hy a jwud. u|)on the further side, He stood alone ; a minute's space Laues a I watch d him, he continuintr motionTess ; To the jjool's further marfrin then I drew, He beinj? all the while before me in full view." (G) V. 67. Originally "their pilgrimage." (7) V. 71. This is the early reading, altered in 1836 to "limbs, bod J', and pale face." (8) V. 74. The oiiginal reading was ' ' Beside the little pond or moorish flood." (9) V. 82. Originally the line read "And now such frewlom as I could I took." (10) V. 88 The reading of 1807 was "What kind of work ia that which you pursue ? " a NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 231 siderd- njunc- » these npared h, and ng,_the latioii. to coii- power i-beast to the )r the )ne, to e aged ' life le two (11) vv. 90, 91. This the reading of 1820. The edition of 1807 read thus : " He answered me with pleasure and suriirise : And there was, while lie six)kc, a fire aljout his eyes." The reading of 1836 is : " Ere he replied a flash of mild surprise Broke from the sable orbs of his yet vivid eyes." (12) V. 99. Till 1827 the line was " He told me that he to this pond had come. " (13) V. 112. The original reading was " and strong admonish- ment. " In 18 JO and ben^xme Oy, and in 1827 strong became apt. (14) V. 117. The original reading was "And now, not knowing what the old man said." In 1818 the line became ** But now perplexed by what the old man said." The present is the version of 1820. (15) V. 123. "The Pools" is the reading of 1827, the earlier reading being ' ' the ponds. " upon (1) "Astost3'le, we might almost say there is nona By the simplest language, in the absence of all color, with no complexity'- of incident, we have one of the most harmonious and determined of sketches, — the beauty and the strength of rejxjse."— 6reor laiilcl On such forbearance as the doej) may show ; Perpetual flight, unchecked by earthly tics, Leav'st to the wandering bird of Paradise. Faithful, thoiigh swift as lightning, the meek dove ; Yet more hath Nature reconciled in thee ; So constant with thy downward eye of love, Yet, in aerial singleness, so free ; So humble, yet so ready to rejoice In iwwer of wing and never-wearied voice. [" To the last point of vision, and beyond," etc. ] How would it please old Ocean to partake, With sailors longing for a breeze in vain, The harmony thy notes most gladly make Where earth resembles most his own domain ! Urania's self might welcome with plcas(!d ear These matins mounting towards her native sphenv Chanter, by heaven attracted, whom no bars To daylight known deter from that pursuit, 'Tis well tiiat some sage instinct, when thi- stars Come forth at evening, keeps thee still and mute : For not an eyelid could to sleej) incline Wert thou among them, singing as they shine ! " The student should read Shelley's Ode to a Ski/lark^ written in 18"20, fi\e years before this. In more than one passage of the present poem Wordsworth is under the influence of Shelley's Ode. With instinct.— Until 1832 the verse had " with rapture." The kindred points, etc. — Turner sa3's : " The lark is com- pared to the magnetic needle, which never s-werves from the two poles." Of the last line of this poem Stopford Brooke remarks : " It is one of Wordsworth's poetic customs to see things in the ideal and the real, and to make each make the other poetical. He places the lark in a ' privacy of glorious light, ' but he brings him home at last to his 'nest upon the dewy ground.' It i:' the very thing that he always does for man." Wordsworth's other poem "To a Skylark," on page 11B of this volume, was written in 1805. Of it George remarks : 5rth read NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 285 "Of all Wordsworth's poems this seems the most inevitable ; it is as spontaneous as the lark's own song. The idea that the life of Nature is one of enjoyment, of love and praise to the Almighty Giver, cliaracterizes that spirit of religious awe in which the I'oet always walked with Nature. The beauty of all such work as this consists in its decji i)oetic rapture, and its high moral purpose, yet free from any taint of didacticism." . A POET'S EPITAPH. This is one of the poems written at Goslar, in Germany, in 1709. en of of ri- le is d s Art thou a Statesman. — The first two lines once ran thus : " Art tlioii a Statist, in tlio van Of public conflicts trained and bred ? " As the word 'statist' now means 'statistician' the present loading is preferable. A man of purple cheer. — This seems to be a Doctor of Medicine. A Dtjctor of Divinity should have more sympathj' for poetry, and he would be less likely to make a cushion of a grave. A soldier. — The poet in the "Character of the Happy Warrior " shows his admiration for the military profession. Physician. — This is the French word phyaiaien^ a natural philosopher. That abject thing. — Another reading is "Thy ever-dwindling soul away." Moralist. — This is the French vioraliste, a mental philo- sopher. One to whose, etc. — This poem shows clearly what a stinging satirist Wordsworth could have become if he had chosen to cultivate the spirit here displayed. And you must love him, etc. — This is the key to the interpretation of poetry in general and especially of Words- worth's jioetry. As Ruskin says : ' ' You must love these people, if you are to be among them. No ambitioB is of any use. They scorn your ambition. You must love -hem and show your love." But he is weak, etc. — This is explained by a passage m The Leech Gatherer ; •' My whole life I have lived in plcagiint thought, As if life'0 bosiueM were a summer mood." !?39 NOTES ON WORDSWORTH*S POEMft Contented if he might enjoy, etc. — Compare these vertea of To My Sinter : *• Ix)ve, now a universal birth, From heart to heart is stealiii>?, From oarth to man, from man to earth : — It is the hour of feeiiuf?. One moment now may give us more Tlian years of toiiiiifr reason : Our ni'inds shall drink at every pore The spirit of the season." (I) '*In this portrait of Wordsworth's ideal poet we find clearly marked those characteristics which he himself possessed, and which rendered it impossible fra* the world to listen to him until it had learned that the sphere of poetry was not limited to the extraordinary in the life of man and Nature. " — George. (2) "Here lies the great difficulty of our age ; that it is an age of cant without love, of criticism without reverence. .... "What we want is the old s]jirit of our forefathers ; the firm conviction that not by criticism, but by sympathy, we must understand." — F. W. Robertaon. SONNET III. This sonnet was written in 1802 and published in 1807. Once did she hold. — The result of the Fourth Crusade, undertaken by the French and the Venetians in 1202. was that the Morea, a portion of Thessaly, the Cyclades, some of the B3-zantine cities, and nearly half of Constantinople, fell to the shaio of Venica The safeguard of the West. — On account of the develop- ment of her naval power Venice was Mistress of the Mediter- ranean for many years. The eldest child of liberty. — Attila invaded the district of Venetia, and destroyed its Capital (Aquileia), in 452. Many refugees fled from the mainland to the islands in the lagoons and the Gulf of Venice, where a Kepublic soon grew up. Espouse, etc. — "In 1177 she gained a great victory over Otho, son of Fredei'ick Barbarossa ; in gratitude for this the Pope, Alexander III., gave the Doge Ziani a ring, and instituted the ceremonj-^ of ' marrying the Adriatic,' by which was signified the supremacy of Venice." The ceremony here referred to was performed on Ascension Day, when the Doge threw a ring into the sea from the State-galley. NOTBS ON WORDSWORTH'S rOBM& 287 The Venetian Be public became extinct in 1797, five years before the writing of this poem. The French troops took the city, and the territories of Venice were divided between the Emperor Francis and Napoleon. The situation and romantic history of Venice have made her a prominent figure in literature. Several of Shakespeare's plays are connected with that city. The student should read Shelley's lines written in the Euganean Hills and the opening of Canto IV. of Childe Harold. SONNET VI. This sonnet was ^vritten in 1807, the year in which Napoleon was making gigantic preparations to invade England. In 1802 he had ciushed the liberty of Switzerland. SONNET XVII. This sonnet also belongs to 1807, the year in which the slave trade was declared illegaL Clarkson began his fight against slavery while he was a student at St. John's College, Cambridge. He selected as the stibject for a Latin essay : '' Anne liceat invites in servitutem dare?" He devoted his life to the abolition of slavery. His efforts met with the most powerful opposition. At last, on the iiccession of Fox, in 1806, his cause made headway, and in the following year success crowned his determined efforts. SONNET XIX. The sonnet, a form of verse originating in Ital", consists of fourteen lines divided into two unequal parts, — the major con- sisting of eight lines and called the "octave," — the minor consisting of six linos and called the "sestet" The rhymes of the Petrarcan sonnet may be represented by this formula : a-b-b-a-a-b-b-a : c-d-e ; c-d-e. While this formula was rigidly observed in the octave, much freedom in regard to the number and an*angement of the rhymes was allowal in the sestet The rhymes of the Shakespearian sonnet run thus ; a-b-a-b ; c-d-c-d ; e-f-e-f ; g-g. NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. The sonnet, besides having the peculiar technique descrilnxl above, must obey these two conditions : (1) It must have an unbroken continuity of motive, — it must be absolutel3' com- plete in itself, -it must be the evolution of 07ie thought, or one cmoticm, or one poetically-apprehended fact. (2) Continuous sonority must be maintained from the first phrase to the last. '' A sonnet is a wave of melody From heavlnf? waters of the impassioned soul A l)illow of tidal music one and whole Flows in the " octave ; " then returninpr free, Its ebbinf? surpres In the " sestet " roll Back to the depth of Life's tumultous sea." It will bo noticed that Wordsworth's sonnets are nearly all variations of the Petrarcan mould. He frequently, however, introduces a neAv rhyme in the sixth and seventh lines. The sonnet at j)rescnt \inder consideration has a very strange structure, a combination of the Petrarcan and the Shake- spearian modes. This sonnet, the poet tolls us, was composed almost extem- pore, in 1827, in a short walk on the western side of R3dal Lake. \ !i Shakespeare unlocked his heart. — Browning disputes this : " ' Hoity-toity ! A street to explore, Your house the exception ! " With thin same key Shakcapeare unlocked Jiii^ heart " once more ! ' Did Shakespeare ? if so, the less Shakespeare he ! " Notwithstanding Browning's notion it is generally believed that Shakespeare's Sonnets are autobiographical. Swinburiio replies thus to Browning : "No whit the less like Shakespeare, but undoubtedly the less like Browning." Petrarch's wound. — In bin sonnets Petrarch has told ihe tale of his hopeless love for Laura de Noves. Tasso. — He belongs to the 16th century. His sonnets are addressed to Leonora, the sister of the Duke of Ferrara. Goethe has told the story of his mad passion. Camoens. — A Portuguese poet of the 16th century, author of the great epic, the Lusiad. The lady of his sonnets was Catherine d'Ataide, a grand lady of the court, for whose sake he was banished. Dante. — Born in Florence in the 13th century. His fii-st work, the Vita Nuova, testifies the strength of his love for Beatrice PortinacL His visionary brow. — The well-known picture of Dante by k trie Queene, was in progress at the same time* In his SOth Sonnet he says : " After 80 long a race ag I liavc run Throngh Faery lanl) wlildi in a line she led,-- And faithful, loyal in her innocence, Like tlie brave Lion slain in her defence." SONNET XXV. Lines 9, 10, 11, and 12 of this Sonnet are carved upon the pedestal of Wordsworth's statue in Westminster Abbey. SONNET XXVI. By turns, etc. — This is the reading of 1827. Other readings are: 1807. — " I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie"— 1831.—" I thought of all by turns, and yet I lie"— 1845. — " I have thought of all by turns, and yet do He" — The young student should collect from Shakespeare and other poets the many fine passages on sleep. :t, SONNET XXIX. Wordsworth tells us that this sonnet was written on the roof of a coach while he was on his way to France. See the quotation from Myers in the notes on ' ' The Eeverie of Poor Susan." 242 DOROriJV AND WiLLlAM WORDSVVORTrf. DOIIOTHY AND WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Dorothy "Words worth was one j'ear and nine months youngi^r than her brother William, and the only girl in a family of Jive children. When she was little more than six j-eai-s old her mother died, and the children were separated. William was sent to schofil, and Dorothy to live with various relations in turn ; but never again for any length of time was she with William till 1795, when she was four-and-twenty, and kept house for him at Racedown Lodge. Dorsetshire ; and they began at once to live the lives of true poets, feeding their eyes and minds with fair sigrhts and Here began gx'eat thoughts, and content the worlv of Dorothy's life. v.itli daily bivad. Wci'ds worth is at this time described by himself and others as utterly bewildered, and dejected. He had hoped for great results from the French Revolution, and instead he Avas haunted by the remembra^ice of scones of horror ; he had abandontd all thought of the clerical profession which had been marked out for him, yet he did not seem able to take any other. " I have been doing," he writes, "and still continue to do, nothing. What is to become of me I know not." At this juncture a friend loft him 900/., which enabled him to realize his wish of living with Dorothy, who had never cea'^od to have faith in him. She at once became his guardian angel. Ih^r helpful and healing sympathy came to his aid, we are told : by her tact she led him from the distracting cares of political agitation to tliijse more elevating and satisfvine: inliuenci's which an ardent and contemplative love of nature and poetry cultivate. It is not easy to lead a person to an influence, and the woT-d "tact'' very inadequately describes the secret of Dorothy's power over her brother. It was rather that of an ovi'r- mastering current of enthusiasm for all that was good and Ixiautiful wlil^h swept her more prosaic and sluggisli brother along with it : — " She s:ave ine eyes, she {?ave in(> cars ; And humble cares, .and delicate tVara; A heart, the fountain of sweet tears, And love, and thought, and joy." Henceforth has it been said, " Wordsworth was the spokesman to the world of two souls." The Wordsworths now made the acquaintance of Coloi'idtvc, and soon lx,'came great fiiends. Dorothy tells us of Coloridgn's first visit, and "how the first thing that was read was William's new poem The Ruined Cottage, with which Colo- ridge was delighted, and after tea he rejieatod to us two acts and a half of Osorio. The next morning William read his tragedy The Borderer*." The Wordsworths moved to Alfus- jLiigor |f i\v\i her was \ns in with kept tliey eyes ntent D4>R0TnY AND WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 248 den, near Nether Stowey, to be nearer to Coleridge, and there Dorothy Wordsworth, who herself had the eye and mind of a ])()et, lived a happy outdoor life, with the two poets for hor constant ocnnpanions. Soinetimes they explored the neighbor- hood ; sometimes they made short tours, putting the contents of their scantily filled purses together to pay their way, or drawing on their brains and sending a poem to tlic magazines to make up the deficiency. The Ancient Mariner. or, as its author used to call it. The Old Navigator, was thought out when the three friends were journeying to Lyn- ton, and thej' combined to invent picturesque details for it. Coleridge has left a description of Dorothy Wordsworth about this time : — " Wordsworth and his exquisite sister are with me. Sho is a woman, indeed! -in mind, I mean, and heart; for her person is such that, if you expected to see a i)retty woman, you would think her ordinary ; if you ex])octed to see an ordinary woman, you would think her pretty ; but her manners are simple, ardent, impressive. In every motion her most innocent soul outbeams so brightly that who saw her would say : ' Guilt was a thing impossible in her. Her information various, her eye watchful in minutest observation of Nature, and her taste a perfect electrometer. It bends, protrudeF, and draws in at subtlest beauties, and most recondite faults." Do Quincey hints that the happiness of the three friends was not entirely to the satisfaction of Mrs. Coleridge, who had. no sympathy with poetry and less with the ways of poets, and who was, and felt herself to be, left out in the cold. It certainly was a perfectl3' innocent friendshij), but it was one which cost ))oor Dorothy, and possibly Coleridge also, intense suffering. She horn the marks of it for years, and it was jjerhaps the reason why she never married and why Cole- ridge was a mooly and desponding man The Wordsworths' end. Somersetshire is not a count}'- that has i)rceived notice to quit the place. It was not until 17!)!) that t]>o brother and sister resolved to iind a settled home. Crasmere was the spot they chose, and they set out from Suckburn-oii-Teos on tlieir way thither. residence at Alfoxden came to an amusing H ■i.i'i V, ill m 81 Uh m [H 244 DOROTHY AND WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. They walked from Wensleydale to Kendal, "accomplishing as much as twenty miles a day, over uneven roads frozen into rocks, in the teeth of a keen wind and driving snow," and arriving at Grasmere on the shortest day of the last year of last century. They took up their abode in the cottage which may still be seen standing at a little distance from the main road from Rydal. It was but a laborer's cottage, but it was all they wanted. It contained three low rooms and two garrets under the roof, but it sheltered them when they were indoors, and held the books so dear to both. The}"- made it neat and comfortable inside and very pretty outside. One of its windows was a long low one with small diamond panes through which roses looked in almost every season of the year, and there was a small orchard and still smaller garden rising up behind, with rocks and a small spring, being in reality a l)it of the mountain which had been captured and enclosed. " Fields, goods, and far off chattels we have none ; These narrow bounds contain our private store Of tilings earth makes, and sun doth shine ui)on : Here are they in our sight— we have no more." i ^ They made th e most of their small domain, constructed an arbor, cut steps in the rock, brought "chosen plants and blossoms blown among the distant mountains " to deck their "happy garden," and settled down blissfully in their cottage, "with its o^vn dear brook, Its own small pasture, ahnost Its own sky." One servant of sixty, taken partly out of charity, ' ' very ignorant, very foolish, and very difficult to teach " ministered to their wants. It is painful to think what poor Dorothy must have had to contend with. From the day she was reunited to her beloved brother her one thought had boon how best to foster and develop his genius. She herself had, as is admitted by men well able to judge, genius enough to raise her to a high place in literature, yet she quietly resigned all thought of distinction for herself, and devoted hor life to smoothing his path. She lived with him in a spiritual union as close as that of man and wife, and worked for him like a servant of the good old-fashioned sort. She tramped along dirty highways, scaled rough fell sides, and thought nothing of walking twenty miles at a stretch, and j-et she found time to keep pace with him in his mental excur.sions too. As a writer in Blackwood says : — "This union was so close, that in many instances it becomes difficult to discern which is the brother and which is the sister. She was part not only of his life, but of his imagii.,ation. He saw by her, felt through hor, at her touch t>hB strings of tlie instrument began to thrill, the ^reat lX)]tOTHir Ain> WILLIAM WOftDSWOftTH. 245 melodies awokei Her journals are Wordsworth in prose, just as his poems are Dorothy in verse." • One of the prettiest bits in her journals is the description of a birch tree : — " As we went along we were stopped at once, at a distance of, perhaps, fifty yaids from our favorite birch tree. It was yielding to a ^t of wind, with all its tender twigs ; the sun shone upon it, and it glanced in the wind like a flying sunshiny shower. It was a tree in shape, with stem and branches, but it was like a spirit of vater." Lockhart says of these journals : — "Few poets ever lived who could have written a description so simple and original, so vivid and picturesque. Her words are scenes and something more. " Five or six of her poems are printed with her brothers, and make us wish for more. "Which way does the wind come ? " is admirable. No one will ever know how much of hers is incorporated in his. Another bit of Dorothy's writing may be quoted iio show that she was highly practical, and her mind active and observant all round. She was furnishing the Town-End cottage for De Quincey after her brother had left it, and chose mahogany for his bookshelves instead of plain deal, because "native woods are dear, and i* case De Quincey should quit the country and have a sale, no sort of wood sells so well as mahogany. " When a man and woman undertake to lead together a life of " plain living and high thinking," the brunt of the struggle always must fall on the woman. William no doubt was pacing about his "sweet garden orchard eminently fair." writing pretty poems to his green linnets and robin red- breasts, while Dorothy was in the kitchen struggling with the preparation of dinner ; but one thing is most sure, and that is that whatever she underwent of suffering would be repaid when she read such words as these : — *' And she who dwells with me, whom I have loved With such communion, that no place on earth Can ever be a solitude to me," etc. She herself says, "He was never afraid of comforting his sister — he never left her in anger, he always met her with joy — he preferred her society to every other pleasure. " And yet what contrasts life must have presented to this woman endowed with such exquisite perception of beauty, though probably the beauty she saw made her insensible to all that was at variance with it. "How did Wordsworth get about ? " asked Mr. Rawnsley of an aged man who had been in the poet's service. "He and Mrs. Wordsworth and Dorothy and me we went a great deal by cart. " ' ' What sort of a cart ? " * ' ^Vhy a dung cart to be sure, just a dung cart wi' a seat in front and a bit ; 't: lii m 1)0R0THY AND WlLLlAM WOftDSWORTtf. o' bracken in t' bottom, comfortable as owt We could go that way lor days and far enough." " But you must have gone precious slowly." "Ay, ay, slow enough, but that was Mr. Wordsworth's fancy. " Other old folks from whom Mr. Eawnsley tried to extract reminiscences had a pronounced opinion about the poet's indebtedness to his sister. " Why. why, but she was a ter'ble clever woman was that ! Slio did as much of his potry as he did, " said one. "You've hoerd tell of Miss Dorothy, happen ? Well, folks said she was the cleverest mon of the two at his job, and he allays went to her wlien he was puzzlet. Dorothy had the wits, though sh«^ went wrung ye knaw," said another. "Mrs. Wordsworth was a manager, never a studier, yet for a' that, there's no doubt he and she was truly companionable, and they were ter'ble fond of one another, but Dorothy had the wits on 'em both," said a third. In 1802 Wordsworth married, but Dorothy did not cease to be all she had been ; she only took one more person to her heart. Her brother's children were her children, their home hei^s till the end. Wordsworth once said that he did not "l>elieveber tenderness of heart was ever exceeded by any of God's creatures— her loving kindness had no bounds." His life after his marriage was comparatively calm and uneventful. Two young children died in 1812, but happy was the man who could say, "We lived without further sorrow till 1836, when my sister became a confirmed invalid." This, from the sad nature of her illness, must have beer the greatest sorrow of his life. The malady had for some years shown signs of its existence, but at last it was seer* that there was no hopa Wordsworth died in 18o0. His sister was not with him during his illness, nor did she see him die. and when she realized her loss she said, ' ' There is now nothing to live for ! " She, however, survived him nearly five j'oars, and died January 25th, 1855. She lies at her brother's right hand, fit resting-jilace for one who had been the mainstay of his life. —The Athenceum. S WORTH. Art builds on sand, tho works of prido And human passions change and fall ; But I hat which shares tho life of God With Him survivoth all. 256 (PUOM WATSON'S " WOUDSWOUTIl'S GRAVE. ") It nuiy Ije that his maidy chant, lx>side More dainty numbers, seems a rustic tune; It may Ix) thought has broadened since ho died U|)on the century's noon ; It may bo that we can no longer share Tlio faith which from his fathers he received ; It may b(i that our doom is to despair Where ho with joy believed, — Enough' that there is none since risen who sings A song so gotten of the immeiiiate soul, So instant from the vital fount of things Which is our source and goal ; And though at touch of later hands there float More artful tunes than from his lyre he drew, Ages may pass ere thrills another note So sweet, so great, so true. " Poet who sleepest by this wandering wave, When thou wast born, what biith-gift hadst thou then? 'J'o thee what wealth was that the Immortals gave The wealth thou gavest in thy turn to men ? Not Milton's keen, translunar music thine ; Not Shakespeare's cloudless, boundless human view ; Not Shelley's flush of rose on peaks divine ; Nor yet the wizard twilight Coleridge know. Wliiit hadst thou that could make so large amends For all thou hadst not and thy peers possessed, Motion and fire, swift means to radiant end? — Thou hadst, for weary feet, the gift of rest. From Shelley's dazzling glow or thunderous haze, • From Byron's tempest-anger, tempest-mirth, INlen turned to thee and found— not blast and blaze. Tumult of tottering heavens, — but peace on earth. Nor peace that grows by Lethe, scentless flower, There in white languors to decline and cease ; But peace whose names are also rapture, power, Clear sight, and love : for these are parts of peace, " ^ 256 POBTIO TRIBUTES TO WOBDSWORTa i ** No word-mosaic artificer, he sang A lofty song of lowly weal and dole, Sight from the heart, right to the heart it sprang, Or from the soul leapt instant to the souL He felt the charm of childhood, grace of youth, Grandeur of age, insisting to be sung, The impassioned argument was simple truth Half wondering at its own melodious tongua Impassioned? Ay, to the song's ecstatic core ! But far removed were clangour, storm, and feud ; For plenteous health was his, exceeding store Of joy, and an impassioned quietude. " (PROM WATSON'S POEM "TO EDWARD DOWDEN.'*) " And then a third voice, * long unheeded— held Claustral and cold, and dissonant and tame — Found me at last with ears to hear. It sang Of lowly sorrows and familiar joys, Of simple manhood, artless womanhood. And childhood fragrant as the limpid mom ; And from the homely matter nigh at hand Ascending and dilating, it disclosed Spaces and avenues, calm heights and breadths Of vision, whence I saw each blade of grass "With roots that groped about eternity, And in each drop of dew upon each blade The mirror of the inseparable AIL The first voice, then the second, in their turns Had sung me captive. This voice sang me free. Therefore, above all vocal sons of men, Since him whose sightless eyes saw hell and heaven. To "Wordsworth be my homage, thanks, and love." ^ The preceding lines of this poem deal with Stielley and Keats. T exei pre] has mil be has tio: rea sec of pa wl ge a\ ac to P li ■f EXAMINATION QUESTIONS. BY WILLIAM HOUSTON, M.A. The fact that the questions set at academical examinations exercise an important influence on the teaching of those who prepare candidates for them has long been admitted, but it has not for all that been allowed its proper weight in deter- mining the kind of treatment to which literary texts should be subjected in the school-room. Far too much prominence has in these examinations been given to tho kind of informa- tion which is included in what is usually called "side reading," far too little to the kind of knowledge which can be secured only by thorough familiarity with and comprehension of tho texts themselves. This evil is partly the cause and partly the corsequence of the elaborate annotations with which both teachers and pupils are only too familiar. The general tendency of such annotations is to draw attention away from what is essential and direct it to what is merely accidental in poetry as one of the fine arts — to give prominence to mere information about a poem and throw into the back- ground all considerations of artistic structure and technique. No student makes such a mistake about works of art in the spheres of architecture, sculpture, painting, or music. The personality of the great artists in these spheres has become of little moment in comparison with thoir work, and by allowing them to drop into this kind of obscurity we unconsciously pay the highest possible tribute to their marvellous genius. For the purposes of the art student it matters little whether the plays of Shakespeare were written by Shakespeare or by Bacon ; it matters a great deal how they are put together and worked up by the dramatic artist whoever he was. The personality of the authors of the "Iliad " and the '* Odyssey " has been lost beyond recovery, and so has that of the author of the "Book of Job;" is the esthetic value of these great works lessened thereby ? Not a whit Why then should tht m ;1F 268 BXAMINATION QUESTIONflL m, i mind of the student be so persistently drawn away from those things that are of real artistic and esthetic value and be so persistently directed to what has for the most part only historic or scientific importance? The following examination questions have been framed mainly with a view to suggest the kind of treatment to which the poetry should be subjected in the class-room. I have not arranged them into "examination papers," preferring to give a brief atatomont of what should, in my opinion, be kept in view by the examiner in the construction of a paper. There should be optional questions on every ]iaix}r. This is equivalent to saying that more questions shouM bo asked on the paper than the candidate can reasonably be expected to answer, and this fact should be made known to him by a plain and absolute prohibition from attempting more than the number of questions selected as the basis of the maximum number of marks. For example, if ten questions, Avith an a' erage of ten marks for each, make the maximum, then there should bo fifteen questions on the paper, the candidate being forbidden to attempt more than ten. but allowed to take any ten. The chief advantages of this plan are, (1) that the examiner is allowed freedom to make his questions instructive to teachers without subjecting candidates to undue risk of failure; (2) that he can introduce "bonus" questions by giving the candidates a chance to draw on their knowledge of literary texts not prescribed. Several specimens of sucli (luosti(ms will be found below (6, 8, 10, 17, 19, 20, 21, 25. 27, 29). Questions that can be answered from an editor's notes, or from any other outside source, might well be avoided alto- gether, and if introduced at all they should be allowed so little prominence that the atteuticm of teachers and pujoils would no longer be pointotUy and almost irresistibly diverted from what is essential and valuable to what is accidental and compara- tively worthless. There is not time enough in the scliooi tns, and the pedagogical value of the papers is thus greatly impaired. Comi^ctition is apt to become unfair, is certain to prove misatisfactory, to the candi- dates, if the nature of the work is not so clearly defined before- hand as to enable both teachers and candidates to know how to apply themselves with the gi'oatest advantage to the achievement of their aim — a high position for the latter in the class list. In the absence of coniiietition the examiner may examine and the teacher may teach Avith no other end in view than culture, primaiily esthetic but also ethical and intellec- tual. It would be a fair ground for fault-finding on the part of a disappointed candidate for a prize if he were asked to compare "Michael" with -'The Lady of the Lake," or '• Evangeline," or *' Enoch Arden ;" no candidate would have any reasonable ground of complaint at being allowed to choose such a question in preference to some other in a merely qualifying examination if not more than one of the kind is put on each paper. This does not imply that it is objectionable to rank candidates in classes. On the contrary that practice has much to commend it, provided the grouping is intelli- gently done and the candidates are ranked alphabetically in each class. The questions here given have been framed on the supposi- tion that those who answer them have the texts of the poems Ixjfore them. This would be absolutel3r necessary to seciire anything like thorough treatment of the various topics sug- gested by the questions. It is to be hoped that in the near future an adequate supply, in the examination hall, of texts without notes or comments may be available for the purpose of making written examinations what they should be — a fairiest of the character of work done in the past and a useful indication of the manner in which it should be carried on in the f utur& m 1. Wordsworth places "Michael" m a group of "poams founded on the affections." Arnold places it in a group of "narrative poems." Which title is the better one for this poem, and why? 2. Arnold says: "The greatness of a poet lies in his powerful and beautiful application of ideas to life . . . Wordsworth deals with it {i.e. Life), and his greatness lies in his dealing with it so powerfully. " (a) Select anyone of the three poems— " Michael," "Keso- Jution and Independence," or "Hart-Leap Well"— and write 260 BXAMIKATION QUBSnONft I a note on it either from Arnold's point of view or from an opposite one. (6) Qiiote any passage from Wordsworth's poems in which bo gives his own theory of poetry, and compare that theory with Arnold's above quoted. 3. (a) Account on artistic grounds for the disproportionate lengths of the two parts into which "Michael" is divided by the mention of the son's bad conduct : ' ' Meantime Luke began, etc." (i) Give reasons for holding that the shortness of the latter part is a merit, or that it is a defect. 4. Arnold quotes, as exhibiting "Wordsworth's "true and most characteristic form of expression," the lino, " And never lifted up a single atone." On what grounds can this view of it be defended or refuted ? 5. Write a note on Wordsworth's use of iambic pentameter blank verse in " Michael," with special reference to (a) adher- ence to the typical rhythmical form of the line, {b) use of the sense pause, and (c) the sacrificing of matter to form or of form to matter. 6. Compare " Michael " with any one of the following epics, in (a) artistic motive, (A) suitability of theme for j)ootical treatment, (c) mjiti'ical form, and {d) rhetorical style : (1; The Lady of the Lake. (2) Evangeline. (3) Enoch Arden. (4) Dora. 7. Arnold says that the ballad is a low kind of poetry, and that the "didactic kind" is still lower. In another part of his essay he says of " Resolution and Indejiendence," that " it is bald as the bare mountain tops are bald, with a baldness which is full of grandeur. " In view of the fact that ' ' Resolution and Independence" is a didactic poem, reconcile the two opinions quoted above, or show that they are irreconcilable. 8. (a) What reason have we to believe that Wordsworth really intended to teach by means of ' ' Hart-Leap Well " the doctrine that Nature actually punishes cruelty to animals ; or to t^ach by means of the ■ Ode on the Intimations of Im- mortality " the doctrine of pre-existenco? {h) On the assumption that he did not really believe either doctrine, discuss the artistic legitimacy of making a poetical use of it (c) On the same assumption, dte an analogous instance of the use by any other poet of a doctrine which he did Hot really hold &.S part of bis philosophical or scientific creed. hi EXAMINATION QUESTIONS. 261 |m an leory lonato 3d by Luke latter and 9. (a) Give a summary of the argument of the * ' Intimations of Immortality. " (6)^ Discuss the appropriateness of the various changes of metrical form to the transitions of thought throughout tlie poem. (c) Emerson described this ode as " the high-water mark of English thought" in the nineteenth century. Arnold says tliat Iho idea of the " Intimations " has not "the character of poetic truth of the best kind. " Which of these opinions do you prefer, and why ? 10. (a) Compare the thi-eo odes — "Character of the Happy Warrior," " To Duty," and " Intimations of Immortality "— with each other, (1) as to metrical form, (2) as to ethical teaching, (3) as to esthetic value, and (4) as to autobio- graphical element. (6) Compare any one of these odes, as to the first three of the above aspects, with any one of the following : Grays "Bard." Tennyson's "Death of Wellington." Milton's -'Nativity." 11. Wordsworth calls " Tinteni Abbey" a poem of the imagination ; Arnold classes it among "reflective and elegiac'' poems. Which is the preferable classification, and why ? 12. (a) Write, with special reference to the Tintern Abbey, a note on Wordsworth's use of nature, (1) as a subject for descriptive poetry, (2) as a source of moral or spiritual influence, and (B) as a repertoire of analogies between the real and the Meal. (b) Compare the "Tintern Abbey" with "Intimations of fmrnortality" as to the various uses ipade of Nature for poetical purposes. lu. "Tintern Abbey" is said to have been composed by Words wortli in a very short time, immediately after the visit of which it speaks. (a) Point out any defects of form which may be regarded as traceable to haste in composition. (b) Does the shortness of time in this case warrant us in calling the poem an extempore one ? 14. Write a note on each of the following quotations from the "French llovolutio" ' : — (a) " When Reason seemed the most i.o sissert her rights." (b) " that which sets The budding rose alaove the rose full blown." m (c) "Not in Utojiia, subterranean liclds, Or some aeerctcd island." 1 i Hi u. it 262 EXAMINATION QUESTIONS. (( The Foun- 15. (o) Trace carefully the elegiac element in tain." (6) Compare it in rospoct of this element with Tennyson's "Brook" lyric, or with his " Bugle Song." (o) CJompare it with either of these lyrics as regards the use of nature. 16. (a) Define accurately Wordsworth's theory or philosophy of nootry, as embodied in his ' ' Poet's Epitaph. " (6) How far is that theory consistent with the life ho actually led ? (c) To what extent is his ideal realized in his poetical writings '? {d) Can Wordrt worth's strong i)reforonce for his own calling to others be justified on the grounds hero set forth, or on any other grounds ? 17. (a) Wordsworth, looking at a picture of Peele Castle and recalling its appearance as ho had once seen it, compares the actual picture with the imagiuiiiy one. From the data supplied by this poem show which of the two arts, painting or poetry, is superior to the other as a means of representing a scene in nature to one who does not actually see it. (6) Cite, and (if you can) quote the opinion of any other poetical artist on this point (c) Justify or condemn, on purely artistic grounds, the introduction into the pcjom by Wordsworth of his own elegiac mood in connection with the above comparison. 18. (a) On what does Arnold base his distinction between a "narrative poem" and a "poem of ballail form," taking "Fidelity " as the former and '• Lucy Gray " as the latter. (6) "Lucy Gray, "he says, " is a beautiful success." Can this be said of "We ai'e seven?" Give reasons for your answer. 19. (a) Wordsworth calls ' ' The Keverie of Poor Susan " a poem of the imagination ; Arnold calls it a poem of ballad form. Wliich is the more appropriate title, and why ? (b) Elaborate in a short essay the idea embodied in this little poem. (c) Compare it with any other imaginative poem you know, such as Longfellow's " Arsenal at Springfield" or his " Rope- walk," or Tennyson's "Bugle Sung "or "Crossing the Bar," in artistic beauty and poetical suggestivoness. 20. (a) Compare Wordsworth's two poems "To a Skylark" with eacli other in boiiuty and appropriateness of metrical form. EXAMINATION QUESTIONa 268 an- ion's use jphy fe he Jtical any (6) Compare either of them in these same respects with either Hogg's poem or Shelley's on the same subject. (c) Which poem of Wordsworth's two is on the higher plane as to treatment of theme ? (d) Compare them in this respect also with Hogg's and Shelley's. 21. (a) Explain fully all that is implied in calling the lines " To the Daisy" a lync poem. (6) It is an exposition of the poet's thoughts and feelings throughout; does this fact make the epithet "lyric" more ajjpropriate, or less so ? (c) Arnold says that "Wordsworth owed much to Burns." Wnat illustrations does this poem afford of the truth of this statement ? 22. (o) The two poems on the cuckoo differ greatly from each other as to the relative proportions they exhibit of the esthetic and the othic element ; compare them in this respect, tracing each element in each poem. (b) Give, with reasons, your opinion as to their relative merits from this point of view, as poems. (c) Prof. Dowden, mentioning the fact that Wordsworth l)roduced at various times several versions of one stanza of the poem liegimiing "O blithe new comer," remarks that it took the poet half a century to produce "this dew-drop of litera- ture." Which stanza of the poom seems most clearly entitled to this distinction on the ground of poetic beauty ? 23. (a) Compare the three pictures of womanhood in the three poems, " A Highland Girl," "Stepping Westward," and " The Solitary Eeaper." (6) Account, by means of the conditions of Wordsworth's life for the i)roduction of such pictures as the result of impres- sions made on him by passing strangers. (c) In so far as these poems are evidence of a general and abiding interest in humanity, show how they agree with othera of Wordsworth's poems. 24. "Yarrow Visited" is a continuous blending of the sprightly with the ele,'j:iuc. " Profitless dejection " is exclude) By a careful analysis of any one of Wordsworth's sonnets make clear the cc^rrectiios-? of your description. 27. (a) Explain fully tho grounds on which Wordsworth himself in his sonnets imtities his use of this highly artificial form of composition. (6) Compare any one of his sonnets with any one by Shake- speare, Sponsor, or Miltcm, of whom he speaks, or by anj' other English writer of sonnets. 28. (a) Discuss the appropriateness of the Sonnet as a vehicle for such lofty themes as those dealt with in III., VI., and XVII. (6) Discuss its appropriateness in connection with a simple topic like that treated in XXVI. or XXIX. 29. (a) Compare tho three ."ionnets on "Personal Talk'' minuteh' with each other in artistic structura (6) Devolope in a brief essay the line of argument that runs through them. (c) Show whether this train of thought agrees with the auto- biographical element in Wordsworth's poems generally. 30. Select from the poems anywhere five specimens as per- fect as possible of each of the following modes of tone-color : — (a) Eime. (6) Alliteration. (c) Vowel-distribution through the line. ((i) Consonant-distribution through the Una {IS- Ipur- nna: kith you tho 1e of and rth'i IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) t 1.0 1.1 l^|2J3 |25 |io ■^™ JJJMB ■^ ^ §22 L£ 12.0 ■u 1.25 lljl — 6" I' i 1.8 U IIIIII.6 p>. V. / ->>' V '/ ^ Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WIST MAIN STMET WEBSTER, N.Y. MSM (716)S72-4S03 4S K <° IN ONE VOLUME. IRVING'S SKETCH-BOOK WITH Sketch of Author^s Life , Compositional, Critical and Explanatory Xotes. By G. A. CHASE, B.A. ' -,>■ AND AN INTRODUCTION TO TALISMAN \ l^v CHARLOTTE M. YONGE, With NOTES AND GLOSSARY. GAGE'S EDITION OF IRVING'S SKETCH-BOOK. Sketch of Life. In addition to a sketch of Irving's Life, Gage's edition has appended to it annotations of different kinds, consisting of the usual explanatory notes, various criticisms upon the different pieces as they pass under review, remarks upon the place of literature in connection with the teaching of language with suggestions as to methods to be pursued, and a compositional analysis of some of the typical " sketches." Annotations. While all the annotations have a compositional bearing — the criticisms being directed to the character and use of the author's matter rather than to what is commonly called his stj^le — the compositional analysis is an attempt to show the author's method of work — his thought, his aim, his plan, and the development of his plan. It is hoped that this last feature will be found useful, especially to the younger teachers of composition, by calling attention to the conscious frame-work of an author's production, in such a way, however, that the pupils taste for literature will not be injured, but rather inereased. The author's art will thereby be brought clearly to view and a new source of pleasure pointed out. Type. The Type in this edition is large and distinct, a most important matter in any book intended for use in schools. GAGE'S EDITION OF IRYING'S SKETCH-BOOK SPECIMEN ILLUSTRATION. (FROM INTRODUCTORY NOTE TO SKETCH-BOOK.) The annotations appended to this volume are almost wholly of a compositional character ; the style of the author is so simple, the allusions are to objects of such every-day know- ledge, that little of an explanatory nature is needed. The Mualytical notes are an attempt, in reference to a few of the l)ieces, to show the author's methods of work — his thought, his aim, his plan, his development of his plan ; they are not intended as a model for an analysis of the remaining pieces of the volume, though it is advisable to have the pupils give outline sketches of some of these, such sketches containing much of the same matter as the analysis but without the author's consciousness of his plan. FROM INTRODUCTORY NOTE TO SKETCH-BOOK. The process to which the pieces referred to have lieeu sub- mitted may seem opposed to what is said below in re be taken up by itself, not when the piece is being read for enjoyment, otherwise a distaste for literature will certainly follow. We pull a flower to pieces only when we wish to examiiiC its structure : usually we gaze on it, we smell it, that we may receive pleasure from its beauty and its fragrance. Nothing is said about the author's structure of sentences or paragraphs ; should information on these be required, it is readily attainable ; the page is open to inspection by all. It is to be feared that the author's practice in reference to para- graphs will not. in all cases, be held up as worthy of imita- tion. Little blame is to be attached to him therefor ; — , literature does not exist for paragraphs. G. A. Chase. ! S ' (IN ONK rOLrMK WITH IRVrNC.'S SKETCHBOOK.) INTRODUCTION TO TALISMAN BV CHARLOTTE M. YONGE. With a view of making this edition of the Sketch Book still more valuable, the publishers have decided to republish, along with the annotated edition of the Sketch Book, a valu- able Introduction to the Talisman by Miss Charlotte M. YoNGE. giving an outline to the plan and scope of the Talis- man. Along with this Introduction has been added Notes and Glossary to supplement those not found in Black's new edition of Talisman. introduction to Talisman. By Charlottej M. Yongb, gives appropriate information of tlie great historical personages and events mentioned in this work. Character of Walter Scott . This brief article has been reprinted from Lockhart's " Life of Walter Scott," and will be found of interest to all readers of Scott. Notes and Glossary. The Notes and Glossary will be found to be useful to supplement those in Black's Cheap Edition of the Talisman — this edition being the one commonly used in school work. •PBOIMIN ILLUBTilATION. CiESAR'S GALLIC WAR. BOOKS III. AND IV. Edittd, with Notes, Vocabulary, etc.^by ^. C. ROBERTSON, B.A,. Ciassr ical Master, Owen Sound Collegiate Inatsitute. BOOK III., SO CKNTS. BOOKS III. AND IV., 7B OKNTS. LEADING FEATURES. The following may be noted as among the important features of the new Text on Caesar. The Introduction. This consists of five sections written for the capacity of the students who will use the book ; a life of Caesar ; a description of Gaul and the Gauls ; a summary of each book of the Gallic war, that students beginning with Book III. cssar's gallic war. or IV. may understand the previous course of events ; a description of the Commentaries as a work of literature ; a sketch of the Roman Army and methods of warfare. The Text, Haps and Illustrations. For convenience of reference the subsec- tions of chapters are indicated in tlie margin and in the notes. Two maps are given, one from Kraner's edition, the most complete yet published in a Canadian text, the other a sketch map giving the main features needed to understand the story of CsBsar's campaigns. A number of illus- trations have been prepared to make more vivid the pupils' conception of Roman warfare. The Appendices. The first contains a series of exercises in translation at sight, of sentences chosen from Csesar and illustrating the constructions and vocabulary used in each chapter. An equally valuable feature, serving as an introduction to these exercises, is a series of hints and suggestions for the translation of Caesar's Latin. These hints are arranged according to syntatical order, but deal solely with the best idiomatic rendering of such forms and usages as are cwn- mon in Caesar. CA^SAK'tS liALMt; WAR. The second Appendix gives a graded series of exercises in prose composition. These are not sentences in which Csesar's phrases are reproduced in much the same form as given in the text, but will both test and develop the power to use a given phrase in an entirely new setting. Instead of the pupil merely selecting, he must combine a phrase and a construction, both occurring in the text, but separ- ately. In all these exercises idioms and usages rarely occurrint? are avoided. The Notes. The notes to each chapter are divided into two parts, the first for the average student, containing all that is necess- ary to the understanding and idiomatic translation of the text, and not a word more ; the second for the development of scholarship in the more advanced pupils. Apart from tlie exercise of common sense selection, the editor has tried to avoid the extremes of giving too much and giving too little help by two devices. First, in most cases only such parts of a sentence are translated as con- Cesar's gallic wail m tain the difficulty ; second and more important still, con- stant reference is made to the hints for the translation of Ceesar referred to above. By this means, in case of dith- culty, the pupil can readily find, within the same covers, just the help he wants ; while on tlie other hand, where the pupil is proficient enough to do without any explanation, the assistance needed for a weaker student is not directly before his eyes, tempting him to use it instead of depending on his own resources. Marginal Space. A new feature is introduced in printing the text, so as to leave ample room for the making of marginal notes by students. Briefly the Book is specially Notewortliy as containing: Gr<»ded exercises in sight translation and in re-translation. Hints and suggestions for the rendering of Ccesar's Latin. Constant reference to these hints in the notes. Notes divided into two parts for the different classes ofst udent. An illustrated introduction. Reference to the new authorized text-book and Grammars. Vo<:ahulary that will be found complete and accurate. NEW FRENCH LITERATURE FOR 1893. BOITKD BY SQUAIN AND MaoGILLIVRAV, LES FRERES COLOMBE, ■Y PEYRRBRUNE. AND LA F6e, ■Y FEU I LLET (in one volume.) Prescribed for High School Leaving and University Matriculation for I8s)». Edited by J. Squaih, B.A., University Ck)llege, Toronto, and Prok. MacGil- LiVRAY, Ph.D. Queen's University, Kingston. The plan of this carefully prepared text is in the main that of the Editors' " Sardou and De Maistre " of lust year, consists of a general introduction, 'critical bio^jraphical notices of the authors, texts, notes — grammatical and liter- ary — with reference to the High School Grammar, complete vocabulary, and continuous composition exercises based on the texts. NOTES. In the Notes, textual difficulties are explained, i^eculiar- ities of construction noted, and the grammatical points • involved enunciated and referred to the authorize■■ m lieadlng FeatureN. 1. The Notes are arranged Topically under such headings as beiii iudioate. the True Growth of the nation. 2. The Progress of the People, the Struggle for Freedom, the Establisli- ment of Representative Government, and the Development of Eklu- cation, Literature and Religion, are given more prominence than wars. .H. The Colonial Extension of the British Empire is briefly outlined. 4. The whole History is Classified, so that the Relationships of the Great Upward Movement can be understood. .'i. The aiTangement of the Notes makes it Easy, Definite and Thorough Reviewing, perfectly simple without a teacher. «. The Notes supply an Admirable Preparation for the jstudy of larger histories, and the best means for Clearly Remembering what has been learned from them. 7. Ample space has been left for Additional Notes, to be written by the stu- dent. K The Notes can be used in connection with any History, and are intended to Stimulate the Further Study of the important subject with which they treat. By the use of tills Note Book i. Time is Saved to teachers and pupils. 8. Success at Examinations made more certain. 3. Interest is Awakened in the study of History. 4. A simple, definite Method of Studying History is revealed. W. J. Gage & Co.'s Publications. Gage's Standard and High School Book- keeping Bl anks. Pj'epaied in Accordance with Recent Regulations of Educational D'-.partment. Made out of Extra Fine paper, having specially hard surface and firm texture, this being particularly desirable for a book which requires so much handling preparatory to inspection by exaniiiiei*3. Large Fost 4to, 8^ x 10?, Unit Ruled, 104 pages, Press Board Covers, Cloth Back. Fifth Edition. Price 45 cents. Contains : Note^ on Book-Keeping. Day Book. Journal, Cash Book. Six-Column Journal. Commission Sales Book. ] Ledger with Index. i'onlaiii!^ every tiling required. Your lKX)k contains in itself everything required in order to enable third-class candidates to c'{«nply with the recent regulations of the educational department in respect to the commercial course. The special points in which your book excels are : (1) its size, wnicli is very convenient ; (2) its having ruled pages for a commercial sales book ; (.i) ruled amount colimins ; and (4; ruled spaces for trial bal- ance, balance sheets, etc.— J. A. WisMEK, M.A., Commercial Mas- ter, Jameson Ave. C.I., Toronto. fiUsill recomnieud It. I have no hesitation in saying thfrt it is superior to any book of the kind now published. I shall recommend it to my classes and to others. Tlie Ixwk itself will be its best recommendation.— W. E. Evans, M.A., Science and Com. Master, Port Hope H. S. Better than any I have seen. I consider it better adapted for the purpose Intended than any of the other blank books I Iiave seen. — C S. Falconer, M.A., Com- mercial Master, Alexandria H.S. Trial Balance. General Statement. Balance Sheet Model Forme of Notes, Dr.ifts, Cheques, etc. Bill Book. Snperloi* to any. Am very much pleased with it. It is much sui)erior to any that I have seen. Have recommendefl my students to get it in preference to all others.— A. R. Innks, M.A.. Voiiimercial Master Richmond Hill High School. An Improvement. Have examined Blanks and found them an improvement on former ones. Shall use them. — J. D Brukls, M.A., Head Master Deseronto High School. The finest production. I have great pleasure in des- cribing it as the finest production of the kind yet published in this country. It cannot fail to meet the appit>val of commercial masters throughout the province.— L. Kin- near, M. A., Head Master Cayuga High School. Pleased. Am much pleased with it.— J. 8. CoPLANn, M.A., Science and Com, Master, Brockville C.I. In every way excellent. In every way excellent.— John Houston, Head Master Brighton High School. t.i