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§;;;'

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. *

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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

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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,

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

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r

irtsMont OP woftDswosnt

•\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-

MEMOIR OP WORDSWORTH.

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

St(

18|

at I
tld

IIEMOIR OF WORDSWORTB.

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

MEMOIR OF WORDSWORTK

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-

MEMOIR OP WORDSWORTH.

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

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

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.

THE LITERARY MISSION OF WORDSWORTH.

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*

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.

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

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

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,

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.

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

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.

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.

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

int

an<

tlTBRARY MISSION OF tVOftDSWOllTfl.

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.

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.

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

WORDSWORTIl^S POBTRt.

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.

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

WORDSWORTH'S POETRY.

^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.

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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 ?

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.

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."

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.

'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

^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.

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.

w
iss

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.

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.

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

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.

)■!

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.

" My eyes are dim with childish tears,

My heart is idly stirred ;
For the same sound is in my ears

Which in those days I heard.

"Thus fares it still in our decay :

And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what age takes away

Than what it leaves behind.

"The blackbird in the summer trees.

The lark upon the hill,
Let loose their carols when they please,

Are quiet when they will.

"With Nature never do 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.

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.

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^^

> V '

'im

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.

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

1 ;

it.

\VOK2)SlVOR 77/ 'S POEMS.

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.

■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

* Clipping is the word used in the North of England for shearing.

!' I

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.

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

ifif

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.

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

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,

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

'^-

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<l hale. Do thou thy part ;

I will do mine. I will begin again

With many tasks that were resigned to thee.

Up to the heights and in among the storms

Will I without thee go again, and do

All works which I was wont to do alone

Before I knew thy face. Heaven bless thee, boy 1

Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast

With many hopes. It should be so. Yes, yes,

I knew that thou couldst never have a wish

To leave me, Luke; thou hast been bound to me

Only by links of love. When thou art gone,

What will be left to us ? But I forget

IMy purposes. Lay now the corner-st(me,

As I recpiested ; and hereafter, Luke,

When thou art gone away, should evil men

Ik' tliy companions, think of me, my son,

And of this moment ; hither turn thy thoughts,

And Ood will strengthen thee. Amid all fear

And all temjjtation. Luke, T pray that thou

Mayst bear in mind the life thy fathers lived,

woRDswoRrfrs poems.

Who, being innocent, did for that cause

Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well.

When thou returnest, thou in this place wilt see

A work which is not here — a covenant

'Twill be between us. But whatever fate

]}efall thee, I shall love thee to the last,

And bear thy memory with me to the grave."

The shepherd ended here ; and Luke stooped
down,
And, as his father had requested, laid
The lirst stone of the sheepfold. At the sight
'I'he old man's grief broke from him ; to his heart
He pressed his son, he kiss5d him and wept ;
And to the house together they returned.
Hushed was that house in peace, or seeming peace,
Kre the night fell : with morrow's dawn the boy
Began his journey ; and when he had reached
The public way, he put on a bold face ;
And all the neighbors, as he passed their doors,
Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,
That followed him till he was out of sight.

A good report did from their kinsman come,
Of Luke and his well-doing ; and the boy
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news,
Which, as the housewife phrased it, were throughout
"The prettiest letters that were ever seen."
Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.
vSc), many months passed on ; and once again
The shepherd went about his daily work
With confident and cheerful thoughts ; and now
Sometimes, when he could find a leisure hour,
He to that valley took his way, and there
Wrought at the sheei)fold. Meantime Luke began

u 1

i' !

WORDS WOR TH'S POEMS.

To slacken' in his duty ; and, at Icnj^th
He in the dissolute city g'ave himself
To evil courses : ii^nominy and shame
Fell on him, so that he was tlriven at last
To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas.

There is a comfort in the strength of love ;
'Twill make a tiling endurable which else
Would overset the brain or break the heart.
I have conversed with more than one who well
Rememb'T the old man, and what he was
Years after he had heard this heavy news.
His bodily frame had been from youtli to age
Of an unusual streniifth. Amonir the rocks
He went, and still looked up towards the sun,
And listened to the wind ; and, as before,
Performed all kinds of labor for his sheep,
And for the land his small inheritance.
And to that h(3llow dell from time to time
Did he repair, to build the fold of which
His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet
The pity which was then in every heart
For the old man ; and 'tis believed by all
That many and many a day he thither went
And never lifted up a single stone.

There, by the sheepfold, sometimes was he seen.
Sitting alone, with that his faithful dog.
Then old, beside him. lying at his feet.
The length of full seven years, from time to time,
He at the building of this sheepfold wrought.
And left the work unfinished when he died.
Three years, or little more, did Isabel
Survive her husband. At her death the estate
Was sold, and went into a strangers hand.

WORDS WOR TIPS POEMS.

The cottage which was named the Eveninc; Star
Is gone ; the ploughshare has been through the ground
Or which it stood ; great changes have been wrought
In all the neighborhood : yet the oak is left
That grew beside their door ; and the remains
Of the unfinished sheepfold may be seen
Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll.

HARr-Ll<:AP WELL.

[Ilart-lcap Well is a sma" sprinj^ of water, about five miles from
Riclunoiul, in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road that leads
from Riclunoiid to AsUrigg. Its name is derived from a remark-
able chase, the memory of which is preserved by the monuments
spoken of in the second part of the followinjr poem, which nioiui-
ments do now exist as I have there described them.]

The knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor
With the slow motion of a summer's cloud ;

He turned aside towards a vassal's door,

And " Bring another horse ! " he cried aloud.

" Another horse ! " That shout the vassal heard,
And saddled his best steed, a comely gray.

Sir Walter mounted him ; he M'as the third
Which he had mounted on that glorious day.

Joy sparkled in the ])rancing courser's eyes ;

The horse and horseman are a hapjiy pair ;
But, though Sir Walter like a falcon Hies,

There is a doleful silence in the air.

\ -H'l

r 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.

' ■

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.

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.

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.

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.

•'■ .

" 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.

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.

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 !

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.

*• 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 :

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.

68 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS.

?.Icthinl<s that there abides in thee
Some concord witii humanity,
Given to no other flower 1 see
The forest through !

And wherefore ? Man is soon deprest ;
A thoughtless thing ! who, once unblcst,
Does little on his memory rest,

Or on his reason ;
But thou wouldst teach him how to find
A shelter under every wind,
A hope for times that are unkind

And every season.

TO THE DAISY.

; ! i ■■

In youth from rock to rock I went,
From hill to hill in discontent
Of pleasure high and turbulent.

Most pleased u'hen most uneasy ;
But now my own delights I make, —
My thirst at every rill can slake.
And gladly Nature's love partake

Of thee, sweet Daisy !

Thee Winter in the garland wears
That thinly decks his few grey hairs ;
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs,

That she ma)' sun thee ;
Whole summer-fields are thine by right ;
And Autumn, melancholy wight !
Doth in thy crimson head delight
When ruins are on thee.

iiWi*rii

IVORDSIVOR T/rs PO/^MS.

In shoals ami hands, a inorricc train,
Thou grcet'st the traveller in the lane,
Pleased at his greetintj thee again ;

Yet nothing daunted,
Nor grieved, if thou be set at nought :
And oft alone in nooks remote
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,

When such arc wanted.

Be violets in their secret mews

The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose ;

Proud be the rose, with rains and dews

Her head impcarhng.
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim.
Yet hast not gone without thy fame :
Thou art indeed by many a claim

The Poet's darling.

If to a rock from rains he fly.
Or, some bright day of A]iril sky,
Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie

Near the green holly.
And wearily at length should fare ;
He needs but look about, and there
Thou art ! — a friend at hand, to scare

His melancholy.

■ i

A hundred times, by rock or bower.
Ere thus I have lain crouched an hour.
Have I derived from thy sweet power

Some apprehension ;
Some steady love : some brief delight :
Some memory that had taken flight ;
Some chime of fancy wrong or right ;

Or strav invention.

i I)

70 HVKJ)Sin)N77/\S J'0/:.\fS.

If stately passions in me burn,

And one chance look to 'I'liee slioukl turn,

I drink out of an humbler urn

A lowlier pleasure ;
The homely sym|)athy that heeds
The common life our nature breeds ;
A wisdom fitted to the needs

Of hearts at leisure.

Fresh smitten by the morninj^ ray.
When thou art uj), alert and ^ay,
Then, cheerful Flower ! my si)irits play

With kindred j^ladness :
And when, at dusk, by dew s ojjprest
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest
Hath often eased my pensive breast

Of careful sadness.

And all day long I number yet,

All seasons through, another debt, .

Which I, wherever thou art met.

To thee am owing ;
An instinct call it, a blind sense ;
A happy, genial influence,
Coming one knows not how, nor whence,

Nor whither going.

Child of the Year ! that round dost run
Thy course, bold lover of the sun,
And cheerful when the day s begun

As lark or leveret.
Thy long-lost praise* thou shalt regain ;
Nor be less dear to future men
Than in old time ; — thou not in vain

Art Nature's favorite.

♦ See, ill Chaucer and the elder Poets, the lionors formerly paid
to this flower.

■f fl

ivoKDaivoj^ n/'s ronMs.

TO A IIIOMLAND GIRL

(at INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH I,OMOND. )

Sweet Mipfhland girl, a very shower

Of beauty is Ihy cartlily dower !

'I'wice seven consentiiiJi;' years liavc shed

'I'hei'- utmost bounty on thy head :

And these gray rocl<s — this househohl lawn ;

These trees, a veil just half withdrawn ;

This fall of water, that doth make

A murmur near the silent lake ;

This little bay, a quiet road

That holds in shelter thy abode —

In truth, together do ye seem

Like something fashioned in a dream ;

Such forms as from their covert peep

When earthly cares are lai<l asleep ;

^'et, dream and vision as thou art,

I bless thee with a iumian heart ;

(iod shield thee to thy latest years!

Thee neither know I nor thy peers ;

And yet my eyes are tilled with tears.

With earnest feehng I shall pray
For thee when I am far away ;
For never saw I mien or face
In which more plainly I could trace
Benignity and home-bred sense
Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here scattered like a random seed,
Remote from men, thou dost not need
The embarrassed look of shy distress
And maidenly shamefacedness ;

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.

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,"

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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.

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.

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.

And prompt to welcome every gleam

Of good and fair,
Let us beside this limpid stream

Breathe hopeful air.

Enough of sorrow, wreck, an<l blight :
Think rather of those moments bright
When to the consciousness of right

Mis course was true,
When wisdom prospered in his sight

And virtue grew.

^'cs, freely let our hearts expand,
I'Veely as in youth's season bland.
When side by side, his book in han<l.

We wont to stray,
Our ]>leasure varying at command

Of each sweet lay.

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

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.

^.'

*i~.*

O blessed bird ! the earth wc pace

Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, fairy place.

That is fit home for thee I

■■;■■

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THE CUCKOO AGAIN.

Yes, it was the mountain Echo,

Solitary, clear, profound,

Answering to the shouting Cuckoo,

Giving to her sound for sound I

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.

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.

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* Tim is a small mere or lake, mostly high up in the mountains.

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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.

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

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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

:'<!

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WOMnSlVO/i TH'S POEMS.

In which the meagre, stale, forbidding wa)'s

Of custom, law, and statute took at once

The attraction of a country in romance !

When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights,

When most intent on making of herself

A prime enchantress, to assist the work

Which then was going forward in her name !

Not favored spots alone, but the. whole earth,

The beauty wore of promise — that which sets

(As at some moment might not be unfelt

Among the bowers of Paradise itself)

The budding rose above the rose full-blown.

What temper at the prospect did not wake

To happiness unthought of? The inert

Were roused, and lively natures rapt away !

They who had fed their childhood upon dreams,

The playfellows of fancy, who had made

All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and strength.

Their ministers, — who in lordly wise had stirred

Among the grandest objects of the sense,

And dealt with whatsoever they found there

As if they had within some lurking right

To wield it ; they, too, who, of gentle mood,

Had watched all gentle motions, and to these

Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild,

And in the region of their peaceful selves ; —

Now was it that both found, the meek and lofty

Did both find helpers to their heart's desire,

And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish ;

Were called upon to exercise their skill,

Not in Utopia, subterranean fields.

Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where,

But in the very world, which is the world

Of all of us, — the place where in the end

We tind our happiness, or not at all !

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WORDS WORTim FOEMS.

I 'H

ODE TO DUTY.

"Jam non consilio bonus, sed more c6 perductus, ut non tantum
recte facere possim, sed nisi recte facere non possim."

Stern daughter of the voice of God

O Duty ! if that name thou love
Who art a Hght to guide, a rod

To check the erring, and reprove ;
Thou who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe,
From vain temptations dost set free,

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity I

There are who ask not if thine eye

Be on them ; who in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely

Upon the genial sense of youth :
Glad hearts, withou ;proach or blot,
Who do thy work and know it not :
Long may the kindly impulse last !
But thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand
fast!

Serene will be our days and bright.

And happy will our nature be.
When love is an unerring light,

And joy its own security.
And they a blissful course may hold,
Even now who, not unwisely bold,
Live in the spirit of this creed.
Yet seek thy tirm support according to their need.

WORDSWORTJl'S POEMS.

I, loving freedom, and untried —

No sport of every random gust,
Yet being to myself a guide —

Too blindly have reposed my trust ;
And oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task, in smoother walks to stray ;
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

Through no disturbance of my soul,
Or strong compunction in me wrought,

I supplicate for thy control ;
But in the quietness of thought.

Me this unchartered freedom tires ;

I feel the weight of chance desires ;

My hopes no more must change their name,

I long for a repose that ever is the same.

Stern 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.

To humbler functions, awful power !

I call thee : I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour ;

Oh, let my weakness have an end !
Give unto me, made lowly wise.
The spirit of self-sacrifice ;
The confidence of reason give,
And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live !

\:'\:

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WORDS WOR TH ' S POEMS.

ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY.

FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD.

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight.

To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore ;
Turn wheresoe'er 1 may,
By night or day.
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

II.

The rainbow comes and goes,

And lovely is the rose ;

The moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare ;

Waters on a starry night

Are beautiful and fair ;
The sunshine is a glorious birth ;
But yet I know, where'er I go.
That there hath passed away a glory fiom the earth.

in.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song.
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound.

WORDS IVOR 1 H 'S POEMS.

To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,

And I again am strong.
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ;
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng ;
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay ;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every beast keep holiday.
Thou child of joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
shepherd-boy !

IV.

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call

Ye to each other make ; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ;
My heart is at your festival.
My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all.
Oh, evil day if 1 were sullen
While the earth herself is adorning

This sweet May morning,
And the children are pulling

On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers, while the sun shines warm.
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm !
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear !
— But there's a tree, of many, one,
A single field which 1 have looked upon.
Both of them speak of something that is gone ;

\ '■■\'

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92 VVORDSWORTirS POEMS,

The pansy at my feet

Doth the same tale repeat :
Whither is tied the visionary gleam ?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream ?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting :
The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And Cometh from afar ;
Not in entire forgetfulness.
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God, who is our home.
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ;
Shades of the prison-house begin to close

Upon the growing boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,

He sees it in his joy ;
The youth, who daily farther from the East
Must travel, still is Nature's priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended ;
At length the man perceives it die away.
And fade into the light of common day.

VI.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind.
And even with something of a mother's mind,
And no unworthy aim,

The homely nurse doth all she can
To make her foster-child, her inmate man.

Forget the glories he hath known.
And that imperial palace whence he came.

WONDS lyOA' Til ' S POEMS.

VII.

Behold the child among his new-born bhsses,

A six years' darling of a pigmy size !

See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,

Fretted by sallies of his mothers kisses,
With light upon him from his father's eyes !
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart.
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly learned art ;
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral.

And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song ;

Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife ;

But it will not be long

Ere this be thrown aside,

And with new joy and pride
The little actor cons another part ;
Filling from time to time his •' humorous stage"
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That life brings with her in her equipage ;

As if his whole vocation.

Were endless imitation.

f-r'

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VIII.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie

Thy soul's immensity ;
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage ; thou eye among the blind.
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Haunted forever by the eternal mind —

Mighty prophet ! seer blest !

On whom those truths do rest

: I

myjiDsivoh' T/rs poems.

Which we aro toiliiii,^ all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ;
Thou, over whom thy immortality
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,
A presence which is not to be i)ut by ;
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height.
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provt)ke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly vvith their blessedness at strife ?
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life !

! .!

IX.

O joy ! that in our embers

Is something that doth live.
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive !
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction — not, indeed,
For that which is most worthy to be blest ;
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest.
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast :
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise ;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings ;
Blank misgivings of a creature
Moving about in worlds not realized.
High instincts before which our mortal nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised ;

E
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iyo/<Dsivoh' T//\s Po/iArs.

Ikit for those first affections,
'I'lioso shadowy recollections,
Wliich, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all our clay,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing ;
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eterneil silence : truths that wake,

To perish never ;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor,

Nor man nor boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy !

Hence, in the season of calm weather,
Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither.
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the children sport upon the shore.
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

Then sing, ye birds ! sing, sing a joyous song !

And let the young lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound !
We in thought will join your throng,

Ye that pipe and ye that play.

Ye that through your hearts to-day

Feel the gladness of the May !
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now forever taken from my sight,

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 ;

n'OA'DSlVOR TJJ'S rOEMS.

■1 ■ i

In the the primal sympathy
Which, having been, must ever be,
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering.
In the faith that looks through death,
h\ years that bring the philosophic mind.

And O, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves

Think not of any severing of our loves !

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might :

I only have relinquished one delight

To live beneath your more habitual sway.

I love the brooks which down their channels fret,

P^ven more than when I tripped lightly as they ;

The innocent brightness of a new-born day

Is lovely yet ;
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober coloring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er mans mortality ;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears.
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR.

Who is the happy warrior .? Who is he
That every man in arms should wish to be ?
It is the generous spirit who, when brought
j^.mong the tasks of real life, hath wrought
Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought ;

WORDS WOR TIJ 'S POEMS.

Whose high endeavors are an inward light
That makes the path before him always bright ;
Who, with a natural instinct to discern
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn ;
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there,
But makes his moral being his prime care ;
Who, doomed to go in company with pain
And fear and bloodshed — miserable train ! —
Turns his necessity to glorious gain ;
In face of these doth exercise a power
Which is our human nature's highest dower :
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves
Of their bad influence, and their good receives ;
By objects which might force the soul to abate
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate ;
Is placable, because occasions rise
So often that demand such sacrifice ;
More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure,
As tempted more ; more able to endure
As more exposed to suffering and distress ;
Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.
'Tis he whose law is reason ; who depends
Upon that law as on the best of friends :
Whence, in a state where men arc tempted still
To evil for a guard against worse ill.
And what in quality or act is best
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest.
He fixes good on good alone, and owes
To virtue every triumph that he knows :
Who, if he rise to station of command.
Rises by open means, and there will stand
On honorable terms, or else retire.
And in himself possess his own desire ;
Who comprehends his trust, and to the same
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ;

■ :i

ii 1 !

gS WORDS WORTH'S POEMS.

And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait

For wealth or honors, or for worldly state ;

Whom they must follow ; on whose head must fall

Like showers of manna, if they come at all ;

Whose powers shed round him, in the common strife

Or mild concerns of ordinary life,

A constant influence, a peculiar grace ;

But who, if he be called upon to face

Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined

Great issues, good or bad for human kind,

Is happy as a lover ; and attired

With sudden brightness, like a man inspired ;

And through the heat of conflict keeps the law

In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw ;

Or if an unexpected call succeed,

Come when it will, is equal to the need :

He who, though thus endued as with a sense

And faculty for storm and turbulence,

Is yet a soul whose master-bias leans

To home-felt pleasures and to gentle scenes ;

wSweet images ! which, wheresoe'er he be.

Are at his heart, and such fidelity

It is his darling passion to approve ;

]\Iore brave for this, that he hath much to love :

"'Tis, finally, the man who, lifted high,

Conspicuous object in a nation's eye,

Or left unthought of in obscurity, —

Who, with a toward or untoward lot,

Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not,

Plays, in the many games of life, that one

Where what he most doth value must be won ;

Whom neither shape of danger can dismay

Nor thought of tender happiness betray ;

Who, not content that former ^vorth stand fast,

Looks forward, persevering to the last,

'•I1,

WOJiDSlVOR 77/ 'S POEMS,

From well to better, daily self-surpast ;

Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth

Forever, and to noble deeds give birth,

Or he must go to dust without his fame

And leave a dead, unprofitable name.

Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ;

And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws

His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause :

This is the happy warrior ; this is he

Whom every man in arms should wish to be.

THE LEECH-GATHERER ;

OR,
RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE.

There was a roaring in the wind all night ;

The rain came heavily and fell in floods ;
But now the sun is rising calm and bright ;

The birds are singing in the distant woods ;

Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove broods ;
The jay makes answer as the magpie chatters ;
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.

All things that love the sun are out of doors ;
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth ;

The grass is bright with rain-drops ; on the moors
The hare is running races in her mirth.
And with her feet she from the plashy earth

Raises a mist that, glittering in the sun.

Runs with her all the way wherever she doth run.

I was a traveller then upon the moor ;

I saw the hare that raced about with joy ;
1 heard the woods and distant waters roar ;

Or heard them not, as happy as a boy.

■ I

I i:;

•i 3

lOO

WORDS WOR TH ' S POEMS.

The pleasant season did my heart employ :
My old remembrances went from me wholly
And all the ways of men so vain and melancholy.

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
Of joy in minds that can no further go,

As high as we have mounted in delight,
In our dejection do we sink as low :
To me that morning did it happen so ;

And fears and fancies thick upon me came ;

Dim sadness — and blind thoughts I knew not, nor
could name.

1 heard the skylark warbling in the sky ;

And I bethought me of the playful hare :
Even such a happy child of earth am I,

Even as these blissful creatures do I fare ;

Far from the world 1 walk, and from all care ;
But there may come another day to me —
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty

My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,
As if life's business were a summer mood :

As if all needful things Avould come unsought
To genial faith, still rich in genial good :
But how can he expect that others should

Build for him, sow for him, and at his call

Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all ?

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy,
The sleepless soul that perished in his pride ;

Of him who walked in glory and in joy,

Following his plough, along the mountain-side :
By our own spirits are we deified ;

We poets in our youth begin in gladness ;

But thereof comes in the end despondency and mad-
ness.

WORDSWORTH'S POEMS.

lOI

Now, whether it were by pecuHar grace,
A leading from above, a something given,

Yet it befell that, in this lonely place,
When I with these untoward thoughts had striven.
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven

I saw a man before me unawares :

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore gray hairs.

As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie
Couched on the bald top of an eminence ;

Wonder to all who do the same espy.

By what means it could thither come, and whence ;
So that it seems a thing endued with sense ;

Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf

Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself ;

Such seemed this man, not all alive nor dead.
Nor all asleep, in his extreme old age :

His body was bent double, feet and head
Coming together in life's pilgrimage ;
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage

Of sickness felt by him in times long past,

A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.

Himself he propped — his body, limbs, and face —
Upon a long gray staff of shaven wood :

And still, as I drew near with gentle pace,
Upon the margin of that moorish flood.
Motionless as a cloud, the old man stood ;

That heareth not the loud winds when they call ;

And moveth all together, if it move at all.

At length, himself unsettling, he the pond
Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look

Upon the muddy water, which he conned,
As if he had been reading in a book ;

■ ■■ ■" I

I02

WORDS IVOR Tirs POExMS.

"•^ .

:■! ■ >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 ;

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 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

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.

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 ; ■

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

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

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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

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 !

■'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

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I \

f
1

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.

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

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

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

(

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

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 —

sJti

lit
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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-

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.

'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 '.

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

140

WORDS WORTirS POEMS.

! .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

^■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.

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:

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.

! ■'

^ 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\

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.

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 ?

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.

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

■

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.

** 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.

" 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.'-

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.

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

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! "

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.

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.

" 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.

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 :

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 reuni<jn in the shades below.
The invisible world with thee hath sympathized ;
Be thy affections raised and solemnized.

i6o

WORDS IVOR Til 'S rOEMS.

" Learn, by a mortal yearning- to ascend
Towards a hiyfluT object. Love was given,

Phicouraged, sanctioned, chieHy for tliat end ;
For this tlie passion to excess was driven —

That self might be annulled: her bondage prove

The fetters of a dream, oi)posed to love.''

I \

Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes reapj^ears !

Round the dear shade she would have clung — 'tis
vain —
The hours arc past — too brief hati they been years —

And him no mortal effort can detain.
Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day,
He through the i:)ortal takes his silent way,
And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse she lay.

Ah, judge her gently who so deeply loved !

Her who in reason's spite, yet without crime,
Was in a trance of passion thus removed ;

Delivered from the galling yoke of time
And these frail elements, to gather flowers
Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers.

Yet tears to human suffering are due ;
And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown
Are mourned by man ; and not by man alone,
As fondly he believes. Upon the side
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew
From out the tomb of him for whom she died ;
And ever, when such stature they had gained
That Ilium's walls were subject to their view,
The trees' tall sunnnits withered at the sight :
A constant interchange of growth and blight !

Hi;:

WORDS IVOR TirS POEMS.

l6l

111.

ON THK KXTINCTION OK THK VENKTIAN KKPrni.lC.

Onck (lid she liold the i^orf^coiis East in fee,

And \v;is the safc!^''uard of the West : the worth

(Jf Venice did not laU below lier birth,

Venice, tiie eldest child of Liberty.

She was a maiden city, bris^dU and free ;

No «j^uile seduced, no force could violate ;

And, when she took unto herself a mate,

She must csjiousc the cverlastins^ Sea.

And what if she had seen those glories fade,

Those titles vanish, and that strcn^fth decay ;

Yet shall some trilnite of reg-ret be paid

When her long life hath reached its fmal day.

Men arc we, and must grieve when even the shade

Of that which once was great is passed away.

VI.

THOL'GHT OF A BRITON ON THE SURJUG.\TION OF SWITZER-
LAND.

Two voices arc there ; one is of the sea,

One of the mountains, each a mighty voice :

In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,

'i'hev were thv chosen music. Libert v !

There came a tyrant, and with holy glee

'I'hou fought'st against him ; but hast vainly striven :

Thou from the AljMue holds at length art driven,

Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.

Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft ;

Then cleave, O cleave to that which stiil is left ;

1^2 !r()A'/)siroA"/v/'s poems.

For, hijj^h-soulccl Maid, what sorrow would it be
That mountain floods should thunder as before,
And Oeean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful voice be heard by thee!

VII.

.Wt

: i ?
■ I

WRITTEN IN LONDON, SK1>TEMI3KI<, 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

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 frien<! of humankind !

xi.\.

Scorn not the sonnet ; critic, you have frowned,

Mindless of its just honors ; with this key

Shakespeare unlocked his heart ; the melody

(Jf this small lute jj^ave ease to Petrarch's wound ;

A thousand times this l>ipe 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.

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 <dideth at his own sweet will:

Dear (rod ! the very houses seem asleep ;

And all that mit'-htv heart is W\\\si .still !

XLII.

IVIosT sweet it is with unuplifted eyes

To pace the ground, if jiath i)e there or none,

\\'lii]e a fair region round tlu- tra\'eller lies

Which he forbears aL,'"ain to look upon ;

Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,

The work' of fanc-\', or some happy tone

Of meditation, slippiuLC in between

Th.e beauty comii\i^^ luid the beaut}' .t(t)ne.

If Thouj^b.t and T.ove desert us, from that day

Let us bri.-ak of all commerce with the ]\Iuse:

With Thout^ht and Love eomjianions of our way,

Whate'er the senses take or may refuse.

The mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews

Of insjjiration on the huml)lest lay.

xr.iii.

ON THE DKPARTURl': OF SIR WAI.TF.R SCOTT IROM ABIIOTSFORI)

FOR NAPLES.

A TROunr.K, not o^ clouds or wee]>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

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.

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, unbreathe<l upon. 'I'hrice-happy quest.

If from a jjcolden perch of aspen spray

(October's workmanship to rival IVb'iy)

The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast

Tliat moral sweeten by a heaven-tauidit lay,

Lullinjj^ the year, with all its cares, to rest I

LVII.

IN SIC.IIT OF THE TOWN OF COCKF.RMOl'TH.
(WIkti* the author was liorn, aiul his father's remains arc hud,)

A roiNT of life between my parents' dust.
And yours, my buried little-ones, am I ;
And to those j^raves lookinj^'- habitually
In kindred tjuiet I repose my trust.

ivoRDsin)h' r//'s poems.

I 71

Death to tlic innocent is more than just,
And, to the sinner, mercifully bent ;
So may 1 hope, if truly 1 repent
And meekly bear the ills, which l)ear I must.
And you, my ofispriny;-, that do still remain.
Vet may outstrip me in the api>ointed 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- ,<M"rl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning tlew.

"A basla-t on lier head she bare ;
Her brow was smooth and white :
To see a child so \er}' fair,
It was a j)nre delight !

" Xo fountain from its rocky cave
Iver tripjied witli foot so ['\vv ;
.*>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

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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 !

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

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

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><erl in relief upon
his imagination, even by her. Death and its sunny anti-
pole are forced into connection." — De QuiNCEY.

m %^.

TINTERN ABBEY.

Of this poem Wordsworth says : ' ' No poem of mine was
composed under circumstances more pleasant for me to remem-
ber than this. I began it upon leaving Tintern, after crossing
the Wye, and concluded it just as I was entering Bristol in the
evening, after a ramble of four or five days, with my sister.
Not a line of it was altered, and not any part of it written
down till I reached Bristol. It was published almost imme-
diately after in the little volume," the Lyrical Ballads, 1798.

This poem has been styled "the loctcs vlassicus, or conse-
crated formulary of the Wordsworthian faith. "

Myers remarks : "So congruous in all ages are the aspira-
tions and the hopes of men that it would be rash indeed to

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS.

187

are

attempt to assign the moment when any spiritual truth rises
for the first time on human consciousness. But thus much, I
think, may be fairly said, that the maxims of Wordsworth's
form of natural religion were uttered before Wordsworth only in
the sense in which the maxims of Christianity were uttered be-
fore Christ. To compare small things with great— or, rather, to
compare great things with things vastly greater — the essential
spirit of the Lines near Tintern Ahhey was for practical purposes
as new to mankind as the essential spirit of the Sermon on the
Mount. Not the isolated expression of moral ideas, but their
fusion into a whole in one memorable personality, is that
which connects them forever with a single name. Therefore
it is that Wordsworth is venerated ; because to so many men
— indifferent, it may be, to literary or poetical effects, as such
— he has shown by the subtle intensity of his own emotion
how the contemplation of Nature can be made a revealing
agency, like Love or Prayer— an opening, if indeed there be
any opening, into the transcendent world."

Tintern Abbey. — A German traveller has called this abbey
"the most beautiful ruin in the world." It is on the right
bank of the Wye in Monmouthshire.

These waters. — "The Wye, between Monmouth and its
junction with the Severn at Chepstow, flows between steep and
beautifully wooded hills. The bed of the river is rocky, and the
fall is so rapid that the tide only penetrates a few miles from
the mouth." Compare In Memoriam :

" There twice a day the Severn fills,
The salt soa-wato.r passes ])y.
And hushes half the babbling Wye,
And makes a silence in the hills."

Impress thoughts, etc. — The lofty cliffs direct the attention
to the deep quiet of the sky, and thus they secrn to deepen the
seclusion of the narrow valley.

In silence. — Turner makes a happy comment : "The silence
is made noticeable by the human life, implied by the smoke,
but of which there is no other sign. "

Unremembered acts.— The recurrence of the word 'unre-
menibcred ' seems unfortunate. One looks for some connection
with ' unremembered pleasure ' above ; but the ' imremembered
jiloasnre' is a cause, and the ' unremembered acts ' are a result,
so there is no parallelism in the thought as the language
would seem to imjily.

Aspect. —Nature, or quality.

The burthen, etc. —Compare The Prelude, I. 20-23 :

" It is shaken off,
""he burthen of my own unnatural self,
x'lio hea\y woi<,''hi of many a weary day
Not n\ine, and such as were not made for me,"

.tr

188

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS.

< u

§3
!

The affections. — The higher emotions.

Of this. . .belief. — This carries the reader back to '* nor les^,
I trust."

Fretful stir unprofitable. — "Our English poetic diction has
inherited certain traits from the bilingual period. There is
what may be called the ambidextral adjective; where two
adjectives are given to one substantive, one being placed before
and the other after it. At first the prepositive adjective was
Saxon and the postpositive Romanesque ; but this was soon
forgotten, while the ambidextral habit was retained.'' — Earle.

The fever of the world. — Compare Macbeth, III. 2, 22 :

"Duncan is in his ffrave.
After life's fitful fever lie sleeps well."

Hung upon. — Weighed down.

For nature then, etc. — There are three periods in the Poet's
experience, — (1) when the love of Natux'e was supreme ; (2)
when the love of Nature was secondary to the love of Man ;
(3) when the love of Man and the love of Nature have become
coequal and interfused.

Glad animal movements, etc. —Compare The Prelude, I. :

" Thus oft amid those fits of vulprar jo.v
Which, through all seasons, on a child's pursuits
Are promnt attendants, 'mid that siddy bliss
Which, like a tempest, works along the blood
And is forgotten : ovon then I f(>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.

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.

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 " :

'* 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)

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,

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<l penury, and with still lakes and
happy rivers instead of Norway's inarming melancholy sea.
They are a mountain folk ; but their mountains are no preci-
pices of insuperable snow, such as keep the dwellers in some
Swiss hamlet shut in ignorance and stagnating in idiocy.
These barriers divide only to concentrate, and environ only to
endear ; their guardianship is but enough to give an added
unity to each group of kindred homes, and thus it is that the
Cumbrian dalesmen Lave afforded perhaps as near a realization
as human fates have yet allowed of the rural society which
statesmen desire for their country's greatness. They have
given an example of substantial comfort strenuously won ; of
home affections intensified by independent strength ; of isola-
tion without ignorance, and of a shrewd simplicity ; of an
hex'editary virtue which needs no support from fanatacism, and
to which honor is more than law. "

A Pastoral Poem is a poem of the epic variety dealing with
the life and manners of shepherds.

Green-head Ghyll. — This is a glen not far from Town-
End, Grasmere, where Wordsworth was living at the time
"Michael'* was written. Dr. Arnold of Rugby in a letter to
a friend (1832) tells of a walk he had with Wordsworth up
Green-head Ghyll to see the unfinished sheepfold recorded in
"Michael"

Clipping Tree. — 'Clippmg' is the word used in the north of
England for ' shearing.'

The following variants occur in the poem : —

(1) vv. 18-20:

" And to that simple object appertains
A story,— unenviched with strange events,
Tet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,"

(2) vv. 66, 67

" Hills, which with vigorous st^
He had so often climbed ; "

(3) V. 112 :

** With huge and black prnjcetion overbrowed "

in, or
thia

latioD

mtry

leme.

they

but

and

sea.

)reoi-

NOTBS ON WORDSWORTH^S POEMS.

(4) V. 145 :

" Fond spirit tha^ blindly ;vork9 in the blood of all—"

(5) V. 147 is o nittcd in ArnoM's edition. It runs thu"? :

" Moro than all other gifts
That earth can oiler to declining man,"

(0) vv. 108-166:

" When he
Wrought In the field, or on his shepherd's stool
Sat with a fettered slieep before him stretdied
Under tlie large old oak, tluvt near his door
Stood single, and, from mateliless depth of shade "

(7) vv. 221-221 :

" As soon as he had armed himself with strength
To look his troul)le in the face, it seemed
The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once "

(8) V. 25;} :

" Ho may return to us. If here he stay,"

(9) V. 456 :

" He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud,"

(lOj V. 468 :

" Sitting alone, or \vith his faitliful dog,"

A number of variations in single words inaj'' be noticed :

V. 1 : ' step '
V. 10: 'thither'
V. 124: 'sate'

197

V. 214 : ' pressed '
V. 263 : ' his '
V. 338 : ' touch on '
• V. 374 : ' burdened '
V. 409 : ' temptations '

for * steps. '

" 'hither.'

" 'sat.'

' ' ' ])re3t. '

" 'this.'

" 'speak of.'

" 'burthened.'

' ' ' temptation. '

"In the matter of style this is the most perfect of all
Wordsworth's narrative poems ; perhaps in no poem of
his is there such complete suboidination of language to
the thought ; the two are related in such a way as to
illustrate a style which conserves the mental economy of
the reader. The theme and the language are equally
simple ; there is no attempt to heighten the effect by arti-
fices of ' poetic diction.' This being so, what is there in
the poem that renders it the delight of all who are familiar
"with it ? It is its sympathy, its sincerity, its vigor — that
tone which comes from living and thinking close to the
heart of things." — Charge.

•98

R0TB8 ON WORDSWORTH'S POBM&

(2) "Your teachers are wisest when they make you content
in quiet virtue; and that litoratui'e and art are Inwt for
you which point out, in (jonnuon life and faniiliiir thiii;gH,
the objects for hopeful labor and for humble love. ■—
liuskin.

(3) " The right sort of verse to choose from Wordsworth, if
we are to seize his true and most charactoi'istio form of
expression, is a line like this from Michael : —

•' And never lifted uj) a single stone."

There is nothing subtle in it, no heightening, no study of
poetic style, stnotly so called, at all ; yet it is expression
of the highest and most truly expressive kind. " — Arnohl.

(I) *' Wherever we meet with the successful balance, in
Wordsworth, of profound truth of subject with profound
truth of execution, he is unique. His best poems are
those which most perfectly exhibit this balanca If I had
to pick out poems of a kind most perfectly to show Words-
worth's unique power, I should choose poems such as
Michael, The Fountain, The Highland Reaper.^

HART-LEAP WELL.

This poem was written and published in 1800 with the
author's prefatory note.

In the poet's later MS. notes we find the following :

*' Written at Town-End, Grasmere. The first eight stanzas
were composed extempore one winter evening in the cottage ;
when, after having tired myself Avith laboring at an awlwvard
passage in The Brothers, I started with a sudden imijulso to
this to get rid of the other, and finished it in a day or two.
My sister and I had passed the place a few weeks before in our
wild winter journey from Sockburn on the banks of the Tees
to Grasme*e. A peasant whom we met near the spot told us
the story so far as concerned the name of the well and the hart,
and pointed out the stones. Both the stones and the well are
objects that may easily be missed ; the tradition by this time
may be extinct in the neighborhood ; the man who related it
to us was very old. "

Doleful silence. — A characteristic touch. The poet will not
present to us joy unmixed, but he must throw it under the
shadow of the coming event,

•' This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell ;
His death was mourned by sympathy divine."

■t

NOTES ON WOUDSWORTII'S POEMS.

199

intent
ost fi)r
hin-js,
h'o. ''-

rtli. if
km of

Cleaving^ sleet. — Sleet that adheres.

Paramour. Lady-lovo, originally not used in a bad sense.

Swale. — The Swale and tho Ure are rivers in Yorkshire that
unite to fdvui tho Ouse.

Ere thrice the moon, etc. —When tho moon is used to indi-
cate tho passing of time, a month is usually suggested. Here,
however, the metaphor represents tho moon as sailing over tho
sky to her port in tho west. The clause " Ero thrice the moon
into her port had steered," is not to bo taken with tho thii'd
and fourth lines of tho stanza.

The moving accident, etc. — Cf. OthoUo, Act I, so. 3
ing accidents by flood and field. "

Hawes. . . . Richmond. — Towns in Yorkshire.

Mov-

fchb

De Quince^'^s comment on tho mingled tones of this poem is
valuable. He remarks that it is in Wordsworth's manner to
present an entanglement of darkness and light, — an influx of
the joyous into the sad, and tho sad into the joyous. — "Out of
Buffering there is evoked the image of peace. Out of the cruel
leap, and the agonizing race through thirteen hours ; out of
the anguish m the perishing brute, and the headlong courage
of his final despair, — out of the ruined lodge and the forgotten
mansion, boAvers that are trodden under foot, and pleasure-
houses that are dust, the poet calls up a vision of palinrfenesin ;
he interposes his solemn images of suffering, of decay and ruin,
only as a visionary haze through which gleams transpire of a
trembling dawn far off, but surely on the road.

'The pleasure house Is (liist

liut, at the coitiiiiff of tho milder day,
These itionuments shall all be overgrown.'"

List of variants occurring in the poem :

(1) vv. 3, 4 :

" And now, na lie n|)i)roachod a vassal's door,
' Bring fortli anijther horse !' he cried aloud "—(1836).

(2) V. 21 : The edition of 1800 has "chid and cheered. "

(3) V. 27 :

" This race it looks not like an earthly race."

(4) V. 35 : The earlier reading was ' ' smacked his whip. "

(5) V. 38 : The edition of 1800 has "glorious fact," and in v.

40 "all foaming like a mountain cataract."
he earlier reading was

*'Wa8 never man in Buch a joyful case,"

(6) V. 46 : The earlier reading was

ti^'f I'

i'1 •

:i{,!

200 NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS.

the rhyfiie holow being "place. "

(7) V. 49 : Originally "turning up the hill."

(8) V. 50 : Changed in 1815 to " four rods." Nine rods, 148^
feet, is a prodigious distance for three leaps !

(0) V. 51 :

"Three aeveral marks which vith his lioofs the beast"

(10) V. 52: In the first editions, " verdant ground "

(11) V. 51: Changed in 1836 to "human eyes."

(12) V. 65: Originally " gallant brute. "

(13) V. 80:

'• The fame whereof through many a land did ring."— (1800.)

(14) V. 90: Originally, " journeyed with his paramour. "

(15) V. 98 : The edition of 1800 had " curl the blood. "

(16) V. 113 : Till 1815 it was "hills."

(17) V. 150: "Lulled by this Fountain" (1800).

(18) V 153: The laler reading of 1836 Is "flowering thorn."

(19) V 157 : Until 1827, " But now here's"—

1|-

TO THE DAISY.

The poems addressed to this flower were written at Town-
End, Grasmere, in 1802, and jniblished in 1807.

The first stanza of this poem has been twice revised. In the
text we have the original reading. The edition of 1836 reads :

" Confriiiig flower, by Nature's care
Made Ijold,— who, loilaing here or there,
Art all the long year through the heir
Of joy or sorrow."

The edition of 1843 reads :

" Bright Flower, whose home is everywhere,
Bold in maternal Nature's care,
And all the long year through the heir
Of Joy or "sorrow ! "

Some concord, etc.— This was afterwards changed to "Com-
munion with humanity," but i-o-^tored in a siil)so.i|uent edition.

Thorough. — An ancient equivalent for '■through.'

The second stanza reads thus in editions later than the first :

" Is it that man is soon doprost -
A tliii;i.;i!t!('ss thing, who, once unhlcst,"

The fcjllowiug appears as a third stanza in some editions ;

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEM&

20:^

t)ds, 148i

0.)

" ThoH wander'st the wide world about,
Unoliecked b}' pride or scrui)ulous doubt,
With friends to preet thee or without,

Yet pleased and willing ;
Meek, vieldinpr to the occasion's call,
And all things siiflFering from all,
Thy function ajrastoUcal

In peace fulfilling."

Thy function, etc. — Wordsworth says of this : "I have been
censured for the last line but one — ' thy function apostolical' —
as being little less than profane. How could it be thought so ?
The word is adopted with reference to its derivation implying
something sent on a mission ; and assuredly this little flower,
especially when the subject of verse, may be regarded, in its
luimble degree, as administering both to moral and to spiritual
purposes. "

The student should examine the literary value of the last
dtanza, and determine for what probable reasons the poet's
riper judgment and taste rejected it.

thorn. "

TO THE DAISY.

b Town-

Inthe
' I'eads :

'Com-
lition.

first:

is;

In the edition of 18J.5 the foUoAving quotation from Wither
(with reference to his muse) was prefixed to the poem :

" Her di\ine slcill taught me this,
That from evei'ything I saw
I could some instruction draw,
And raise pleasure to the height
Through the meanest object's sight
By the murmur of a spring.
Or the least bough's rustling.
By a daisy v/bose leaves spread
Siiut when Titan goes to bed.
Or a shady busli or tree.
She could more infuse in me
Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man,"

A morrice train. — The morrice was a fantastic dance asso-
ciated with the old Mayday games of England.

Mev7S. — Hiding-places. The original meaning is, places for
coniining fowls while moulting.

Poet's darling. — With the exception of the rose, the lily, and
the violet, no flower has a more extensive literature than the
daisy. Beginning with early English the following are a few
of the best known passages :

" Of all the floures in the mede,
Than love I most tlicse floures white and rede,
Soch that men calleu daisies in our toun."

CiiA.vcKR.'-Lege}id qf Good Women,

• /

20?

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS.

^t$

; t

" That well by reason men it call may
The daiflie or el^ the eye of the day,
The emprise, and floure of floures all."

CiixvcER.— Legend of Good Women.

'• The grassy ground with dainty daisies dight."

Spenser.— 3Vie Shepherd's Calendar.

" And still ot every close she would repeat
The hurden of the song. The daisy is so sweet."

Dkyden.— T/te Flower and the Leaf.

" Wee, modest, crimson -tipped flower,
Thou's met me in an evil liour ;
For I maun crush amang the stoure

Thy slender stem ;
To spare thee now is past my power,
Thou bonny gem. "

BuKNS.— To a Mountain Daisy.

" There ia a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour.
And weathers every sky.

Montgomery.— .4 Field Flotver.

Wearily at length should fare. — Does this mean 'should bo
stretched out at full length,' or 'should at length move on"?
See below : ' ' Ere thus I have lain couched an hour " (not
crouched, as the text has it).

Apprehension. — The word has its root meaning from appre-
hendo, I seize.

Some chime of fancy. — A note of the poet in the edition of
1836 substitutes ' charm ' for ' chime, ' but all recent editions
have the original reading.

Careful sadness. — Notice the original meaning of ' careful '
here, ' full of care. '

Thy long-lost praise. — See the quotations from Chaucer
above.

The chief variants in this poem are these :

(1) vv. 7, 8 :

" And Nature's love of thee partake,
Her much-loved Daisy ! " (isao.)

(2) vv. 9-12 :

" When soothed awhile bv milder airs.
Thee Winter in his gar' nd wears.
That thinly shades hi? ''ew gray hairs ;
Spring cannot shun thee ; " (1807.)

" When Winter decks his few gray haim,
Thee in the scar^^y wreath he we'ara :
Spring parts," etc. (1827.)

The present reading dates from 1836.

(8)
(4)

(6)

yiuen.

Indar.

iLeaJ'.

NOTBS ON WORDSWORTH'S FOEMa

(8) W. 19-21. Until 1836 the reading was :

'* If welcome once, thou couiit'st it gain ;
Thou art not daunted,
Nor car'st if thou be set at naught."

(4) vv. 57, 58. The original reading was :

'* When, smitten by the moiiiin^ ray,
I see thee rise, alert and gay,"

(5) vv. 60-64 The original reading was :

" With kindred motion
At dusk, I've seldom marked thee press
The ground, as if in thankfulness.
Without some feeling, more or less.
Of true devotion."

208

(6) w. 73-75. The early reading this,
thus :

" Child of the year, that round dost run
Thy pleasant course, when day's begun
As ready to salute the sun," etc.

(7) V. 76. Originally read " As morning leveret. "

(8) vv. 77-79. The original reading was :

•♦ Thou long the poet's praise shalt gain ;
Thou yfWt be more beloved by men
In times to come;"

In 1815 this was altered to read :

" Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain ;
Dear shalt thou be to future men
As in old time."

The present text dates from 1836.

The revision reads

fii

(I)

(2)

' ' To Shelley a flower is a thing of light and of love, —
bright with its yearning, pale with its passion. To
Thomson a flower is an object which has a certain shape
and color. To Wordsworth a flower is a living partaker
of the common spiritual life and joy of being, a joy
which is at once calm and ecstatic."^— Z)ott?cZe7i.

' ' The product of Wordsworth's impassioned and illumined
gaze which we have in these three poems shows us in what
special sense he was the poet of Nature. His imagination
is both creative and perceptive, and is the result of habit-
ual communion with Nature, and constant reflection upon
her impressions. He comes to her as a priest to whom
she would confide her secrets ; his communion is holy,
and hence he inspires his disciples with an enthusiasm
which IS calm and deep, rather than tumultuous." —
Qeorge.

204

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS.

It will be noticed that George, in the foregoing extract,
refers to three poems. The third poem, not contained in the
text of the present edition, must be added here :

pen

?tai

TO THE DAISY.

" With little here to do or see
Of things that in the prrcat world be,
Daisy, aarain I tallc to thee,
^ For thou art worthy,

Thou unassumlnfi' common -pi ace
Of nature, with that homely face,
And yet with something of a urrace
Which Love makes for thee !

Oft on the dai)p1efl turf at ease

I sit and play with similes,

Loose types of thiii'js throus^h all de.^rees,

Thoughts of thy raising ;
And many a fond and idle name
I give to thee for praise or blame,
As is the humour of the game,

While I am gazing.

A nun demure of lowly port ;

Or sprightly maiden of Love's court.

In thy simplicity tlie sport

Of all temptations :
A queen in crown of rubies drest ;
A starveling in a scanty vest ;
Are all, as seems to suit thee besfr.

Thy appellations.

A little Cyclops, with one eye
Staring to threaten and det'y,
That thought comes next— and instantly

The freak is over,
The shape will vanish— and behold
A silver shield with boss of gold,
That sjjreads itself, some faery bold

In fight to cover !

I see thee glittering from afar—
And then thoa art a pretty star ;
Not quite so fair as many are

In heaven al)ove tliee !
Yet like a star, with glittering crest.
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ;—
May peace come never to his nest

Who shall reprove thee I

Bright Flower ! for by that name at last.
When all my reveries are past,
I call thee, and to that cleave fast !

Sweet silent creature !
That breath'st with me In sun and air.
Do thou, as thou art wont, rei)air
My heart with gladness, and a share

Of thy meek nature 1 "

In 1805 Wordsworth wrote a fourth poern "To the Daisy,"
in memory of his brother, Captain John Wordsworth, who

i\
w
ir
I

t<
e
c
f

Jxtraot,
in the

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEM&

perished at sea on the 5th of February, of that year,
stanzas of that poem may be quoted here :

*' Sweet Flower ! belike one day to have
A placo, upon thy Poet's grave,
I welcome thee once more :
But He. who was on land, at sea,
My Brother, too, in lovinfj thee,
Although he loved more silently,
Sleeps by his native shore.

205
A few

Yet then, when called ashore, he sought
The tender peace of rural thought ;
In more than happy mood
To your abodes, bright daisy Flowers !
Ho then would steal at leisure houi'S,
And loved you glittering in your bowers,
A staiTy multitude.

That neighborhood of grove and field

To Him a resting-place should yield,

A meeK man and a brave !

The birds shall sing and ocean make

A mournful murmur for his sake ;

And Thou, sweet Flower, shall sleep and wake

Upon his senseless grave."

TO A HIGHLAND GIRL.

In the year 1803 Wordsworth and his sister made a tour
through Scotland. Dorothy's Journal describes the '^leeting
with the beautiful Highland girl whom her brother has made
immortal : " "When beginning to descend the hill toward Looli
Lomond [they had walked over from Loch Katrine] we over-
took two girls, who told us we could not cross the ferry until
evening, for the boat was gone with a number of people to
church. One of the girls was exceedingly beautiful : and the
figures of both of them, in gray plaids falling to their feet,
their faces being only uncovered, excited our attention before
we spoke to them. I think I never heard the English lan-
guage sound more sweetly than from the mouth of the elder of
these girls, as she stood at the gate answering our inquiries,
her face flushed with the rain." The poet and his sister
waited at the ferry-house until the return of the boat in the
afternoon. 'Ihis experience at the ferry-house prompted the
writing of the poem some months afterwards.

Inversnaid (or Inversneyde), on the eastern shore of Loch
Lomond, is a small hamlet at the confluence of the Inversnaid
burn Avith a stream that flows west of Loch Arclet ; and is
the point of communication between Loch Lomond and Loch
Katrine. The present writer visited this delightful spot in
the summer of 1890, reaching Inversnaid pier to experience

206

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POBM&

just such rainy weather as flushed the sweet face of the High-
land Girl. The surrounding scenery is very charming, a fit
environment for the lovely maiden.

Consentingf. — The word is used in its primary sense {consen-
tire, ' to agrea ')

This fall of water. — The present editor in his tour through
the Highlands saw nothing more beautiful than the waterfall
at Inversnaid by which the burn, .lust before pouring its
crystal waters into Loch Lomond, takes an exquisite leap of
thirty feet.

The silent lake. — It would be impossible to exaggerate the
loveliness of Loch Lomond. Px'ofessor "Wilson prefaces his
description of that richly romantic lake with this utterance :
" Oh ! for the plumes and pinions of the poised eagle, that we
might now hang over Loch Lomond and all her isles ! "

A quiet road. — 'Eoad' seems to be used in the sense of
' roadstead. '

Thy peers — Thy companions or associates.

Beating up, etc. — In nautical language the phrase means
to make head against the wind by tacking and veering.

Happy pleasure. — 'Happy' seems to mean 'fortunate.'

Your homely ways. — Notice the reason for the use of
* your ' instead of ' thy. '

Anything to thee ! — The love, of course, is entirely
poeticaL As some one has said, — we have the purest admira-
tion and interest unwarmed by any more ardent sentiment.

Though pleased, etc.
while I remain.

-That is, though pleased at heart

Till I grow old. — Wordsworth in his old age speaks thus
of the girl: ''The sort of pro])hecy with Avhich ;.he verses
conclude has, through God's goodness, been realized ; "nd now,
approaching the close of my 78rd year, I have ^ iuost vivid
remembrance of her and the beautiful objects with which she
was surrounded."

In Dorothy's journal we find how deeply she too has been
impressed : "At this day the innocent merriment of the girls
with their kindness to us, and the beautiful face and figure uf
the elder, come to my mind whenever I think of the ferrj^-
house and the waterfall of Loch Lomond, and I never think
of the two girls but the whole imago of that romantic spot is
■^fore me, a living image as it will be to my dying day."

(1)
(2)

(3)

(1)

High,
r, a fit

sonaen-

irough

iterfall

ing its

[leap of

'te the

5es his

jrcance :

hat we

N0TE3S ON Wordsworth's pobh&

The variants of the poem are these : —

(1) vv. 5, 6.

" that household Lawn ;
T/iose trees,"— (1H36.)

(2) V. 15. In 18B6 this line was made to read :

" Yet, dream or vision as thou art."

In 1845 the poet added and altered thus :

" But, O fair creature ! in the light
Of common dav so heavenly bright,
I bless thee, vision as thou "art,
I bless thee with a human heart."

207

(3)

V. 18. Until 1845 this line read :

" I neither know thee nor thy peera "

(1) "The purest note of Wordsworth's genius is discernible
in suoh fulness and sweetness of fervent thought and
majestic sympathy. " — Sivinburne.

("2) "It is in such poems as this that we see illustrated the
pure, as distinguished from the ornate, in poetic style.
The pure style depends for its efficacy upon penetrating
at once to the heart of scene or character, and using
only such accessories of imagery and dress as are essen-
tial to a grasp of the spirit of the whole ; while the
ornate depends upon the number of striking allusions,
the wealth of figure, and abundance of drapery." —
Oeorge.

(3) In Wordsworth's poem " The Three Cottage Girls,"
written about 1820, after describing the 'Italian Maid'
and the 'HehotianGirl' he returns with all his original
ardor to the ' Sweet Highland Girl ' :

" ' Sweet Highland girl ! a very shower
Of beauty waa thy earthly dower,'
When thou didst pass before my eyes,
Gay vision under sullen skies,
While hope and love around thee played.
Near the rough Falls of Invcrsiiaid I
Time cannot thin thy flowing hair,
Nor take one ray of light from thee ;
For in my fancy thou dost share
The gift of immortality."

(i) It is not commonly known that the first few lines of that
beautiful poem "She was a Phantom of Delight"
(Wordsworth's tribute to his wife) were originally
intended as a part of the poem on the Highland Girl :

" She waa a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight,
A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornainenl"

208

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS.

(5) " That such a meeting as this should have formed so long-
remembered an incident in the poet's life "vvill appear,
perhaps, equally ridiculous to the philosopher and to the
man of the world. The one would have given less, the
other would have demanded more. And yet the quest of
beauty, like the quest of truth, reaps its surest reward
when it is disinterested as well as keen ; and the true
lover of human kind will often draw his most exquisite
moments from what to most men seems but the shadow
of a .ioy. Especially, as in this case, his heart will be
prodigal of the impulses of that protecting tenderness
which it is the blessing of early girlhood to draw forth
unwittingly, and to enjoy unknown — affections which
lead to no declaration, and desire no return. " — Myera.

beav
sistt
*\V
afte
loci

fan

ren
o-le

STEPPING WESTWARD.

Stepping Westward. — In Dorothy's Journal we find the
folloAving reference to the present incident : " We have never
had a more delightful walk than this evening. Ben Lomond
and the three pointed-topped mountains of Loch Lomond wei:e
very majestic under the clear sk}^ the lake perfectlj' calm,
and the air sweet and mild. The sun had been set for some
time, when our path having led us close to the shore of the
calm lake, we met two neatly dressed women, without hats,
who had probably been taking their Sunday evening's walk.
One of them said to me in a fiiondly, soft tone of voice,
' What ! are you stepping Westward '? ' I cannot describe
how affecting this sim])le exi)ression was in that remote place,
with the western sky in front, yet glowing with the departing
sun. William wrote the following poem hnig after, in
remembrance of his feelings and mine. "

The drift of the poem cannot be caught unless the reader
understands the local meaning of "stepping westward." In
Perth and other parts of Scotland any distant place, whatever
its direction, is described as ' doon Wast,' so that 'You are
stepping Westward ' is equivalent to 'You are going far.'

be
re
W
n(
he

\
i

Wildish. — The poet's fancy is that he and his sis'er would
be wandering on into infinite distance without purpose ot
homa

Her native lake. — Loch Katrine, which seven years after
this (1810) was to furnish the scenery of Scott's Lady of the.
Lake. Wordsworth and his sister had visited Scott in
Se]5*-ember, 1803, and after Wordsworth returned to West-
moreland he wrote a cordial letter to Scott, describing the

N0TE3 ON WORUSWORril's POEJia

209

po long.

to tho
3SS, the
tuest of
[reward
le true
fquisite
shadow
vill be
ierness
\v forth
which

beautiful autumnal scenery of tho Highland Lakes ; ' ' My
sister was quite enchanted, and wo often said to each other,
* What a p"ty Mr. Scott is not with us ! ' " — And it was Scott,
after all, who was destined to make this beautiful Highland
loch immortal.

Human sweetness. — The word 'human' is emphatic. Tlie
fancy in which tho poet indulges is more exquisifce becaise
Natui'o's beauty in the endless journoj' is to be heightened by
a human association.

Endless way. — The poet's exhilaration in the closing lines
reminds one of Tennj-^son's Ulysses. The aged hero seeing
gleams of the ' ' untravclVd world" exclaims :

" ]My purpose holds
To flail beyond llic sunset, and the b.atlis
Of all the" western stars, until I die."

George's excellent comment on "Stepping Westward" must
be quoted here: "In making the accidental interrogation
reveal the soul of the scene, while being itself exalted by it,
Wordsworth transfigures the whole. By his wonderful apt-
ness in selecting tho points of vantage, and by his conciseness,
he produces the maximum of power."

THE SOLITARY REAPER.

Of the region of Loch Voil Dorouli3'-'s Journal says : "As
we descended, the scene became more fertile, our way beincj
pleasantly varied, — through coppice or open fields, and passing
farm-houses, though always with an intermixture of unculti-
vated ground. It was harvest-time, and the fields were quietly
— might I say pensively? — enlivened by small companies
of reapers. It is not uncommon in the more lonely parts of
the Highlands to see a single person so employed. "

This poem, like the two preceding, was written in 1803, and
published in the edition of 1807.

Some variants in the poem are these :

(1) V. 10. The text has the original reading, which was
unfortunately changed in 1827 to

" More welcome notes to weary bands"

(2) V. 13 This is the final reading. That of 1807 was

'* No sweeter voioe was ever heard."

That of 1827 read :

" Such thrilling voice was never heard."

210

NOTES ON WOUDSWORTII'S FORMS.

(3) V. 29. The reading of 1807 has been retained. Although
vernacular, it soems happier than the revision of 1820 :

" I listened, motlonlesg and still."

(4) V. 80. "And when," the revision of 1827, was in 1830
changed back to " And as," the original reading.

(2)

(1) "The slightest touch of remoteness in place or in time
is apt to liave a thrilling influence. A good example is
afforded in Wordsworth's lines : —

" Will no one tell me what she sinffs ?
Periinps the plaintive nuiiibfivs flow

For old, unhappy, /a /'-o^' things.

. PI

And battles lotiy ago

— Bain.

(Of these two lines Swinburne has justly said that thoy
are not excelled by anything of equal length in the whole
compass of literature.)

' ' What poet ever produced such beauty and power Avith
so simple materials ! The maidei. the latest lingerer in
the field, is the medium through ..xiich the romance of
Highland scenery, and the soul of solitary Highland life
is revealed to us ; even her voice seems a part of Nature,
so mysteriously does it blend with the beauty of the
scene. "^George.

lie
w
at
sr
of

AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS.

Under date of Thursday, August 18th, 1803, Dorothy wrote
in her Journal: "Went to the churchyard where Burns is

buried He lies at a corner of the churchyard, and his

son Francis Wallace beside him We looked at the

grave with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to
each other his own verses : —

'* Is there a man whose judgment clear
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet rung himself life's mad career

Wild as the wave ?—
Here pause— and, through the starting tear.
Survey this .urrave."

It was a fitting tribute to Burns that the fii-st-fruits of
Wordsworth's visit to Scotland should be dedicated to the mem-
{^•y of tiie Scottish Poet in the three poems, " At the Grave of
Hums," " Thoughts Suggested the Day Following," and "To
! he Sons of Burns. "

It will be noticed that Wordsworth in these three poems has
emploj'ed — to put us in the atmosplicvc of tlio t'c^ttish bai'd —
the favorite metre of Burns.

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEM&

211

hough
820:

1830

time
iple is

The grave of Burns, now honored with a splendid mausoleum,
lies in the cemetery of the town of Dumfries. The house
where Burns siKjnt the last years of his life, where he died,
and where his widow dwelt long after his death, stands in a
small old street, now called Burns' Street, in the near vicinity
of the cemetery.

Fresh as the flower, etc, -See Burns' poem "To a
Mountain Daisy " :

" Wee, modest, crlmson-tippfcd flower"—

Glinted. — Also from the poem " To a Mountain Daisy" :

CauM ])lcw the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble, birth ;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

Amid the storm,
Scarce rearVl above the parent earth

Thy tender

I parent
form."

'Glinted means 'peeped,' Cleverly has Wordsworth em-
ployed the word as applying to the development of Burns's
genius.

Full soon. — Burns died at the early age of thirty-seven.

When first it shone. — Burns's first volume of verses appeared
in 1786. Wordsworth was then only sixteen years old and
had not yet gone to Cambridge. Indeed, at the time of Burns's
death in 1796, Wordsworth was just beginning his poetic
career and had not yet published anything.

CrifTel. — A mountain overhanging the river Nith near
Dumfries. Within sight of Criffel was Skiddaw, in Cumber-
land, near Wordsworth's home.

Poor inhabitant below. — Taken from "A Bard's Epitaph,"
a stanza of which has already been quoted. Following the
stanza quoted above is this stanza :

" The poor inhabitant below
Was quick to learn, and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And softer flame :
But thouffhtless follios laid him low,

And atain'd his name ! "

"A Bard's Epitaph," Wordsworth has
sincere and solemn avowal — a public

Of Burns's poem
said: "Here is a

declaration from his OAvn will — a confession at once devout,
poeUcal, and human,— a history in the shape of a prophecy ! "

212

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH^S POBM&

I f]

THOUGHTS.

Dorothy's Journal says : "We were glad to leave Dumfries,
which is no agreoahlo place to those who do not love the
hustle (/f a town which seetns to be rising up to wealth. On
our road to Brownhill w(i passed EUialand at a little distance

on our right Travelled through the Vale of Nith,

here little like a vale it is so broad, with irregular hills rising

up on each side Left the Nith about a mile and a

half and reached Brownhill, a lonely inn. "

The Ellisland Farm, where Burns lived from the time of his
leavitig Rlinburgh in 1788 till his removal to the town of
Dumfries in 1791, lies on the loft bank of the river Nith.
Here Burns wrote his "Tarn O' Shanter." his "Mary in
Heaven," and many other poems. One of the windows of
the house still retains a scratching made by the poet of the
famous line :

•' An honest man's the noblest work of God."

The Vision. — In "The Vision" Burns narrates how his
"native muse" appears to him and encourages him. Those
are the closing stanzas of the poem :

i( ( Thou canst not learn, nor can I show,
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ;
Or Willie the lK)Soni-molting throe,

With Slienstone's art ;
Or pour, \vith Gray, the moving flow

Warm on the heart.

Yet Jill beneath the unrivall'd rose,

The lowlv daisy sweetly blows ;

Thoufrh large the forest's monarch throws

His army shade,
Yet green the Juicy hawthorn grows

Adown the glade.

Then never murmur or repine ;
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine;
And, trust mo, not Potosi's mine.

Nor King's regard,
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine—

A rustic bard.

To give my counsels all in one,—
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ;
Preserve the dignity of man.

With soul erect ;
> 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."

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

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;

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,'

^ ';

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<iuent disenchant-
ment and sorrow and shame he describes in the history of the
"Solitary "in The Exctirsioii, Book III. :

" For lo ! the dread Bastille,
With all the chambers in its horiid towers.
Fell to the ground, by violence o'ertlirown
of indignation, and with shouts that d-own'd
The crash it made in falling ! From the wreck
A golden palace rose, or seem'd to rise,
The apjwinted seat of equitable la,vr
And mild paternal sway. The potent shock
I felt; the transformation I perceived.
As marvellously seized as in that moment
When, from the blind mist issuing, I beheld
Glory, beyond all glory ever seen—
Confusion infinite of heaven and earth.
Dazzling the soul ! Meajiwhile prophetic harps
In every grove were ringing, ' War shall cease ;
Did ye not hear that conquest is abjured ?
Bring garlands, bring fortli choicest flowers to deck
The tree of liberty.' * » * *

* * * The powers of song

I left not uninvoked ; and, in still groves
Where mild enthusiasts tuned a pensive lay
Of thanks and expectation, in accoi'd
With thoir belief I sang Satumian rule
Return 'd, a progeny of golden years
Permitted to descend and-.bless mankind."

" Scorn and contempt forbid me to proceed I

But History, Time's slavish scribe, will tell

How rapidly the zealots of the cause

Disbanded— or in hostile ranks appeared :

Some, tired of honest service ! these, outdone,

Disgusted, thcrt'foro, or appall'd, by aims

Of liorcer zealots— so confusion rcign'd.

And the more faithful were compeli'd to exelaiiu,

As Brutus did to N'irtue, ' Liberty,

J worsbipp'd thee, aud tiud thee but a shade ! "*

T
Wo
Odt
Ma

sist

ste

br(

she

gel

(('
on

at
us

upon
Irandest

ai)ait, '

ion hac)
xpecterl

he had
nchant-

o£ the

NOTBS ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS.

ODE TO DUTY.

219

This Ode was written in 1805, and published in 1807.
Wordsworth says of it : " This ode is on the model of Gray's
Ode to Adversity, which is copied from Horace's Ode to Fortune.
Many and many a time have I been twitted by my wife and
sisters for having forgotten this dedication of myself to the
stern lawgiver. Transgressor indeed I have been, from hour
to hour, from day to day : I would fain hope, however, not
more flagrantly or in a worse way than most of my tuneful
brethren. But these last words are in a wrong strain. We
should be rigorous to ourselves and forbearing, if not indul-
gent, to others, and, if we make comparisons at all, it ought
to be with those who have morally excelled us. "

The Latin sentence at the head of this ode may be translated :
' ' No longer good by resolve, but so educated by habit that not
only can I do right, but I cannot do otherwise than right."

Stem daughter. — Gray's Hymn to Adversity begins :
"Daughter of Jove, relentless power."

Thou, who art victory, etc. — When imaginary teiTors
attack us our sense of right gains the victory by showing
us that we need be afraid of nothing but the law of right.

There are who. — This is a Latinism {Sunt qui.)

The g^enial sense of youth. — The natural impulses of youth
towards acts of goodness.

Security. — This woi*d has something of its original meaning,
* freedom from care, '■ (se, apart, and cura, care. )

Even now. — Even in this life.

This creed. — Kelianco on "the genial sense of youth."

Untried. — Inexperienced.

The quietness of thought. — As opposed to ' disturbance of
soul' and 'strong compunction.'

Unchartered. — Unrestricted.

Stern Lawgiver 1 yet, etc. — Stern yet.

.benignant.

Flowers laugh, etc. — Shairpsays : " The obedience of nature
to physical law is beautifully compared to man's obedience to
moral law. It is in keeping with Wordsworth's conception of
^atur« as naving *a true life of her own,' and as being 'the

(

220

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS.

'i '•'[

i .•

shape and image of right reason — reason in the highest sense,
embodied and made visible in order, in stability, in conformity
to eternal law. ' "

The confidence of reason. — As opposed to his blind con-
fidence in his own nature as a guide.

' ' In "Wordsworth's ideal of human life the ' genial sense of
youth ' is strengthened and confirmed by mature reason ; the
truths of early intuitions become the fixed principles of later
life." — George.

These are the principal variants in the ode :

(1) V. 8. The edition of 1807 reads, "From strife and from
despair ; a glorious ministry. "

(2) vv. 15, 16. The original reading was :

" May joy be theirs while life shall last !
And thou," etc.

The reading of the text is that of 1827. In 1836 the poet
altered thus :

•* Oh ! if through confidence misplaced
They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power ! around them cast"

(3) vv. 21, 22. The original reading was :

'• And blest are they who in the main
This faith, even now, do entertain."

(4) V. 24. The original reading Avas : "Yefc find that other
strength, according to their need." In 1836 this was
changed to : "Yet find they firm support." The present
is the reading of 1845.

(5) VV. 29-31. The original reading was :

" Resolved that nothing e'er should press
U]X)n my present happiness,
I sliovcd unwelcome tasks away ;
But thee," etc.

In 1815 the text became :

" And oft when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task imposed from day to day."

The present reading dates from 1827.

(6) V. 40. The line originally read: "Which ever js the
9am&"

KOTBS ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS.

221

t sense,
brmity

id con-

ienae of
)n ; the
)f later

id from

he poet

cast."

t other
is was
present

is thu

ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. "

Of this poem, published in 1807, the poet wrote as follows in
1843 : " This was composed during my residence at Town-
End, Grasmera Two years at least passed between the writing
of the four first stanzas and the remaining part. To the
attentive and competent reader the whole sufficiently explains
itself ; but there may be no harm in adverting here to par-
ticular feelings or experiences of my own mind on which the
structure of the poem partly rests. Nothing was more difficult
for me in cliildhood than to admit the notion of death as a
state applicable to my own being. I have said elsewhere :

' A simple child.
That liphtly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb.
What should it Ijnow of death ? '

But it was not so much from feelings of animal vivacity that
my difficulty came as from a sense of the indomitableness of
the spirit within me. I used to brood over the stories of Enoch
and Elijah, and almost to persuade myself that, whatever
might become of others, I should be translated, in something
of the same way, to heaven. With a feeling congenial to
this, I was often unable to think of external things as having
external existence, and I communed with all that I saw as
something not apart from, but inherent in, my own immaterial
nature. Many times while going to school have I grasped at
a wall or tree to recall myself from this abyss of idealism to
reality. At that time I was afraid of such processes. In
later periods of life I have deplored, as we all have reason to
do, a subjugation of an opposite character, and have rejoiced
over the remembrances, as is expressed in the lines :

* Obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings ; ' etc

To that dream-like vividness and splendour which invest
objects of sight in childhood, every one, I believe, if he would
look back, could bear testimony, and I need not dwell upon it
here ; but having in the poem regarded it as presumptive
evidence of a prior state of existence, I think it right to
protest against a conclusion, which has given pain to some
good and pious persons, that I meant to inculcate such a
belief. It is far too shadowy a notion to be recommended to
faith, as more than an element in our instincts of immortality.
. But let us bear in mind that, though the idea is not advanced
in revelation, there is nothing there to contradict it, and the
fall of man presents an analogy in its favour. Accordingly,
a pre-existent state has entered into the popular creeds of
many nations, and, among all persons acquainted with classic
literature, is known as an ingredient in Flatonio philosophy.

! i'

322

NOTES ON Wordsworth's poems.

i i . i :\

'! i

Archimedes said that he could move the world if he had i\
point whereon to rest his machine. Who has not felt the
same aspirations as regards the world of his own mind?
Having to wield some of its elements when I was impelled to
write this poom on the "Immortality of the Soul,'' I took
hold of the notion of pre-oxistence as having sufficient founda-
tion in humanity for authorizing me to make for my purpose
the best use of it I could as a poet. "

To me alone, etc. — I alone had thoughts of sadness on
account of the loss of a loved one, but I obtainfjd ease by
giving a voice to my grief.

The fields of sleep. — " The regions of sleep, the early dawn."
Hales says : " The yet reposeful, slumbering country side."

Coronal. — A reference to the classic custom of crowning the
head with flowers.

Our birth is but a sleep, etc. — "This ode, and especially
this and the following stanza, are frequently called ' Platonic.'
It must, however, be remembered that although Wordsworth
coincides with Plato in assigning to mankind a life previous
to their human one, he differs from him in making life 'a
sleep and a forgetting,' while Plato makes life a tedious and
imperfect process of nvn/ivy/atg, or reminding. With Words-
worth the infant, with Plato the philosopher, approaches
nearest to the previous more glorious state." — Turner.

Heaven lies about us, etc. — This line has no rhyma Is
there any other instance of the kind in this poem?

Nature's Priest. — This may refer to one who approaches
near to a divinity, or it may mean a worshipper.

Yearning's she hath, etc. — "Earthly things cause yearnings
which earthly things can satisfy, in accordance with natural
laws."— (T.)

Foster-child. — Man is looked upon as a sojourner on earth,
— a pilgrim from heaven.

Behold the child, etc.— Wordsworth had especially in view
little Hartley Coleridge. See the lines " To H. C. , Six Years Old. "

Fretted. — The word implies frequency. The notion of vexa-
tion would be alien to the pasaage.

Humorous staple. — The poet seems to have in mind the
famous passage in As You Like It, II. 7. : "All the worlds
a stage,'" etc., though the words quoted do not occur there.
The ' ' humorous stage " is that ' ' on Avhich are exhibited the
humors of mankind, that is, their whims, follies, caprices,
odd manners."

le had a

I felt tho

mind ?

libelled to

■' I took

founda-

purpose

mess on
ease hy

y dawn. "
side. "

ning tho

specially
latonic. '

rds worth
previous

ig life ' a

iious and
Words-

jproaches

'ner.

yma Is

)proaches

^earnings
1 natural

an earth,

/ m view
lars Old. "

of vexa-

aind the
) worlds
ir thera
)ited the
saprices,

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POBMa
Persons — Drainatis Personam. — Actors in a play.

223

The best Philosopher. — Stopford Brooke says of this
pcissago : " We can only catch the main idea among expres-
sions of the child as the best philosopher, the eye among tho
blind .... the mighty prophet, the seor blest — expressions
wliich taken separately have scarcely any recognizable mean-
ing. By taking them all together, we feel rather than sen
ihat "Wordsworth intended to say that tho chil(i, having lately
conio from a perfect existence, in which ho saw truth directly,
iinrl was at home with God, retains, unknown to us, that
^ ision — and, because he docs, is the best philosopher, since ho
sees at once that which we through philosophy are endeavor-
ing to reach ; is tho mighty prophet, because in his actions
and speech ho tells iinconsciously the truths ho sees, but tho
sight of which we have lost ; is more closely haunted by God,
more near to the immortal life, more purely and brightly free,
because he half shares in the pre-oxistent life and glory out of
which he has come."

Those Avho care for such reading will find an adverse criticism
on this passage in Coleridge's Biorjraphia Literai'ia, chapter
XXII.

Who yet dost keep.

destined soon to lose it.

' Yet '=' still', though thou art

Deaf and silent. —It is a somewhat daring use of language
bo connect ' doaf and blind ' with the apostrophised eye. If the
words are referred to the jDreceding "philosopher" the syntax
is peculiar.

— The little child, though deaf and dumb, understands the
secrets of eternity.

Haunted. — Thus again below (v. 120) : "A presence that is
not to bo put by."

Prophet. — In tho earlier sense of ' one who tells forth.'

The darkness of the grave. — Our human life is as a grave
to the heavenly souL

Of heaven-born freedom, etc. — Turner says: "Childhood
is, as it were, the mountain-top, tho natural t3^pe of freedom
and nearest heaven, from which men descend by easy steps
into the vale of manhood."

Most worthy. — Exceedingly worthy.

Fallings from us, etc. — Knight says : ' ' The outward
sensible universe, visible and tangible, sooniing to fall away
from us as unreal, to vanish in unsubstantiality."

Seo Wor(;lsA\'orth's introductory note for his own interpreta-
tion of the passage.

ft:

m -I

224

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS.

Blank misgivings. — ' Undefinal and unmeaning. '

Nor man nor boy. — That is, neither manhood nor boyhoofl.

That immortal sea. — "Wordsworth pictures the human
soul drifting aci'oss the ocean of eternity to be tossed in its
human birth upon the shore of the earth." — (T.)

Our loves. — Our love for Nature and hor love for us.

One delight. — See stanzas I. and II. , and the four Unci

I)oginnii)g " What though the radiance."

Your more habitual sway. — See the ten linos beginning,
' ' At length the man perceives it die away. "

The clouds that gather, etc. —Turner says : " This passage
is rather obscure. The meaning seoms to be : The falling sun,
with his bright train of coloured clouds, yet brings the sober-
ing thought of the race of men who, even in the poet's life-
time, had sunk to their setting, that their follows may lord it
in the zenith, crowned with victorious palms. "

C-^)

A few variants in the poem may be noticed :

1) V. 6. The edition of 1807 read " as it has been."

V. 43. This is the original reading. In 1827 it A\as
changed to "While the earth itself, "and in 1832 to "When
the earth herself," and in 1836 to "When earth herself."

(3) In 1836 "pulling " was changed to "culling," but neither
word rhymes perfectly with " sullen."

(1) V. 120. In the earlier editions these lines follow "not to
be put by " :

" To whom the grave
Is but a lowly bed without the sense or sight

Of day in the wann light,
A place of thought where we in waiting lie."

(5) V. 122. The reading of 1807 was :

" Of untamed pleasures, on thy being's height."

(6) V. 131. The earlier reading was " benedictions. "

(7) V. 137, 138. The earlier reading was :

" Of childhood, whether fluttering or at rest,
With new-born hope forever in his breast."

(3) V. 153. The reading of 1807 was simply
" Uphold us, cherish us, r.id make."

(9) V. 188. This is the original reading. That of 1836 is :
" Forbode not any severing of our loves."

lyhocMl.

Ihuman
in its

IT linoi
rinnin^

sassage
ig sun,
sober-
t's life-
lord it

it Avas
"When
lerself. "

neithei-

' not to

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMa

225

is:

(1) "Observe throughout the ode the changes in the metre
to suit the variations in the poet's mood.

(2) "Point out the appropriateness of the time of day and of
the year at which the poet is supposed to give utterance
to his thoughts. "

(3) "Wordsworth seems to use Imviortality in the title
rather in the sense of Eternality, perhaps because the
latter properer word is scarcely now current."

(V) " The Ode on Immortality marks the highest limit which
the tide of poetic inspiration has reached in England
witliin this century, or indeed since the days of Milton."
— Shairp.

(5) "Alone in his time he treated the human mind well, and
with an absolute trust. His adherence to his poetic
creed rested on real inspiration. The Ode on Immortalitif
is the high-water mark which the intellect has reached
in this aga " — Emerson.

(f )) Coleridge says ; ' ' The ode was intended for such readers
only as had been accustomed to watch the flux and
reflux of their inmost nature, to venture at times into
the twilight realms of consciousness, and to feel a deep
interest in modes of inmost being, to which they know
that the attributes of time and space are inapplicable and
alien, but which yet cannot be conveyed, save in symbols
of time and space. For such readers the sense is siffi-
oiently plain, and they will be as little disposed to charge
Mr. Wordsworth with believing the Platonic pre-existence
in the ordinary interpretation of the words, as I am
to believe that Plato himself ever meant or taught it. "

(7) "To those familiar with Wordsworth's work before this
date, the philosophy of this ode will seem what in truth
it is, — 'the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge.'
The two moods in which the poet is represented are but a
reflection of what we have so often seen in his poetry, —
the relation of the soul to sense, and the possibility that
the former may forget its celestial birth. The subject of
the poem — the origin, development, and destiny of the

'human soul — has seldom been absent from his poetry,
while in treatment we find the same gathering from his
former methods. The total effect is perhaps the grandest
in the literature of the century, so that the terra ' inspired '
is not forced when applied to the Poet who could produce
such a result. " — George.

(8) " The chief value of the poem arises from the fact that it
never descends to the plane of mere argument ; it ever
keeps on the high ground of the essential identity of oiu'
childish instincts and our enlightened reasou. The

NOTES ON WORDSWOHTII'S POEMS.

M^l

tl :f i

doopest truths of tho soul cannot ho arguod, they musf
ho fived. In tho first four stanzas wo havo tho oxporioncc*
of our common humaniiy. Doomoil as wo aro to go in
company vith fear and sorrow, - ' laisorublo train,' — how
ai'o we to i)rovent ourst^lvos from 'wronying tho joy of
the life that 's ahout us?' Tho Poet, in tho next four
stanzas, answers tho question h}- reviewing tho history of
tho soul, and tracing tlie stejis by whioh it reached tha'.
stage. He finds that it is because tho soul has become
centred in tlio seen ainl tho tomjioral, and has thus lost
its glory and its beauty ; it has woU-nigh destroyed its
spiritual vision. In the concluding stanzas ho shows ns
that this may be regained and that the melancholy fear
may be subiued by a return to those sinijile waj's in
which our childhood \\alke(l. We must become as littlo
children in this life of the soul, and by blending early
intuition and mature reason we shall bo able to see into
the life of things. Every lino of tho poem is worthy of
the closest study. — Georr/e."

(9) The main idea of this ode will be found in a fine poem by
Honry Vaughan, a Platonic i)oet of the 1 7th century.
The former part of this piece — T/te liatreat — is here
quoted :

*' Hnppy those early days, when I
Sliin'H hi my an pel -infancy !
Before I understood tliis place
Ai)iK)lnted for my second race,
Or tiuifjht my soiil to fancy aiipht
But a wliit(>. 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 carrio<l nuist of tho virtues that the trials ho was
exposed to in his ddpartinoiit of tho Horvion necessarily call
forth anfl sustain, if thoy do not produce tho contrary vicos.
But his puhlii! lifo was stainod with oim groat crinic, so that,
though many passages of tho-(o linos w(^rcf suggostod hy what
Avas gonorally known as oxcolUiUt in his conduct, I liavo not
boon able to connect his name with tlio poem as I could wish,
or even to thmk of him with satisfaction in reference to ihe
idea of what a warrior ought to he. For tho sake of sucli of
niy friends as may liap]ion to road this not« I will add,
■hat many elements of tho character here portrayed were
found in my brother John, who perished by shipwreck as
luontioncfl elsewhere. His messmates used to call him the
Philosopher, from which it must be infcxred that the qualities
and dispositions I allude to had not escaped their notice. He
often expressed his regret, after the war had continued some
time, that ho had not chosen the Naval, instead of the East
India Com])any's Service, to which his family connection had
led him. He greatly valued moral and religious instruction
for youth, as tcn<ling to make good sailora. The best, he used
to say, caniofrom Scotland ; the next to them, from tho North
of EnglaTid, especially from Westmoreland and Cumberland,
where, than\s to the piety and local attachments of our
ancestors, endowed, or, as they are commonly called, free,
schools abound."

In the notes on Peele Castle will be found a reference to
Wordsworth's other poems connected with the character and
fate of his brother John.

Tho edition of 1807 has the following quotation from

Chaucer, introduced to illustrate lines 75, 76 (" Persevering to

the last," etc.) :

" For Kniphtes ever should be pcrseverinpr,
To seek honour without f'oiutisse or s'outh,
Fro welc to better in all manner thin;;."

A few variants in the poem must be noticed :
(1) V. 2. Tho edition of 1807 had "Whom every man."

v. 5. Tho present reading "childish thought," was

(2)

(3)
(4)

changed in 1815 to *' boyish thought"

V. 7. The original reading was "that make"

V. 33. This is the original reading, changed in 1830 to
"He labours good on good to fix."

(5) V. 79. This is the original reading. The edition of 1830
gives : "Or he must fall, and sleep without his fame.'
That of 1842 has : " Or he must fall to sleep," etc.

In 1845 it was

(G)

V. 85. The original reading again,
changed to " That every man."

i''..t

}

228 KOTCS 6^ WORDBWOltTH^S 1>0S}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

'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 ? "

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</e.

(2) Of this piece Coleridge says : " This fine poem is especially'
characteristic of the author : there is scarce a defect or
excellence in his writings of which it would not present a
specimen."

(3) " Ou the whole, the poem is certainly marked by that
emphatic visual imagination, that delight in the power of
the eye, that strength of reserve, that occasional stiffness
of feeling, and that immense rapture of reverie, which
characterize the earlier period, though it wants the more
rapid and buoyant movement of that period. "—//j<<<ou.

YARROW VISITED.

This poem was written in September, 1814, and published in
1820.

In his MS. notes of 1843 Wordswoi tb snys : "As mentioned
in my verses on the death of the Ettrick Shepherd, my first

visit to Yarrow was in his company I seldom read or

think of this poem without regretting that my dear sister was

232

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS.

not of the party, as she would have had so much delight in
recalling the time when, travelling together in Scotland, we
declined going in search of this celebrated stream, not
altogether, I -"dll frankly confess, for the reasons assigned in
the poem on the occasion."

[The verses on the death of James Hogg contain this

stanza :

" When first, descending^ from the moorlands,
I saw the stream of Yarrow glide
Along a bare and open valley,
The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide. "]

[See Yarrow Unvisited for the reason given by the poet why
the celebrated stream was not viewed by himself and his sister
in their Scottish tour of 180B. ]

" There is no place in Scotland so rich in tender associations
and natural beauty as the vale of Yarrow. It has been the
subject of those nameless singers whose ballads were fii-st
caught and given to the world by Scott in his Border
Minstrdny. "

Saint Mary's Lake.-
In Scott's Marmion, II.

-This lake is the source of the Yarrow
147, the lake is thus described :

" By lone Saint Mary's silent lake :
Thou know'st it well,— nor ferrt nor sedge,
Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge ;
Abrupt and sheer, the mountai'.js sink
At once upon the level brink,
And just a trace of silver sand
Marks where the water raeeta the land."

Famous Flower of Yarrow.— Mary Scott, daughter of
Philip Scott of Dryhope (situated at the extremity of Saint
Mary's Lake), from whom was descended Sir Walter Scott.
In commenting on this passage Shairp says: "Wordsworth
fell into an inaccuracy ; for Mary Scott, the real ' Flower
of Yarrow,' never did lie bleeding on Yarrow, but became the
wife of Wat of Harden and the mother of a wide-branching
race. Yet Wordsworth speaks of his bed, evidently con-
founding the lady ' Flower of Yarrow ' with that * slaughtered
youth' for whom so many ballads had sung lament This
slight divergence from fact, however, no Avay mars the truth
of feeling, which makes the poet long to pierce into the dumb
past, and know something of the pathetic histories that have
immortalized these braes."

The water-wraith, etc. — The allusion is explained by a
stanza in Logan's poem The Braen of Yarrow :

" Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost ;
It \ anisliod witli a shriek of sorrow ;
Thrioc did liie watcr-wraith ascend
And save a doleful groan through Yarrow."

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS.

233

?ht in
1, we
n not
|ned in

this

^t why
sister

Meek loveliness, etc. —Of these four lines Shairp says :
"No words in the language penetrate more truly and deeplj'
into the heart of natui'e. It was one of Wordsworth's great
gifts to be able to concentrate the whole feeling of a wide
scene into a few words, simple, strong, penetrating to the
very core. Many a time, and for many a varied scone, he has
done this, but perhaps he has never put forth this power
more happily than in the four lines in which he has summed
up for all time the true quality of Yarrow. You look on
Yarrow, you repeat these four lines over to yourself, and you
feel that the finer, more subtle essence of nature has never
been more perfectly uttered in human words. There it stands
completa No poet coming after Wordsworth need try to do
it again, for it has been done once, perfectly and forever."

Newark's Towers. — This is the scene of Scott's Lay of
(he Last Minstrel. The roofless ruin of a tower, and an
outward wall, are all that remains of the ancient castla It
is situated on the banks of the Yarrow, about three miles
from Selkirk.

Will

poet

dwell with me. — This is a constant solace to the

*• In spots like these It Is we prize
Our memory, feel that she hath eyes. "

(1) vv. 62-64 in the edition of 1820 had this form :

C-^)

(1)

(2)

" It promises protection
To all the nestling brood of thous^hta
Sustained by chaste affection. "

66 in the early edirion read thus :
" The wild wood's fruits to f,'athei-."

"The metre is that in which the old Yarrow ballads
are oast, with the second an4 fourth lines in each stanza
ending in double rhymes."

' ' In purity, sweetness, and pathos ; in inimitable ease
and grace of metre ; in intense realization of the secret
of Nature, — these Yarrow poems are simply perfect It
is no wonder that with such weai)ons Wordsworth could
put to flight the literary gladiators who could not
distinguish poetry from verse."— (reorflre.

- TO A SKYLARK.

This poem was written at Rydal Mount in 1825, and
published in 1827. Until 1813 it appeared as in this edition,
when the second stanza was removed from it and introdueod
as the eighth stanza of another poem, A Morning Exercise,

284

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEMS.

written in 1828. In a note to the latter poem Wordsworth
saya : "I couW wish the last five stanzas of this to be read
with the poem addressed to the skylark."

These stanzas, accordingly, are quoted here :

" The daisy sleeps upon the dewy lawn,

Not lit'tiiif? yet the head that evoiiiiif? bowed;
But hi' is risen, a later star of dawn,

Glittering and twinkling near yon rosy cloud ;
Bright gein instinct with inusic, vocal spark ;
The happiest bird that sprang out of the Ark !

Hail, bleat above all kinds !— Suin'cmely skilled
Restless with iixed to balance, high with low,

Thou Iciiv'st the halcyon free her hoitcs t<> 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

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
<J lotto illustrates this.

NOTES ON WORDSWOn-ni's POEMS.

289

il)ed
an

5om-
one

lious

ast.

all

Spenser. — H7s Amorefti, or Iovg sonnets, describe the wooing
OvJ winning of his wife, Elizab«'th. Tlie work of his life, tlic
>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 lan<l, wliich those six hooka compile,
Give leave to rest nic heintr hnlfe for(lom\o.
And gather to myselfe new hreath awhile."

Dark ways. — This refers to his life in Ireland, where ho
hold the position of Clerk to the Council of iMurister. During
one of the Irish rebellions his castle was burnt and with
difficulty he escaped with his wife and children.

Milton.— He wrote only twenty-three Sonnets, including
those in Italian.

the

(I) " For the concise expression of an isolated poetic thoiight
— an intellectual or sensuous ' wave ' keenly felt,
emotionally and rhythmically, — the sonnet would seem
to be the best medium, the means a])p;irc'ntly prescribed
by certain radicul laws of melody and harmony, in other
words, of nature." — Sharp.

{•i) " It is generally agreed that 'sonnet' is an abbreviation
of the Italian sonetto, a short strain (literally, a little
sound), that word being the diminutive of auono^ sound.
The Sonetto Avas originally a poem recited with sound,
that is, with a musical accompaniment."

(;{) "The Shakes{X)arian Sonnet is like a red-hot bar being
moulded upon a forge till — in the closing couplet— it
receives the final clinching blow from the heavy hammer;
while the Petrarcan, on the other hand, is like a wind
gathering in volume and dying away again immediately
on attaining a culminating force, — or rather like an
oratorio, where the musical divisions are distinct, and
where the close is a grand swell, the culmination of the
foregoing harmonies." — Sharp.

(t) "Recognising the rhythmical beauty of the normal
Italian type he [Milton] adopted its rhyme arrangement,
but he did not reganl as essential or approi^riate the;
break in the melody between octave and sestet. ....
Any sonnet, whether in the Petrarcan or Shakespearian
mould, is Miltonic, if it has, metrically or otherwise,
iinhroken continuity. "

('*)') "No poet of our own or any language could show ten
sonnets equal in breadth of thought, verity of poetry,
and beauty of expression, to the ten greatest of Words-
worth. " — Sharp.

240

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH'S POEH&

SONNET XX.

This sonnet was written in 1800, and published the following
year as a Prefatory Sonnet to a series.

Pensive citadels. — Citadels of thouuht.

Furness Fells. — Furness is a distriot in the northern part
of Lancashire, adjoining Cumberland.

In truth the prison, etc. —Compare Lovelace's To Altlua
from Prison :

" Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor Iron bars a cajje :
Minds innocent and quiet take
These for a hermitage."

Hence to me.— In 1849 changed to '• Hence for me."

Too much liberty. — Compare "Ode to Duty":

" Me tills nnchartcred freedom tires," etc.

Brief solace. —Until 1827 the reading was ' ' short solace. '

SONNET XXIII.

'•Wordsworth found a new use for the Sonnet While
others had addressed several sonnets to the same person, no
one until his time had so united a series that, while each
sonnet was com plete in itself, it at the same time formed a
stanza of a larger poem."— (reorflre.

These three Sonnets on "Personal Talk "were written in
1806.

SONNET XXIV.

There find I, etc— The reading of 1827. The original lines
were as follows :

" There do I find a never-failing store
Of i)ersonal themes, and sucIj as I love best ;
Matter wherein right voliil)le I am.
Two will I mention dearer than the rest"

The gentle lady. — Desdemona in Shakespeare's Othello.

NOTES ON won OS worth's poems.

241

mrt
t/if-a

Heavenly Una.— Seo tho " Dodlcution " to The White Doe of
Itylatone :

" In trellisod shod with clustorinflf roses gay,
Aiu\, Mary ! oft beside our tilazfiiK tiro,
Whon years of wedded life .^ere M a (lay
Whose eurrciit answers to tlie heart's desire,
Did we to^retiier read in Spenser's Lay
How Una, sad of soul - in sad attire,
The jyentle Una, of celestial birth.
To seek lier Knight went wandering o'er tlie earth.

And then, Beloved ! pleasintr was tho smart,

And tho tear precioas In compassion shed

Kor Her, who pierced by sorrow's thrilling dart,

Did meekly itcar tlic pang 'unnc^rited ;

Meek as tliat emblem of her lowly heart

The udlk-white Lan>l) 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)r</<luced many
poets, and it did not show itself cajiable of ap])i'eciating those
who found their way to it by accident Coleridge and the
Wordsworths seem to have been regarded as vagabtmds. They
had no fixed occupation, but went roaming about under sun
and stars, comjiorting themselves more or less strangely.
They were believed by many to be traitors in league with the
•Tacobins oyer the sea. If not they were sn Higglers, and
Wordsworth, as he prowled about the most, was (;onsidered to
be tlie chief of the jiung. and i'(>ceived 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

■i.i'i

ill

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

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.

<iy*

THE ESTHETIC I'^E OP WOBOS WORTHS rOETEY.
\VM. HOUSTON, M.A.

The term "esthetic" originally meant "perceptive" of
things in general ; it has become conventionally limited so as
to signify "perceptive" of beauty in particular. The
"esthetic faculty" is that faculty by which we discern the
beautiful in what comes under our observation, and through
the exercise of which we are able to derive enjoyment from the
contemplation of what gives us pleasura The term "taste"
is frequently applied to it, no doubt from the analogy between
its exercise and that of the physical taste by means of which
we perceive and enjoy flavors. In a well-known passage of
his poem on " The Pleasures of Imagination," Akenside says :

What then is taste, but these internal powers
Active and strong? and feelinj?ly alive
To each fine iinpiUse ? A diacerninij sense
Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust
From thin$::s deform'd, or disarranged, or gross
In siJecies ?

The kind of perception hero spoken of is different from a
merely intellectual perception, which discerns scientific truth.
Some natural object that by its beauty attracts the attention
of one observer arouses only the scientific cmiosity of anothei'.
To the one it is a source of esthetic satisfaction, to the other it
is the subject matter of an inquiry into the nature of things.
Longfellow in his tribute to Robert Burns says :

For him the ploughing of those fields
A more ethereal liarvest yields

Than sheaves of grain ;
Songs flush witii purple bloom the rye,
" The plover's call, the curlew's cry,

Sing in his brain.
Touch'd by his hand the wayside weed
Becomes a flower ; the lowliest reed

Beside the stream
Is clothed with beauty ; gorse, and grass,
And heather, where his footsteps pass,

The blighter seem.

But art, rather than nature, is the field for esthetic observa-
tion and enjoyment. Without attempting any adequate expla-
nation of this fact it is obvious that by means of selection,
arrangement, and other modes of treatment the artist can
enhance the beauty of a natural scene, retaining what is agree-
able, omitting what is the reverse, and introducing order and
symmetry where only disorder was before discernible. This
applies to such arts as architecture, sculpture, and painting,
and, less obviously but not less really, to mosio and poetry.

I' I

.1 a

248 TUB BSTHBTIO 0SB Of W0RDSW0RTH*8 POETRY.

Arfc has been dofinod by Professor Seeley as "the natural
language of Joy. " Its function is to communicate pleasure.
This it does by affording scope for the exercise of the esthetic
faculty, and whatever fails to do this is not art in any useful
sense of that term.

"Wordsworth said in prose much that contradicts this view,
but in his own poetic moods he came nearer to the truth. It
is needless to cite passages in an essay prefixed to a selection
made from his poems for esthetic study ; let it suffice to call
attention to the fact that such poems as the " Ode on Intima-
tions of Immorality," "Lines Composed above Tin tern
Abbey," " A Poet's Epitaph," "A Picture of Peele Castle," and
several of his sonnets, contain a far sounder philosophy of
art, and of poetry as a mode of art, than is anywhere to be
found in his prose expositions.

Poetry is written primarily because the writing of it gives
pleasure to the poet It is the expression of his more intense
moods, and whatever other motives may be present to his
mind he must be consciously or unconsciously impelled to give
artistic utterance to his feelings. He may think he is writing
for gain. His conscious purpose may be to teach a moral
lesson. Shakespeare may have had both purposes in view
when he wrote his plays. He certainly had the former, but
the artist rose superior to the playwright or his dramas would
have been something other than and far inferior to what they
ara Only poetry that has its real origin in the prompting of
artistic geniu<? can appeal successfully to the esthetic faculty
of the reader, and only such poetry should be selected for
esthetic study.

Is it justifiable to devote any considerable portion of school
time to such a study of Wordsworth s poems? And what
relation should this use of them bear to any other use that
might be made ? It has been objected that his poetry is of
such a character that it is not likely to appeal strongly to the
youthful mind on its esthetic side. For answer I can only
express my strong conviction that, given a fair chance, school
pupils will become very fond of Wordsworth's poetry, and add
the fact that this opinion has been strongly held by eminent
teachers of literature. It is not necessary, nor wise, to be
always searching for moral truths in his, or any other poetry.
The search should be for the beauty, and the morality may
safely be left for the most part to take care of itself. The
object deliberately sot before the pupils should be enjoyment,
and the poems should be so treated as to get as much ot this as
possible out of them. Dealt with in this spirit, the study of
these poems will be its own rich reward, and they will take
on new and deeper meanings to those who are most familiat-
with them.

nis

THB ESTHBTIO USB OF WORDSWORTH^S POBTRY. 249

The Jastifioation of the esthetio use of poetry in general and
of Wordsworth's poetry in particular, lies ohiefly in the fact
that a lar^e part of human life, constituted as human nature is,
must be given up to the getting of pleasure, to amusement, to
relaxation. It is impossible to fill the whole of one's waking
hours with work, without shortening life by at least as much
as should have been given up to enjoyment. The question,
whether life is worth living, can be best answered from this
point of view. Whatever may be said of life without pleasure,
there can be no doubt that in so far as it is filled with enjoy-
ment that is rational, moral, and thorough, it is not open to
the celebrated quer^. It is not a choice of having relaxation
or none; all that is left to us is a choice of pastimes. In
making this choice, those selected should have the qualities
above mentioned— rationalness, morality, and effectiveness —
and applying these as tests it is easy to see that the study of
poetry takes the foremost place.

Mere physical amusements stand no chance in the compari-
son, and they are only too apt to degenerate into savagery as
in the cases of drunkenness, prize-nghting, and field sports.
Facilia descensus Averni. Intellectual relaxations are far
superior to those that are merely physical, but their power to
charm away care and trouble is weak compared with that
which appeals to the imagination and affects us through the
emotions. Apart from the consolations of religion, of which
there is here no question, art is the great moderator of life
and the source of its highest and noblest pleasures. And of
all the arts poetry is the most available for this purpose.
Scarcity of great paintings and statuary makes it impossible
for any, except the f^-w fortunate ones, to appreciate them.
Great buildings are rare over the whole world, and he who
wishes to see them must make long journeys and content him-
self with few opportunities for study. Great musical perform-
ances are seldom heard except in large centres of population,
and there only occasionally. But the grandest specimens of
the poetic art are within the reach of alL Each can have
enough of them in his own tongue to afford material for
esthetic culture for a lifetime of activity. And on its merits,
poetry must be admitted to have a title to pre-eminence. It
has no real rival except music, and it excels music in its use
of articulate speech as the appropriate expression of noble
thoughts.

If true culture is inseparable from the study of poetry, or if
the best culture is most effectively reached by this road, it
becomes a most important matter to find out how it should be
dealt with in schools. So far as the spirit and motive are
concerned enough has already been said. The aim should be
to get enjoyment, and the method should be determined by the
aim. Xf the poetry is to be used simply as matter for parsing,

Jill

250 THE ESTHETIC USE OF WORDSWORTH'S POETRY.

( '

l.lil

r i

M .,

a; ■!

or etymological analysis, or rhetorical inquiry, it would be
just as profitable to stick to good proso, and more so. Parsing
may be useful at times to enable the teacher to find out
whether a pupil understands a passage. Tracing the history
of words may be useful as a means of discov(ring some
recondite moaning, the grasping of which is essential to the
comprehension of the poem. The \m folding of rhetorical
structure may serve a similarly useful purpose whenever it
promotes esthetic appreciation. But all these, and many
otlier modes of erudition, must in the study of poetry be kept
strictly subordinate to the main purpose— enjoyment. This
is equally true of moral teachings, as we have already seen.
The poetry was written to afford enjoyment if it is true poetry
at all, and to get this out of it should be the main purpose in
giving up time and work to becoming acquainted with it.

It is impossible, here, to enter into the details of method.
No two teachers will deal with a piece of poetry in tlie same
way. But there are a few general rules which may be use-
fully borne in mind, and they are given here in a certain
order, not because that order is an indication of their relative
importance, but because some oi'der of statement had to be
chosen, and this will serve as well as another.

1. Only the best poetry should be selected for school work.
This takes place at a time of life when deep impressions are
made, and there can be no doubt that much of the prevailing
indifference to or dislike of poetry is due to the unwise selection
of poems for school reading. In the case of Wordsworth's
poems here printed, I am in a position to say that the utmost
care was exercised. Arnold's selection was made the basis,
but within that compass only those were chosen that appear
in one or more of the other admirable anthologies culled from
his works. The intention was to give a wide variety, and yet
to give only what has high artistic merit and will bear close
esthetic study.

The pupil should be required to make himself thoroughly

iliar with the text of the poem under investigation. There

for this in the class, he must do it by private

^ beforehand. Moreover, he should do this reading

without previous direction of any kind. Let him make what
he can of the text, but let him do it alona The teacher can
insist on familiar acquaintance with it and that is all he
should insist on at the outset Memorization of shorter pieces
is of course useful for purposes of study and invaluable for
life.

8. The teacher must see that the pupil at some stage acquires
a thorough comprehension of the meaning of the text. The
residuum from the pupil's own study of it must be resolved by
the teacher's aid. The meanings of words, the structures of

familiar
is not time
reading

THE ESTHETIC USE OP WORDSWORTH'S POETRY. 251

sentences, and the use of figures of speech must all be attended
to just in so far as the neglect of them would interfere with
the pupils' osthetio appreciation of the poem.

4. Each poem should be read by the pupil, and afterwards
discussed by the class, as a whole, before it is dealt with
analytically. A poem is a work of art The poet-artist, if
he did his work intelligently, attended to points of structure
which cannot be discerned unless the whole work is kept in
view. The most important artistic questions relate to the
poem as a whole, and not to its separate parts. How far tho
analysis is to be subsequently carried will depend largely on
the nature of the poem. No one would subject " Michael" or
"Hart- Leap Well" to an analysis so minute as he would
" Peele Castle," " To the Cuckoo," or one of the Sonnets.

5. The pupils should be encouraged to form and to give their
own opinions on all points of artistic structure. These
opinions will of necessity be formed inductively as the result
of frequent perusal, if ready-made opinions are not thrust upon
the class either by some critic or by the teacher. There will
always be ample room for differences of opinion and for com-
parisons of views, and many valuable, suggestive, and
original thoughts on art subjects occur to even young pupils
when they are trained in habits of mental and critical inde-
pendenca All this implies the constant use of the Socratic
method, the only one that is worth anything in teaching any
subject, but especially a subject with respect to which the
thing pre-eminently desii'able is originality of opinion m
matters of taste.

6. The pupils should be trained to read and analyse, not for
the purpose of picking out flaws, but with a view to compre-
hending artistic effects. The former object would defeat tho
aim to make the reading a source of enjoyment ; the latter is
the surest means of both intellectual and esthetic culture. In
this connection it is necessary to discuss tho question, how
much attention should be given to verse-forms ? Tho correct
answer, from my point of view is, just as much as the import-
ance of form in any particular poem seems to demand. In an
exquisite lyric the form is relatively far more important than
it is in a simply constructed epic. Form is always important
in the sonnet, and indeed it cannot be ignored. It is very
important in the "Ode on Intimations of Immortalit}^,"
especially in view of the great variety of rhythmical effects
which nevertheless easily adapt themselves to tlie changes of
thought and feeling. On the other hand " Michael " is a plain
tale written in the simplest of blank verse, and the relative
importance of form is in it reduced to a minimum. Words-
worth's own theories of poetry so far correspond to his practice
ths^t in his languag;e there are few tone-color effects. To

ill

§!

252 THE BSTHBTIO USB OP WORDSWORTH'S POETRY.

appreciate this one need only compare, say, his '*To the
Cuckoo," with Tennesson's bugle song in the "Princess," or
his "Happy Warrior," with Tennyson's "Sir Galahad."
Bhythm is the most important element in verse form, and
though Wordsworth's use of it is not so varied and masterly
as is Tennyson's or Swinburne's, it is still of great importance.
In the case of iambic pentameter verse the poot's use of various
well-known devices to obviate "sing-song," effects are well
worthy of close study. Given the problem — to create a
poetical form elevated far above common-place prose by the
use of regular rhythm, and yet make it in every part subtly
suggestive of prose effects by freedom from rhythmical
monotony — how has Wordsworth accomplished its solution?
How did Shakespeare, and Milton, and Tennyson, and Brown-
ing do it ?

7. The biography — the personal evolution— of the poet can
never be unimportant, but it need not, perhaps should not, be
systematically considered till after the poems have been all
taken up. The poet's personality will by that time be more
or less familiar to the pupils through his work, and it will be
useful, and, still more important, enjoyable to supplement and
correct their conceptions of him by a consideration of the
facts of his actual life. Biographical discussions, however,
like linguistic discussions, neea not, and should not, be evaded
if they are likely to prove useful when and where they force
themselves on the class. Kept in strict subordination to the
main purpose they are, like a motion to adjourn a meeting,
in order at any tima

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POETIC TRIBUTES TO WORDSWORTEL 258

SOME POETIC TRIBUTES TO WORDSWORTH.

(SHELLEY'S "TO WORDSWORTH.")

Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to know

That things depart which never may return :
Childhood and youth, friendship and love's first glow.

Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to mourn.
These common woes I feeL One loss is mine.

Which thou too feel's t, yet I alone deplore.
Thou wert as a lone star, whose light did shine

On some frail bark in winter's midnight roar ;
Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood
Above the blind and battling multitude :
In honoured poverty thy voice did weave

Songs consecrate to truth and liberty.
Deserting these, thou lea vest me to grieve,

Thus, having been, that thou shouldst cease to ba

\'\

(prom MATTHEW ARNOLD'S ''MEMORIAL VERSE.S.")

*' And Wordsworth ! Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice !
For never has such soothing voice
Been to your shadowy world convoyed,
Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade
Heard the clear song of Orpheus come
Through Hades and the mournful gloom.
Wordsworth has gone from us ; and ye,
Ah, may ye feel his voice as we !
He too, upon a wintry clime
Had fallen,— on this iron time
Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.
He found us when the ago had bound
Our souls in its benumbing round ;
He spoke, and loose<l our hearts in tears.
He laid us as we lay at birth :
On the cool flowery lap of earth ;
Smiles broke from us, and we had ease ;
The hills were round us, and the breeze
Went o'er the sunlit fields again ;
Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.
Our youth returned ; for there was shed
On spirits that had long been dead,
Spirits dried up and closely furled,
Thfi freshness of the early world.

iti

■i

254 POHrnO TRIBUTBS to WORDSWORTa

Ah ! since dark days still bring to light
Man's prudence and man's fiery might,
Time may restore us in his course
Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force ;
But when will Europe's latter hour
Again find Wordsworth's healing power?
Others will teach us how to dare,
And against fear our breast to steel :
Others will strengthen us to bear —
But who, ah ! who will make us fool ?
Tho cloud of mortal destiny,
Others will front it fearlessly ;
But who, like him, will put it by?
Keej) fresh the grass upon his grave,
O Rotha, with thy living wave !
Ring him thy best ! for few or none
Hear thy voice right, now he is gona "

(WHITTIBR'S poem to WORDSWORTH.)

Dear friends, who read the w(ft"ld aright,
And in its common forms discern

A beauty and a harmony
The many never learn !

Kindred in soul of him who found
In sinijilo flower and leaf and stone

The impulse of the swei^tcsb lays
Our Saxon tongue has known, —

Accept this record of a life

As sweet and pure, as calm and good.
As a long day of blandest Juno

In green field and in wood.

How welcome to our cars, long pain'd
By strife of sect and party noise,

Tho brook-like murmur of his song
Of nature's simple joys !

The violet by its mossy stone,
Tho primrose by the river's brim.

The chance-sown daffodil, have found
Immortal life through him.

The sunrise on his breezy lake,
Tho rosy tints his sunset brought.

World-seen, are gladdening all tlio vales
And mountain- peaks of thought.

POErriO TRIBUTES TO W( HI I>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

** 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.

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EXAMINATION QUESTIONS.

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

;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 t<irm
to subject the prescribed texts to a sufficiently thorough
artistic treatment, and teachers should not be misled into
wasting any of it on work that has no value for esthetic pur-
poses. It should be assumed by the examiner that it is the
teacher's function to make his pupils acquainted with tlie
poems themselves, and not to fill them with all sorts uf infor-
mation about either the poems or their author. The amount
of time and effort spent in teaching bi(jgraphy, bibliography,
history, philology, and science in the name of poetry is as
amazing as it is discouraging. Why should there be any
surprise felt when a pupil at the close of the school term
throws aside his texts and revels in his sense of freedom from
intolerable and useless drudgery? Teaching that does not
instil a love of poetry is a failure, and a stylo of examination

tiXAMINATfOK QUE8TI0N&

269

those
d be so
only

that misdirects the teachers so as to produce if not compel such
a result is one of those blunders that are worse than crimes.

It almost goes without saying that if the above contentions
are sound, comiietitivo examinations cannot fail to prove an
obstruction to gotxi teaching. In a competitive examinaticn
there must be no optional qiie.stit>ns, 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&

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

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.

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."

1 i

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 ?

{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.

(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<l
but " pensive recollection " is admitto I.

Discuss the question whether such a mingling of strains is
(a) appropriate to the occasion, (b) in keeping with Words-
worth's prevalent mood, (c) legitimate as a treatment of a
jioetic theme as shown by the example of other poets, and
{(I) in harmony with human life generally.

25. Discuss the tribute paid to Burns in the two poems
addiessed to him : —

964

EXAMINATION QDESnONft

(a) As poetical offiisions. showing the advantages and dis-
advantages of poetry as compared with prose for such a pur-
pose ;

(b) As an estimate of tho pootical genius of Burns, taking
account of acknowlodgcd indebtedness ;

(d) As compared with any other tribute to Burns you
know — such as Carlyle's essay, or Longfellow's poem on the
same subject

2G. (a) "Writ'3 a descriptive note on the sonnet as a mode of
pootical oompo.'iition, dealing with it as to both matter and
form.

(/>) 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.

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.

((i) Consonant-distribution through the Una

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<°

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<j;ard to
the treatment of literatui'e. But every piece of literature is a
work of art ; it has a plan and a development, a frame-work
which has a beauty of its own independent of the covering.
But this analysis is a separate thing, and mus\> 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

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

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<i ijram-
mar for fuller explanation.

VOCABULARY.

The Vocabulary contains every word in the text with
its more general meanings in addition to its particular one
in the text, indication of irregularities, and examples of
idiomatic uses. For greater simplicity the derivations fol-
low the explanatory and illustrative matter.

COMPOSITION EXERCISES.

Exercises in Composition are added and arranged so as
to form synopses of the texts, on which they are based more
or less closely. They are not merely a translation of the
original, but more frequently a rendering sufficiently intri-
cate to make a severe mental exercise as well as imitation
necessary. The pwnts raised or explained in the notes
receive here their practical application.

W. J. GaOB a Co. '8 PUBLICATIONH.

Gage*s New Topical English and Canadian
History N otes.

This little Primer is prepared to cover the Public School History
Clourse in English and Canadian History, and is printed so as to furn-
ish a number of blank leaves to allow students to make additional
notes. Price 26 cents.

■■■>■■

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
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The special points in which your
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is very convenient ; (2) its having
ruled pages for a commercial sales
book ; (.i) ruled amount colimins ;
and (4; ruled spaces for trial bal-
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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
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others. Tlie Ixwk itself will be
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Evans, M.A., Science and Com.
Master, Port Hope H. S.

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I consider it better adapted for
the purpose Intended than any of
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— C S. Falconer, M.A., Com-
mercial Master, Alexandria H.S.

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Model Forme of Notes, Dr.ifts,

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Bill Book.

Snperloi* to any.

Am very much pleased with it.
It is much sui)erior to any that I
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Voiiimercial Master Richmond
Hill High School.

An Improvement.

Have examined Blanks and found
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ones. Shall use them. — J. D
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The finest production.

I have great pleasure in des-
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near, M. A., Head Master Cayuga
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CoPLANn, M.A., Science and Com,
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In every way excellent.— John
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t.i