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OF THE
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828
W93
1923
Riverside College Classics
SELECTED POEMS OF
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
BOSTON
SOLOMON FRANCIS GINGERICH, PH.D.
Associate Professor of English, in the University of Michigan
EDITED BY
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
•
τοῦτ
BIEN OV
RIEN
NEW YORK
•
CHICAGO
SAN FRANCISCO
The Riverside Press Cambridge
•
DALLAS
COPYRIGHT, 1923
BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE · MASSACHUSETTS
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
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V
i
3.
P
21967
PREFACE
THE chief reason for another book of selections from
Wordsworth is that, so far as the editor is aware, no
previous book of selections has included adequate
material from The Prelude. The poems here selected
have been arranged generally in chronological order,
but with such modifications (in all cases slight) as
seemed to make the student's approach to the poems
the most natural. The poems have been placed in
groups, so far as seemed practicable, with the purpose
of suggesting a developmental progress in the study of
them. The groups have been introduced with brief
historical and critical comments. In each case the
criticisms have been merely suggestive, never exhaus-
tive, designed to stimulate, sometimes to challenge,
the student's critical judgment. The text adopted is
the poet's last revision.
་
CONTENTS
>
INTRODUCTION
A BRIEF BIBLIOGRAPHY
THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN
A NIGIIT-PIECE
EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY
THE TABLES TURNED
LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY
"STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I KNOWN"
"SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS"
"I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN"
"THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND SHOWER'
"A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL"
THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS
THE FOUNTAIN
· LUCY GRAY; OR SOLITUDE
RUTH
THE BROTHERS
MICHAEL
THE SPARROW'S NEST
TO A BUTTERFLY (first poem)
TO A BUTTERFLY (second poem)
"MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD"
To H. C.
LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING
TO MY SISTER
•
. ix
xxiii
•
•
1
2
3
4
6
77
8
15
16
16
17
18
19
21
24
26
35
3 2 2 3
49
64
64
65
66
66
vi
CONTENTS
>
i
•
RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE
"I GRIEVED FOR BUONAPARTÉ”
COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS, August,
1802
ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC.
TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE
NEAR DOVER, SEPTEMBER, 1802
WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1802
LONDON, 1802
"IT IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT OF”
"WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY"
COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPTEMBER 3,
1802
"IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND FREE"
TO THE DAISY
TO THE SAME FLOWER
THE GREEN LINNET
•
YEW-TREES
TO THE CUCKOO
W
"I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD"
THE SMALL CELANDINE
AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS
THOUGHTS SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING
TO A HIGHLAND GIRL
THE SOLITARY REAPER
"SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT'
• THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET
THE PRELUDE (selections)
THE RECLUSE (selection)
ODE TO DUTY
↑
68
74
•
74
75
76
76
7777
7777
78
78
79
79
80
83
85
86
8 8 8 8 ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
87
88
89
90
93
96
98
99
. 101
. 105
. 191
. 195
CONTENTS
vii
ELEGIAC STANZAS SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE
CASTLE
197
CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR
. 200
"YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN ECHO'
202
LINES COMPOSED AT GRASMERE (LOUD IS THE VALE) 203
204
•
ODE. INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY
SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE
..211
"NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR CONVENT'S NARROW ROOM" 217
PERSONAL TALK
217
"THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US; LATE AND SOON" 219
TO SLEEP
220
THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OF SWIT-
ZERLAND
“AND IS IT AMONG RUDE Untutored Dales”
"THE POWER OF ARMIES IS A VISIBLE THING"
"HERE PAUSE: THE POET CLAIMS AT LEAST
PRAISE"
YARROW UNVISITED
YARROW VISITED
YARROW REVISITED
•
•
THE EXCURSION (selections)
LAODAMIA
DION
•
(O DEARER FAR THAN LIGHT)
. 220
221
221
•
THIS
COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF EXTRAORDINARY
SPLENDOUR AND BEAUTY
222
223
225
228
233
. 247
253
258
To
261
TO A SKY-LARK
. 261
"BROOK! WHOSE SOCIETY THE POET SEEKS"
262
"SURPRISED BY JOY - IMPATIENT AS THE WIND" 263
"HAIL, TWILIGHT, SOVEREIGN OF ONE PEACEFUL HOUR" 264
•
•
viii
CONTENTS
NOVEMBER 1 ("How CLEAR, HOW KEEN, HOW MARVEL-
LOUSLY BRIGHT")
264
AFTER-THOUGHT
265
MUTABILITY
265
INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE
. 266
THE SAME
. 266
CONTINUED
. 267
"MOST SWEET IT IS WITH UNUPLIFTED EYES"
. 267
To B. R. HAYDON
. 268
"SCORN NOT THE SONNET"
. 268
"A POET! — HE HATH PUT HIS HEART To School”
. 269
g
"IF THOU INDEED DERIVE THY LIGHT FROM HEAVEN" . 269
PREFACE TO LATER ISSUES OF LYRICAL Ballads .
. 271
•
NOTES
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
€ 303
. 317
INTRODUCTION
I
19
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH was born April 7, 1770, in the little
village of Cockermouth, in the northwestern part of what is
known as the Lake Region, in the northwestern part of Eng-
land. His mother died when he was seven years old. At the
age of eight, when the family was broken up and the children
there were five of them ranging between the ages of four
and ten were scattered, William, the second oldest, was
sent with his older brother Richard to the Grammar School
at Hawkshead in the central part of the Lake Region.
The poet's father John Wordsworth, a lawyer, and so-
licitor for Lord Lonsdale's estate was a man of marked
ability. At the death of his wife he took the three smallest
children John, aged six, Dorothy, five, and Christopher,
three to Penrith, the home of the grandparents of the
children on the mother's side, in the northeastern part of the
Lake Region. The grandparents helped care for the children,
and Dorothy remained with her grandparents until she was
grown. But, as it seems, the father never recovered from the
shock of the death of his wife, and six years later when
William was thirteen he also died. In The Prelude the
poet tells how to his child's mind the death of his father came
as a chastisement" and how he bowed low to God, who
thus corrected his desires. At the death of the father, the
boys of the family passed under the guardianship of their
uncles.
CC
J
M
Except for brief visits to Penrith while his father was still
living, William spent the years between eight and seventeen
at Hawkshead. He boarded, that is, lived, with Ann Tyson,
an elderly dame. Her home was a second home, and she a
sort of second mother, to the orphan boy. Except for school
hours, in which he learned to be a good Latin scholar, under
various masters, he lived an out-of-door life in Hawkshead
Vale. The boy had a special affinity for the natural beauty
that characterizes this vicinity. Here he went boating on
Esthwaite Lake in summer and skating in winter; here he
X
INTRODUCTION
first learned to love the sun because he "had seen him lay his
beauty on the morning hills"; here he "held unconscious
intercourse with beauty old as creation." From the sensa-
tions and stored-up images of this period of his life he drew
for the materials of his poetry in his mature years. (See
Selections from The Prelude, Books I and II.)
At the age of seventeen he was sent by his uncles to
Cambridge, where, except for vacations, he spent the next
four years of his life. He read much in the classics and widely
in modern English literature. But his vacations were also
educative. He spent his first vacation among the Lakes; the
second in Derbyshire and Yorkshire; in the third, that is, the
summer of 1790, he undertook with his friend Robert Jones
a long walking trip through France and Switzerland into the
Italian Lake country, returning by way of the Rhine. After
graduating in 1791 he spent a few months in London and the
summer months in Wales with his old friend Jones. To-
gether they toured the country, accomplishing the special
feat of climbing Snowdon by moonlight. (See Selection from
The Prelude, Book XIV.) Wordsworth's letters and his early
poems show that he was already at the age of twenty-one
thoroughly familiar with the best scenery of Europe.
A period of very great importance in the life of the poet
opened when in November, 1791, he went to France. He
wished to study French manners, French language and liter-
ature; he was no doubt also influenced by the spirit of the
early Revolutionary movement in France; and, it may be
conjectured, he was drawn forth by the attraction of per-
sonal adventure. Wordsworth at twenty-one was high-
spirited, passionate, and energetic. At first he stood some-
what aloof from the political affairs of France, but gradually
he was drawn into the spirit of the conflict. He took sides
with the republicans against the aristocracy. He became a
patriot; his heart was given to the people and his love was
theirs. His devotion to Nature was now surpassed by his de-
votion to Humanity. His first-hand observation of human
suffering and human wrong and the ideas of the rights and
the high destiny of individual man entered his consciousness
so deeply during these formative years of his life that they
furnish a sort of key to the study of his major poetry. (See
Selections from The Prelude, Books IX to XI inclusive.)
INTRODUCTION
xi
Wordsworth remained in France more than a year. Nor
was it of his own choice that he returned to England; when
at the height of his ardor for the cause and he was about to
ally himself actively with it, his guardians, by cutting off his
allowance, forced him to return, which he did in December,
1792. For the three years following, our knowledge of hist
course of life is unfortunately scant. We know that his rel-
atives, who were conservative politically, did not welcome
the republican radical to their bosoms, and that the youth
was practically homeless. We know that when England
declared war against the French Republic his devotion to
France sorely conflicted with his patriotism, and that later
when the Revolution failed his mind was thrown into a state
of moral confusion. We now know, too, that he was bound
to France by a personal tie; he had fallen in love with
Annette Vallon, a lady some five years older than himself
and of a distinguished aristocratic French family. The
differences of aristocrat and republican placed a barrier
between them, and the war ultimately separated them.
A daughter was born, whom he legitimated according to
French law, and who bore the name of Caroline Words-
worth. After the first mis-step the poet seems to have borne
himself honorably in this affair. When they did meet ten
years later they amicably agreed to live separately. But
during the years immediately following his return to Eng-
land the incident no doubt added greatly to his unsettled
state of mind.
<
In this period of restlessness, of doubt and uncertainty,
personal and political (1792-95), the poet lived for a time in
London, perhaps with his brother Richard, wandered from
one place to another among his various friends, published
his first poems, An Evening Walk and Descriptive Sketches
(1793), and meditated starting a monthly magazine; but he
remained unsettled as to his future. His relatives wished him
to take Holy Orders, but this he could not conscientiously do.
In 1794 he wrote to a friend: "I have been doing nothing,
and still continue to do nothing. What is to become of me
I know not.” However, an unlooked-for incident occurred
which helped him to resolve his doubts. During 1793 and
1794 he had been much with his friends William and Raisley
Calvert. The latter contracted consumption, and Words-
xii
INTRODUCTION
worth nursed him through months of illness, and stayed
with him devotedly till he died. It was found that the young
man had willed to Wordsworth nine hundred pounds. The
legacy was accompanied by a note to the effect that if Words-
worth could devote himself unstintingly to poetry the donor
believed he would be able to produce work of permanent
benefit to mankind.
Dorothy Wordsworth, who had been separated from her
brothers from childhood, seems to have had a deep-seated
ambition to build a home for them when she grew to woman's
estate; especially did she plan to do this for her favorite
brother William. The legacy received by the poet and the
plans of Dorothy to add a little to their income by teaching
children permitted the sister and brother to set up house-
keeping together. In the autumn of 1795 (Dorothy was then
twenty-three and her brother twenty-five) they found,
suited to their purpose, a farmhouse, Racedown, in Dorset-
shire, in southwestern England. Under the inspiration of
his dead friend's faith in him and under the soothing influ-
ence of his sister, he settled down to writing poetry as the
chief business of his life, and to achieve permanent peace and
ultimate success and happiness. From henceforth Dorothy,
a woman of extraordinary insight and boundless sympathy,
remained by her brother's side, and was ever a helpful and
broadening influence in his work.
Though the most important effort of Wordsworth in his
new home was the tragedy The Borderers, he had not yet
found his authentic voice. In June, 1797, Coleridge came to
Racedown as a visitor. The poets had met before, but now a
friendship sprung up, which, for intimacy and for good re-
sults in literature, is perhaps unsurpassed in literary history.
For very soon both poets, each stimulating the other, ac-
complished work of such character as could not have been
anticipated on the basis of the quality of the work which
each had previously done. Evidence of how rapidly this
friendship grew into intimacy are the facts that William
and Dorothy accompanied Coleridge to his home at Nether
Stowey, Somersetshire, and that within a month thereafter
they left Racedown and rented a house, Alfoxden, three
miles from Nether Stowey, in order that the poets might be
near each other. Here there was almost daily intercourse
INTRODUCTION
xiii
between the new friends. As Coleridge said, they were
"three people and one soul." They wandered over the Quan-
tock hills, loitered in groves and among the combs. They
occasionally made excursions of several days' duration. To
defray the expenses of one such excursion they planned to
write a poem to be published in the Monthly Magazine. The
poem thus conceived was The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
Wordsworth suggested a few incidents and contributed a
few lines; however, the manner of the poem, as Coleridge
planned it, was not congenial to Wordsworth and he ceased
collaborating. He wrote other poems, and The Ancient
Mariner grew to such lengths that they finally decided to
publish a volume. This was the Lyrical Ballads, published
late in 1798, and destined to make an epoch in the history of
English literature. Coleridge contributed four poems and
Wordsworth nineteen. The volume opened with The Ancient
Mariner and closed with Lines Composed a Few Miles above
Tintern Abbey.
The Wordsworths remained at Alfoxden only a year.
Some of their good neighbors suspected them of republican-
ism and did not wish to harbor radicals in their midst. Then
John Thelwall, a notorious radical, came to spend part of the
summer with Coleridge, and of course visited Wordsworth,
which increased the suspicions of their neighbors. A govern-
ment spy was sent down to watch the movements of the sus-
pected characters. Nothing resulted from this investigation
so far as the government was concerned; but Wordsworth
found it impossible to get a further lease on Alfoxden. This,
together with the desire to learn the German language,
caused the two poets to decide to spend some time in Ger-
many. They were accompanied by Dorothy, and in the
autumn of 1798 set sail for Hamburg.
In Germany Coleridge left his friends and went to
Ratzeburg, while Wordsworth and his sister made their way
to Gosler, near the Hartz forest, where they spent the winter.
The weather was extremely cold, and for social and literary
reasons the choice of place was not a good one. In this rather
lonely town they remained outside of the current of German
life and literature. It had the good effect, however, of throw-
ing the poet inward upon his own resources, and we have as a
fruit of his stay at Gosler the exquisite Lucy poems, and some
xiv
INTRODUCTION
others. Early in the spring of 1799 they left Gosler, visited
Coleridge who was now at Göttingen, and returned to Eng-
land to stay with their relatives and to wander. It was no
doubt a happy summer, for they were both good visitors and
wanderers.
It was not until late in December, 1799, that they again
found a permanent dwelling-place. This was Dove Cottage,
Town-End, Grasmere, in the central part of the Lake
Region. After some years of living in the south of England
and of wandering, they finally returned to their native com-
munity to abide for the rest of their lives. At Dove Cottage
the poet lived from 1799 to 1808, and here wrote much of his
greatest poetry more than two thirds, for instance, of the
selections of this book. Here he entertained Coleridge and
visited him; for the latter had come to Greta Hall, Keswick,
not far from Grasmere, to be near Wordsworth. Here he
entertained Charles and Mary Lamb, whom he had met at
Coleridge's home at Nether Stowey. Here he had as guest
Walter Scott, with whom he had become acquainted on an
excursion into Scotland. Hither, in 1802, he brought his
bride — Mary Hutchinson and here their three oldest
children were born - John, Dorothy (Dora), and Thomas.
Here he prepared various editions of his poems in 1800,
1802, 1805, and 1807. Dove Cottage has long since been
made public property, many relics of the poet's time being
preserved. It is Dove Cottage with which we associate his
greatest work.
Sep
Pogradecim
Wordsworth's family outgrew the quarters of Dove
Cottage, and so in 1808 they moved to Allan Bank, a large,
new, but uncomfortable house in Grasmere. Here the two
younger children, Catherine and William, were born. In
1811 they left Allan Bank for the parsonage at Grasmere, in
which they remained only a short time. The misfortune of
losing two of their children, Catherine and Thomas, and their
graves in the churchyard near by, made the place unbear-
able. In 1813 the poet and his family moved to Rydal
Mount, some two miles distant, his final home, where he
lived thirty-seven years, until his death.
Soon after settling at Rydal Mount Wordsworth was
appointed Stamp-Collector of Westmoreland County an
office in which much of the work could be done by deputy,
Mak
INTRODUCTION
XV
and which carried with it an annual stipend of £400. Words-
worth had received a legacy of £900 in 1795. He received
small sums for some of his poems in 1798, and in 1800 and
1802. Also in 1802 he and his sister received their share of
their father's estate which had been due them since their
father's death in 1783. Lord Lonsdale had borrowed money
from Wordsworth's father, but had refused to pay it to the
estate. At his death, however, his son, who became the next
Lord Lonsdale, paid not only the principal, but also the in-
terest that had accrued. The total amount was said to be
£25,000, which was divided equally among the five children
the poet and Dorothy and their three brothers. Yet the poet's
income with the utmost saving was barely sufficient for the
maintenance of his family. The regular stipend from stamp-
collecting was therefore a great financial relief to the poet.
The fact that Wordsworth's poetry was received with un-
fair severity by the reviewers made it impossible through
many years for him to obtain any adequate financial income
from his work and kept him from finding his proper public
audience. The Edinburgh Review, founded in 1802, was a
mighty influence in the land; it seems that for the most
part the reading public of that day followed its guidance.
Its editor - Francis Jeffrey nourished a deep-seated per-
sonal prejudice against Wordsworth's poetry, and took every
advantage of his powerful position to condemn it before
the public. Wordsworth's treatment of peasants as human
beings, which we count as one of the glories of his poetry,
Jeffrey condemned, because it militated against the principle
of "keeping the lowly in their proper place." What we now
consider as the grand simplicities of Wordsworth's style
Jeffrey sneeringly dubbed as "silly," or "imbecile" favor-
ite words with him. He spoke satirically, for instance, of
"the extreme simplicity and lowliness of tone which wavered
so prettily, in the Lyrical Ballads, between silliness and
pathos." The mystic and powerfully spiritual element in
Wordsworth's poetry, according to Jeffrey, "eludes all com-
prehension, and fills the despairing reader with painful giddi-
ness and terror." When, in 1807, Wordsworth published two
volumes of Poems, which contained the Intimations of Im-
mortality and much of the very best of his poetry, Jeffrey
characterized the poems as
coarse, inelegant, and infan-
CC
xvi
INTRODUCTION
tine,” and in particular considered the Ode as "the most il-
legible and unintelligible part of the publication." Later he
said that "in some of his odes and ethic exhortations he was
exposed to the public in a state of incoherent rapture and
glorious delirium." His favorite method of attack on a
poem was to assert that he could not form "the slightest
guess at its meaning," which was perhaps the literal truth.
It may be said, however, in Jeffrey's behalf that he was
vaguely, though truly, disquieted by the religious implica-
tions of Wordsworth's poetry, and that he honestly feared
the influence of its democratic spirit on the constituted order
of society. The reason he gave so much attention to Words-
worth is that he recognized in him a powerful opponent
testimony to Wordsworth's greatness. Only, he was utterly
mistaken as to the quality of his poetry.
But if Wordsworth was tardily recognized by professional
critics and by the public, he did not want for appreciation
among his personal friends. His brother John and his sister
had not only sympathy for his peculiar genius but an intelli-
gent comprehension of it. Charles Lamb early became an
advocate of his poetry. Coleridge proclaimed him always to
all comers as the greatest poet of the age. "The Giant
Wordsworth, God love him!" sums up his attitude to-
ward him. Gradually there grew up a discipleship of no
small numbers, especially among those of the younger
generation; so that just about the time Jeffrey wrote, "The
case of Mr. Wordsworth, we perceive, is now manifestly
hopeless; and we give him up as altogether incurable, and
beyond the power of criticism" (1814), Wordsworth was al-
ready receiving that public recognition which more and more
approximated Coleridge's conception of him and his destiny.
In 1817 Coleridge wrote in the Biographia Literaria of Words-
worth: "In imaginative power, he stands nearest of all
modern writers to Shakespeare and Milton; and yet in a kind
perfectly unborrowed and his own."
The outward life of Wordsworth at Rydal Mount for the
last thirty years was for the most part uneventful. It was
varied by frequent excursions to Scotland, Ireland, Wales,
to various places in England, and to the Continent. He was
sought out by visitors, and in the last years was the recipient
of many honors. In 1839 he was honored by Oxford with the
J
20
a
INTRODUCTION
xvii
degree of D.C.L., the occasion causing more enthusiasm than
any other similar one except when the Duke of Wellington
was likewise honored. In 1840 he was visited at his home by
the Queen-Dowager, and in 1843 he was made Poet Laureate
of England.
While at Rydal Mount he published in 1814 The Excur-
sion, in 1815 The White Doe of Rylstone, and in 1822 the
Ecclesiastical Sonnets, besides many shorter pieces and vari-
ous volumes of the large bulk of his poems. He thoroughly
revised many of his earlier poems, and as his fame increased,
it was necessary to supply from time to time new editions to
the reading public.
Wordsworth outlived most of the companions of his earlier
years. Scott died in 1832; both Coleridge and Charles Lamb
in 1834. Dorothy had become an invalid in 1828, and lived
with a clouded mind thereafter. However, both she and Mrs.
Wordsworth outlived the poet the former by five years,
the latter by nine years. In 1847 Wordsworth's daughter
Dora, who had gradually come to take the place of his sister
in relation to him, died. This tried the old man's heart se-
verely, but he endured it with noble resignation. He himself
lived to the serene age of eighty, dying in peace and full of
honor. His death occurred April 25, 1850. Though a monu-
ment is erected to his honor in Westminster Abbey, his body
lies in Grasmere churchyard, in a vale transfigured in his
poetry and made dear by a thousand associations with his
name.
M
II
Wordsworth was a thoroughly English poet, and the most
fundamental approach to him is through the channels of Eng-
lish literary traditions and the history of English thought.
From the time of Thomson there had been a development of
interest in outer Nature, through Collins, Gray, Goldsmith,
Blake, Crabbe, Cowper, and Burns, which grew stronger in
the later of these poets and came to full maturity in Words-
worth. But Wordsworth penetrated far more deeply into the
heart of Nature and rendered on a larger scale the manifold
outer manifestations of Nature than his predecessors. Thus
the growth of the deepening feeling for Nature culminated
xviii
INTRODUCTION
in him, and he is the legitimate outcome of a truly English
development.
Corresponding to this movement toward appreciation of
Nature there was a movement toward a broader humanitari-
anism. This finds its history in Gray's Elegy in a Country
Churchyard, which sings "the short and simple annals of the
poor"; in Goldsmith's Deserted Village; Burns's Cotter's Sat-
urday Night, A Man's a Man, and To a Mouse; in Crabbe's
Village; and in Cowper's sympathetic representation of
simple human beings and of animals. But Wordsworth made
a more conscious and a much wider application of the prin-
ciples of humanitarianism to the various conditions of life
than his predecessors; thus he also stands at the culmination
of this movement.
Rousseau, the leader of French Romanticism (1712–78),
had represented both these movements in their extremes, and
Rousseau was a quickening influence upon Wordsworth.
However, Rousseau's "Back to Nature" is not the same as
Wordsworth's "law and impulse" in Nature that has “the
power to kindle or restrain." The balance which Words-
worth holds between the impulse that kindles and the law
that restrains relates him more closely to his English prede-
cessors than to Rousseau. This relation is even more marked
in his treatment of humanity, for the condition of permanent
spiritual success in life, according to Wordsworth, is when
the mind rests "in self-restraint, in circumspection and
simplicity."
Wordsworth was also a close student of Shakespeare,
Milton, Spenser, and Chaucer. He once said that if one
studies these four one may neglect the other English poets.
There is often something of Milton's harmony and grandeur
in Wordsworth's blank verse and in his sonnets. Occasionally
he catches the richness of Spenser's diction, and frequently
he goes beyond Chaucer in simplicity and realism. This does
not mean that Wordsworth was not original. His originality
is perhaps as marked as that of any great English poet. His &
style, diction, and his specific choice of subject-matter are
entirely unique.
Wordsworth's individualism is revealed as much by what
he does not do as by what he does. The use of the super-
natural, for instance, is very common in English literature.
*
INTRODUCTION
xix
Familiar examples are the ghost in Shakespeare's Hamlet,
the witches in Macbeth, the worlds of Heaven and Hell in
Milton's Paradise Lost, the goblin, magic book and wizardry
in Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel, the polar spirits and the
phantom ship in Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, the destinies
and spirits in Byron's Manfred, the avenging furies and the
supernatural characters in Shelley's Prometheus Unbound,
the ancient gods and goddesses in Keats's Hyperion. Words-
worth, on the other hand, was intent on ridding himself of
all these supernatural agencies dear to the heart not only
of poetry but of religion in past ages demons, witches,
gnomes, naiads, local deities, limbos, nether worlds, purga-
tories, etc. Daringly he cut through the accumulated super-
stitions, mythologies, and hide-bound creeds of the past to
the essential passion and power of man's deepest and in-
most nature. If nineteenth-century literature is freer from
such literary and religious accessories than that of earlier
centuries, and is more inclined to treat man as man, perhaps
more is due to the example of Wordsworth than that of any
other single individual. It was no part of his purpose to set
limits to the highest imaginative power of poetry or to oppose
religion. Rather, he found the center for both in the very
heart of man. He demanded that good men feel the soul of
Nature and realize the energy and mystery of their own in-
ward being. He asserted unequivocally and illustrated effec-
tively the ancient doctrine that "the Kingdom of Heaven is
within you." He is a modern of the moderns by his constant
insistence on the principle of immanence. God is in Nature
and in Man.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
Again, a characteristic page of Milton's poetry is gener-
ously besprinkled with allusions to classical myth and an-
cient history. But in Wordsworth such allusions are so rare
that they may be considered negligible. Likewise personifi- ·
cations of abstract objects, so common in Spenser and other
poets, find small place on the pages of Wordsworth. For
these common and outward symbols of poetry, which sym-
bols or their equivalents are necessary to give to poetry color
and concreteness, Wordsworth substitutes objects and im-
ages of Nature. Thus, though he was primarily a poet of
Man, of human experiences, and of ethical and religious
ideas, he interwove images of Nature so completely into
XX
INTRODUCTION
everything he has written that the result stands out as both
characteristic and unique.
Though in his earliest poetry (1793-97) Wordsworth imi-
tated the style and diction of the eighteenth-century poets
he soon found himself in revolt against bloodless abstrac-
tions, such as "smiling morning" or "shouting folly," and
stock epithets, such as "the finny tribe" or "the purple
main," which abound in the poetry of the eighteenth century.
Though a realist in describing outward things with great ac-
curacy, Wordsworth was essentially what may be called a
realist of the inward life. His efforts were unflagging in get-
ting at the inmost truth of things, the central law of our
being, the inward verity, and reality, without artificiality,
without illusion. He was too good an artist not to know that
such aims required an appropriate vocabulary and literary
style. His attack on the poetic diction of his predecessors į
thus really grew out of his own strongly felt need of a lan-
guage that would not play him false, that would not mar the
truth of his penetrating vision. This language he found to be
essentially simple, real, and human "a selection of lan-
guage really used by men. The Biblical simplicity of the
language, for instance, of Michael, its very human quality,
its strikingly close approximation to real speech, illustrate
at once both the poet's fundamental need of a new diction
and his triumphant use of it.
""
Wordsworth is one of England's greatest philosophic and
religious poets. "In his more characteristic poems," says
Lowell, "there is always a kernel of firm conclusion from
far-reaching principles that stimulates thought and chal-
lenges meditation." But being a true poet, he did not hold
to a closed system of thought. He put great stress on the
growth of the mind, a theme to which The Prelude itself is
devoted. Though conservative in the best and root meaning
of that word, he himself was eminently capable of growth.
He was always testing the validity of his knowledge, his ob-
servations and his experiences, conserving and carrying for
ward the solidest parts of them. He set forth, with what
light he possessed, at a given time, his full conviction, sup-
ported by the whole force of his personality, without fear of
being inconsistent with his former perceptions. Thus he
grew from step to step toward wisdom and truth. (These
INTRODUCTION
xxi
remarks and those which follow do not refer to the latest
years of Wordsworth's life - say, after 1823. The very in-
tensity accompanying his growth produced in his old age a
certain stiffening of the mind. However, it is always to be
remembered that a vast deal of the discussion in the critical
books on what Wordsworth did and believed in his old age
has no essential bearing upon the great body of his poetry
written in his mature years.)
But owing to this growth in him there occur important,
though not fundamental, changes in his attitude toward the
truth of things toward Nature, Man, and Deity. Nature
in 1798 was "the soul of all his moral being," and though
he always retained a passionate love for Nature, even by
the time he wrote the Intimations of Immortality (1802–06)
Nature was far from being his "all in all." In his poems of
1798 and 1800 Man was on a par, so to speak, with Nature;
but gradually he began to perceive there was something
transcendental and immortal in man which he was not will-
ing to ascribe to Nature merely. In 1798 Deity was very
closely identified with the entity Nature and was conceived
as impersonal a motion and a spirit. By degrees Deity
emerges from the vast order of Nature and becomes tran-
scendent and personal. In politics Wordsworth was radical
in his youth, identifying himself chiefly with French Repub-
licanism; but by 1802 he was genuinely and patriotically
a believer in the English type of liberty-slow-growing,
conservative, substantial. In later years this phase of his
conservatism was more marked.
But what gave centrality and unity to Wordsworth's de-
velopmental progress were his profound adherence to the
principle of immanence and his strong faith in individualism.
Wordsworth believed as strongly in his later as in his earlier
years that Spirit interpenetrates the material universe; only
in later years his interpretation of this Spirit was more or-
thodox. Politically he lost faith that through organization
or through machinery government can enfranchise the world.
His creed was essentially that it is only through the en-
franchisement of the individual by self-cultivation that a
true community or national life can be developed, and
that until such individual growth and emancipation' has
taken place the individual has not yet earned the right to
xxii
INTRODUCTION
exercise the responsibility and authority of government.
What he especially feared was that the development of
organized industrialism, which had its beginning in his day,
would take away the initiative of the individual, the end
of which danger we ourselves have not yet seen. His social
and political philosophy thus consists in placing much stress
on the necessity of real individual development and in hold-
ing to the inward reality of things.
Because Wordsworth sang fittingly and well of the spirit
of Nature, of beauty, virtue, freedom, power, love, of the
moral law within, "of the individual Mind that keeps her
own inviolate retirement,” and of the soul of humanity, he is
enrolled among the greatest of modern poets.
A BRIEF BIBLIOGRAPHY
ARNOLD, MATTHEW. Essays in Criticism. Second Series.
BAGEHOT, WALTER. Literary Studies.
BROOKE, STOPFORD A. Theology in the English Poets.
COLERIDGE, S. T. Biographia Literaria.
DOWDEN, E. Studies in Literature.
HARPER, G. M. William Wordsworth; His Life, Works and
Influence. 2 vols.
HAZLITT, W. The Spirit of the Age.
HERFORD, C. H.
HUDSON, H. N.
HUTTON, R. H.
LEGOUIS, E. The Early Life of Wordsworth.
LOWELL, J. R. Among my Books.
The Age of Wordsworth.
Studies in Wordsworth.
Literary Essays.
MYERS, F. W. H.
Series.)
Wordsworth. (English Men of Letters
Pater, Walter H.
Appreciations.
RALEIGH, SIR W. A. Wordsworth.
SHAIRP, J. C. Wordsworth. Studies in Poetry and Philos-
ophy.
STEPHEN, SIR LESLIE. Hours in a Library, vol. II.
SWINBURNE, A. C. Miscellanies.
WORDSWORTH, CHRISTOPHER. Memoirs of W. Wordsworth.
WORDSWORTH, DOROTHY. Journal.
C
SELECTED POEMS OF
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
In the first of the following two poems Wordsworth characteristic-
ally gives an interesting bit of psychology a glance into the work-
ings of the character's mind in a given situation. In the second he
blends minute and vivid descriptive details with a sense of the infini-
tude of Nature; he renders a scene in Nature dynamically rather
than statically, using mostly active verbs that accentuate the “go-
ings-on" of the universe; he carries a sense of movement to a climactic
point with a gradual subsidence, indicating a marked structural form
for so short a poem.
These characteristics are true of most of
Wordsworth's shorter Nature poems.
THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN
Ar 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 5
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; 10
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:
2
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 15
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!
1797
A NIGHT-PIECE
THE sky is overcast
With a continuous cloud of texture close,
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,
Which through that veil is indistinctly seen,
A dull, contracted circle, yielding light
So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls,
Chequering the ground - from rock, plant, tree, or
-
LO
tower.
At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam
Startles the pensive traveller while he treads
His lonesome path, with unobserving eye
10
Bent earthwards; he looks up the clouds are split.
Asunder, and above his head he sees
The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small
And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss
Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,
Yet vanish not! - the wind is in the tree,
But they are silent; still they roll along
Immeasurably distant; and the vault,
Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,
Still deepens its unfathomable depth.
At length the Vision closes; and the mind,
Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,
Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,
Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.
5
15
20
25
1798
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
3
The following five poems are strictly Nature poems. They ap-
peared in the Lyrical Ballads in 1798. Though Wordsworth pub-
lished Nature poems earlier, as for instance, An Evening Wallc
(1793), these poems are on a much higher level than anything he had
previously written; and though they stand nearly at the beginning
of his literary career, they are marked by an unusual maturity of
thought and style. In simplicity and suggestiveness of phrasing, in
intellectual grasp of the fundamental relations of Nature to the min l
of man, and in intensity of spiritual exaltation, they hold a distinc-
tive place in the Nature poetry of the language. In subject-matter
they accentuate Wordsworth's early religious naturalism. Lines
Written in Early Spring introduces a contrast between the benignity
of Nature and the inhumanity of Man. To My Sister, with its at-
mosphere of a spring day out of doors, sets the heart free. In both
poems Nature, a living energy full of joy and pain, with an over-
balance of joy, reveals herself as divine by disclosing silent spiritual
laws for man's acceptance. The sense of this mystical and moral in-
fluence of Nature is intensified in Expostulation and Reply and The
Tables Turned, companion pieccs, contrasted in setting but pointing
to the same conclusion. Nature is conceived not only as alive but as
a single entity, with power to elevate the alert but receptive mind.
This faith, transformed into a larger and a more articulate religious
conception, is given full and most sublime expression in Lines Com-
posed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, the concluding poem of the
Lyrical Ballads. This poem is characterized by a bold, free, and
large utterance. Its numerous simple and unadorned lines, its
many felicitous and pregnant phrases, its energetic forward sweep of
thought and feeling, its upward surge from concrete things to the
cosmos, stamp it as memorably noble, powerful, and sublime. It
remains Wordsworth's masterpiece among his Nature poems.
LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING
I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate 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 heart to think
What man has made of man.
LO
5
4
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Through primrose tufts, in that green 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 which 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.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
TO MY SISTER
It is the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before,
The redbreast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.
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 field.
My sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
Now that our morning meal is done,
10
15
20
1798
LO
5
10
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
5
LO
..
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.
and, pray,
Edward will come with you;
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 years of toiling reason:
Our minds shall drink 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, above,
We'll frame the measure of our souls:
They shall be tuned to love.
Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,
With speed put on your woodland dress;
15
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25
30
35
6
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.
EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY
"WHY, William, on that old grey stone,
Thus for the length of half a day,
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?
"Where are your books? - that light bequeathed 5
To Beings else forlorn and blind!
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.
"You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!"
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply:
“The eye — it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will.
40
1798
"Nor less I deem that there are Powers
Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can feed this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.
10
15
20
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
77
"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
Of things forever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?
Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may,
I sit upon this old grey stone,
And dream my time away."
66
THE TABLES TURNED
AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT
Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?
The sun, above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! '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! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.
1798
25
30
LO
5
10
15
8
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:
We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.
B
20
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
25
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
Kate Spad
LINES
COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON
REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR.
JULY 13, 1798
30
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 soft inland murmur. Once again
1798
LO
5
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
9
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
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines 15
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!
With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire
The Hermit sits alone.
These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
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,
10
20
25
30
35
40
10
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
I
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
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.
45
If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,
How often has my spirit turned to thee!
And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope,
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when
first
I came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led: more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
50
55
60
65
70
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
11
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; and the rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, nor 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 recompence. 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,
75
80
85
90
95
100
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world 105
Of eye, and ear, both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
:
12
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
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 110
Of all my moral being.
1
Nor perchance,
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
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 her; '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,
115
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125
130
135
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
13
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance -
If I should be where I no more can hear
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145
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!
1798
150
155
Of the nineteen poems which Wordsworth contributed to the
Lyrical Ballads of 1798 six are Nature poems and thirteen deal with
human characters. This proportion is significant as indicating how
early Wordsworth's mind was primarily occupied with human issues
and human destiny. In the preface to the second edition of the
Lyrical Ballads, in 1800, he says that the principal object in these
poems was to make the incidents and situations interesting "by
tracing in them, truly though not ostentatiously, the primary laws
of our nature: chiefly as far as regards the manner in which we asso-
ciate ideas in a state of excitement." In short, Wordsworth was a
humanist who aimed to give in his poems "a natural delineation of
human passions, human characters, and human incidents" (Adver-
tisement to first edition of Lyrical Ballads). The following eleven
poems, which appeared (with the exception of I Have Traveled among
Unknown Men) in the second edition of the Lyrical Ballads (1800),
deal primarily with some aspect of human life. The first five of
these, known as the Lucy poems, are rare and beautiful interpreta-
tions of an inconsolable loss. The first renders an experience of pre-
8
14
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
monition, a sudden realization, through strange means, of an impend-
ing doom; the second exalts the loveliness of the heroine; the third is
the domestic and patriotic poem of the group; the fourth shows how
the heroine grows into loveliness through the enkindling and restrain-
'ng influence of Nature; the last is, in Coleridge's words, "a sublime
epitaph." Two April Mornings and The Fountain, which belong to a
group known as the Matthew poems, trace truly though not osten-
tatiously a primary law of our nature: that there can be no actual
substitution made of one personality for another, suggesting the in-
violableness of our personal identity. Lucy Gray, a perfect ballad,
creates an atmosphere of loneliness and separation from human kind
which, with great delicacy, is made to grow gradually into the spirit
of the supernatural, though in no way lessening the human pathos of
the poem. Ruth, written in ballad form but extending considerably
the bounds of the ballad proper, is a study in marital unfaithfulness.
The voluptuous elements of wild Nature inflame rather than subdue
the inherent evil qualities of “impetuous blood" and lack of "self-
control" of the Georgian youth. On the other hand some solace
is extracted from Nature by the shattered spirit of Ruth, though
neither Nature nor any other power can restore her to her normal
self. The Brothers is a beautiful country idyl. Against the back-
ground of native hills and vales, the characters are rendered with
such simplicity and depth that the artificiality, traditionally associ-
ated with idyls, disappears. The ardor and strength of Leonard's
affections, and the reserve power of the author, are shown to great
advantage in the climactic part of the story, where Leonard, refusing
to create a "scene," departs silently from his native place. In Mi-
chael Wordsworth scales the heights in portraying extreme anguish
in an heroic soul. In style the poem achieves perfect simplicity and
grandeur; it moves on a high level of emotional energy, yet gives a
sense of a great reserve of calmness. The story advances slowly,
almost leisurely. The presentation, without exaggeration, of detail
after detail, from the shepherd's daily family life, gradually lifts the
hero in our admiration; so that when the crisis comes we feel a poig-
nant sense of personal loss. After the defection of the son the record
is brief. The poem now moves with the utmost swiftness. Every
line is pregnant with tragic energy. The poignancy is intensified in
that no cry escapes his lips as Michael goes about in solitary anguish
to perform his duty. "Stout of heart and strong of limb," he gradu-
ally looms before our imagination a sublime spiritual hero, as endur-
ing as the eternal hills.
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
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"STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE
I KNOWN"
STRANGE fits of passion have I known:
And I will dare to tell,
But in the Lover's ear alone,
What once to me befell.
When she I loved looked every day
Fresh as a rose in June,
I to her cottage bent my way,
Beneath an evening-moon.
Upon the moon I fixed my eye,
All over the wide lea;
With quickening pace my horse drew nigh
Those paths so dear to me.
And now we reached the orchard-plot;
And, as we climbed the hill,
The sinking moon to Lucy's cot
Came near, and nearer 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.
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"O mercy!" to myself I cried,
"If Lucy should be dead!"
"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.
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She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.
"Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.
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"I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN"
I TRAVELLED among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea;
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Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;
And she I cherished turned her wheel,
Beside an English fire.
Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed
The bowers where Lucy played;
And thine too is the last green field
That Lucy's eyes surveyed.
THREE years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, “A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown;
This Child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A Lady of my own.
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"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.
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'She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn,
Or up the mountain springs;
And hers shall be the breathing balm,
And hers the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.
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“THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND
SHOWER"
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"The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the Storm
Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form
By silent sympathy.
"The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.
"And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her virgin bosom swell;
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell.”
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Thus Nature spake The work was done -
How soon my Lucy's race was run!
She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm, and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,
And never more will be.
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"A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL”
A SLUMBER did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.
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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.
THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS
We walked along, while bright and red
Uprose the morning sun;
And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,
"The will of God be done!"
A village schoolmaster was he,
With hair of glittering grey;
As blithe a man as you could see
On a spring holiday.
And on that morning, through the grass,
And by the steaming rills,
We travelled merrily, to pass
A day among the hills.
"Our work," said I, "was well begun,
Then, from thy breast what thought,
Beneath so beautiful a sun,
So sad a sigh has brought?"
A second time did Matthew stop;
And fixing still his eye
Upon the eastern mountain-top,
To me he made reply:
"Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
Brings fresh into my mind
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A day like this which I have left
Full thirty years behind.
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'And just above yon slope of corn
Such colours, and no other,
Were in the sky, that April morn,
Of this the very brother.
"With rod and line I sued the sport
Which that sweet season gave,
And, to the church-yard come, stopped short
Beside my daughter's grave.
"Nine summers had she scarcely seen,
The pride of all the vale;
And then she sang;
A very nightingale.
she would have been
"Six feet in earth my Emma lay;
And yet I loved her more,
For so it seemed, than till that day
I e'er had loved before.
"And, turning from her grave, I met,
Beside the church-yard yew,
A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew.
"A basket on her head she bare;
Her brow was smooth and white:
To see a child so very fair,
It was a pure delight!
"No fountain from its rocky cave
E'er tripped with foot so free;
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She seemed as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea.
"There came from me a sigh of pain
Which I could ill confine;
I looked at her, and looked again:
And did not wish her mine!"
Matthew is in his grave, yet now,
Methinks, I see him stand,
As at that moment, with a bough
Of wilding in his hand.
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,
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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 grey-haired man of glee:
"No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears;
How merrily it goes!
"Twill murmur on a thousand years,
And flow as now it flows.
"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
Than what it leaves behind.
away
"The blackbird amid leafy trees,
The lark above the hill,
Let loose their carols when they please,
Are quiet when they will.
"With Nature never do they wage
A foolish strife; they see
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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.
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"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.
"My days, my Friend, are almost gone,
My life has been approved,
And many love me; but by none
Am I enough beloved."
"Now both himself and me he wrongs,
The man who thus complains;
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."
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We rose up from the fountain-side;
And down the smooth 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
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About the crazy old church-clock,
And the bewildered chimes.
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 sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!
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You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
"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 afternoon-
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon!"
At this the Father raised his hook,
And snapped a faggot-band;
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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 storm 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.
They wept and, turning homeward, cried,
"In heaven we all shall meet";
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When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.
And then an open field they crossed:
The marks were still the same:
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They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone-wall;
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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.
RUTH
WHEN Ruth was left half desolate,
Her Father took another Mate;
And Ruth, not seven years old,
A slighted child, at her own will
Went wandering over dale and hill,
In thoughtless freedom, bold.
And she had made a pipe of straw,
And music from that pipe could draw
Like sounds of winds and floods;
Had built a bower upon the green,
As if she from her birth had been
An infant of the woods.
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Beneath her father's roof, alone
She seemed to live; her thoughts her own;
Herself her own delight;
Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay;
And, passing thus the live-long day,
She grew to woman's height.
There came a Youth from Georgia's shore
A military casque he wore,
With splendid feathers drest;
He brought them from the Cherokees;
The feathers nodded in the breeze,
And made a gallant crest.
From Indian blood you deem him sprung:
But no! he spake the English tongue,
And bore a soldier's name;
And, when America was free
From battle and from jeopardy,
He 'cross the ocean came.
With hues of genius on his cheek
In finest tones the Youth could speak:
While he was yet a boy,
The moon, the glory of the sun,
And streams that murmur as they run,
Had been his dearest joy.
He was a lovely Youth! I guess
The panther in the wilderness
Was not so fair as he;
And, when he chose to sport and play,
No dolphin ever was so gay
Upon the tropic sea.
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Among the Indians he had fought,
And with him many tales he brought
Of pleasure and of fear;
Such tales as told to any maid
By such a Youth, in the green shade
Were perilous to hear.
He told of girls — a happy rout!
Who quit their fold with dance and shout, 50
Their pleasant Indian town,
To gather strawberries all day long;
Returning with a choral song
When daylight is gone down.
He spake of plants that hourly change
Their blossoms, through a boundless range
Of intermingling hues;
With budding, fading, faded flowers.
They stand the wonder of the bowers
From morn to evening dews.
He told of the magnolia, spread
High as a cloud, high over head!
The cypress and her spire;
Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam
Cover a hundred leagues, and seem
To set the hills on fire.
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The Youth of green savannahs spake,
And many an endless, endless lake,
With all its fairy crowds
Of islands, that together lie
As quietly as spots of sky
Among the evening clouds.
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"How pleasant," then he said, “it were
A fisher or a hunter there,
In sunshine or in shade
To wander with an easy mind;
And build a household fire, and find
A home in every glade!
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'What days and what bright years! Ah me!
Our life were life indeed, with thee
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So passed in quiet bliss.
And all the while," said he, "to know
That we were in a world of woe,
On such an earth as this!"
And then he sometimes interwove
Fond thoughts about a father's love;
"For there," said he, "are spun
Around the heart such tender ties,
That our own children to our eyes
Are dearer than the sun.
"Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me
My helpmate in the woods to be,
Our shed at night to rear;
Or run, my own adopted bride,
A sylvan huntress at my side,
And drive the flying deer!
"Beloved Ruth!" - No more he said.
The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed
A solitary tear:
She thought again - and did agree
With him to sail across the sea,
And drive the flying deer.
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"And now, as fitting is and right,
We in the church our faith will plight,
A husband and a wife."
Even so they did; and I may say
That to sweet Ruth that happy day
Was more than human life.
Through dream and vision did she sink,
Delighted all the while to think
That on those lonesome floods,
And green savannahs, she should share
His board with lawful joy, and bear
His name in the wild woods.
But, as you have before been told,
This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold,
And, with his dancing crest,
So beautiful, through savage lands
Had roamed about, with vagrant bands
Of Indians in the West.
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Whatever in those climes he found
Irregular in sight or sound
Did to his mind impart
A kindred impulse, seemed allied
To his own powers, and justified
The workings of his heart.
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The wind, the tempest roaring high,
The tumult of a tropic sky,
Might well be dangerous food
For him, a Youth to whom was given
So much of earth so much of heaven, 125
And such impetuous blood.
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Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought,
The beauteous forms of nature wrought,
Fair trees and gorgeous flowers;
The breezes their own languor lent;
The stars had feelings, which they sent
Into those favoured bowers.
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Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween
That sometimes there did intervene
Pure hopes of high intent:
For passions linked to forms so fair
And stately, needs must have their share
Of noble sentiment.
But ill he lived, much evil saw,
With men to whom no better law
Nor better life was known;
Deliberately, and undeceived,
Those wild men's vices he received,
And gave them back his own.
His genius and his moral frame
Were thus impaired, and he became
The slave of low desires:
A Man who without self-control
Would seek what the degraded soul
Unworthily admires.
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And yet he with no feigned delight
Had wooed the Maiden, day and night
Had loved her, night and morn:
What could he less than love a Maid
Whose heart with so much nature played?
So kind and so forlorn!
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Sometimes most earnestly, he said,
"O Ruth! I have been worse than dead;
False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain,
Encompassed me on every side.
When I, in confidence and pride,
Had crossed the Atlantic main.
"Before me shone a glorious world-
Fresh as a banner bright, unfurled
To music suddenly:
I looked upon those hills and plains,
And seemed as if let loose from chains,
To live at liberty.
"No more of this; for now, by thee
Dear Ruth! more happily set free
With nobler zeal I burn;
My soul from darkness is released,
Like the whole sky when to the east
The morning doth return.'
""
Full soon that better mind was gone;
No hope, no wish remained, not one, -
They stirred him now no more;
New objects did new pleasure give,
And once again he wished to live
As lawless as before.
Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared,
They for the voyage were prepared,
And went to the seashore,
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But, when they thither came, the Youth 190
Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth
Could never find him more.
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God help thee, Ruth!
That she in half a year was mad,
And in a prison housed;
And there, with many a doleful song
Made of wild words, her cup of wrong
She fearfully caroused.
Such pains she had,
Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,
Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,
Nor pastimes of the May;
They all were with her in her cell;
And a clear brook with cheerful knell
Did o'er the pebbles play.
When Ruth three seasons thus had lain,
There came a respite to her pain;
She from her prison fled;
But of the Vagrant none took thought;
And where it liked her best she sought
Her shelter and her bread.
Among the fields she breathed again:
The master-current of her brain
Ran permanent and free;
And, coming to the Banks of Tone,
There did she rest; and dwell alone
Under the greenwood tree.
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The engines of her pain, the tools
That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools,
And airs that gently stir
The vernal leaves she loved them still; 220
Nor ever taxed them with the ill
Which had been done to her.
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A Barn her winter bed supplies;
But, till the warmth of summer skies
And summer days is gone,
(And all do in this tale agree)
She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,
And other home hath none.
An innocent life, yet far astray!
And Ruth will, long before her day,
Be broken down and old:
Sore aches she needs must have! but less
Of mind, than body's wretchedness,
From damp, and rain, and cold.
If she is prest by want of food,
She from her dwelling in the wood
Repairs to a road-side;
And there she begs at one steep place
Where up and down with easy pace
The horsemen-travellers ride.
That oaten pipe of hers is mute,
Or thrown away; but with a flute
Her loneliness she cheers:
This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,
At evening in his homeward walk
The Quantock woodman hears.
I, too, have passed her on the hills
Setting her little water-mills
By spouts and fountains wild-
Such small machinery as she turned
Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned,
A young and happy Child!
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Farewell! and when thy days are told,
Ill-fated Ruth, in hallowed mould
Thy corpse shall buried be,
For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
And all the congregation sing
A Christian psalm for thee.
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THE BROTHERS
"THESE Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live
A profitable life: some glance along,
Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,
And they were butterflies to wheel about
Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise,
Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag,
Pencil in hand and book upon the knee,
Will look and scribble, scribble on and look,
Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,
Or reap an acre of his neighbor's corn.
But, for that moping Son of Idleness,
Why can he tarry yonder? - In our churchyard
Is neither epitaph nor monument,
Tombstone nor name
And a few natural graves.
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To Jane, his wife,
Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale.
It was a July evening; and he sate
Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves
Of his old cottage, — as it chanced, that day,
Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone
His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool,
While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering
wire,
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He fed the spindle of his youngest child,
Who, in the open air, with due accord
Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps,
Her large round wheel was turning. Towards
the field
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In which the Parish Chapel stood alone,
Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall,
While half an hour went by, the Priest has 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 churchyard 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 entrust
His expectations to the fickle winds
And perilous waters; with the mariners
A fellow-mariner; and so had fared
Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared
Among the mountains, and he in his heart
Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas.
Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard
The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds
Of caves and trees: and, when the regular wind
Between the tropics filled the steady sail,
And blew with the same breath through days and
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Lengthening invisibly its weary line
Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours
Of tiresome indolence, would often hang
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Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze;
And, while the broad blue wave and 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 grey
Which he himself had worn.
And now, at last,
From perils manifold, with some small wealth
Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles,
To his paternal home he is returned,
With a determined purpose to resume
The life he had lived there; both for the sake
Of many darling pleasures, and the love
Which to an only brother he has borne
In all his hardships, since that happy time
When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two
Were brother-shepherds on their native hills.
They were the last of all their race: and now,
When Leonard had approached his home, his heart
Failed in him; and, not venturing to enquire
Tidings of one so long and dearly loved,
He to the solitary churchyard turned;
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,
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That he began to doubt; and even to hope
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 this 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.
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By this the Priest, who down the field had come, 100
Unseen by Leonard, at the churchyard 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 105
Of the world's business to go wild alone:
His arms have a perpetual holiday;
The happy man will creep about the fields,
Following his fancies by the hour, to bring
Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles
Into his face, until the setting sun
Write fool upon his forehead. Planted thus
Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate
Of this rude churchyard, till the stars appeared
The good Man might have communed with himself,
But that the Stranger, who had left the grave,
Approached; he recognised the Priest at once,
And, after greetings interchanged, and given
By Leonard to the Vicar as to one
Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued.
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110
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39
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 125
Comes to this churchyard 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 130
We are not all that perish. — I remember,
(For many years ago I passed this road)
There was a foot-way all along the fields
By the brook-side — 'tis gone
and that dark cleft!
To me it does not seem to wear the face
Which then it had!
135
Priest.
Nay, Sir, for aught I know,
That chasm is much the same
Leonard.
these hills)
140
But, surely, yonder
Priest. Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend.
That does not play you false. On that tall pike
(It is the loneliest place of all
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 waterspout
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,
Ap
g
145
150
40
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
And in one night send twenty score of sheep
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; 160
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
155
Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians, 165
Commend me to these valleys!
Leonard.
Yet your churchyard
Seems, if such freedom may be used with you,
To say that you are heedless of the past:
An orphan could not find his mother's grave:
Here's neither head nor foot stone, plate of brass,
Cross-bones nor skull, — type of our earthly state
Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home
Is but a fellow to that pasture-field.
Priest. Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to
me!
The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread 175
If every English churchyard 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.
Leonard. Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's
thoughts
170
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
41
Possess a kind of second life: no doubt
You, Sir, could help me to the history
Of half these graves?
Priest.
Leonard.
"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 piece of native rock
Left in the churchyard wall.
Priest.
For eight-score 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 highway of the world.
Now there's a grave your foot is half upon it,
It looks just like the rest; and yet that man
Died broken-hearted.
...
185
Ma
That's Walter Ewbank.
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'erflowed the bounds
Of their inheritance, that single cottage -
You see it yonder! and those few green fields,
They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire to son,
Each struggled, and each yielded as before
A little yet a little, and old Walter,
They left to him the family heart, and land
With other burthens than the crop it bore.
Year after year the old man still kept up
A cheerful mind, and buffeted with bond,
Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank,
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201
205
210
215
42
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
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-
Leonard. But those two Orphans!
M
h
..
Priest.
Orphans! Such they were-
Yet not while Walter lived: for, though their parents
Lay buried side by side as now they lie,
230
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, 235
To hear a stranger talking about strangers,
Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred!
Ay—you may turn that way
- it is a grave
Which will bear looking at.
Leonard.
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. Yes,
Though from the cradle they had lived with Walter,
The only kinsman near them, and though he
Inclined to both by reason of his age,
With a more fond, familiar tenderness;
220
dag
225
These boys I hope
241
245
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH'
43
They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare,
And it all went into each other's hearts.
Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months,
Was two years taller: 'twas a joy to see,
250
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,
255
Would Leonard then, when elder boys remained
At home, go staggering through the slippery fords,
Bearing his brother on his back. I have seen him,
On windy days, in one of those stray brooks,
Ay, more than once I have seen him, midleg 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 -
260
265
Leonard.
It may be then
Priest. Never did worthier lads break English
bread:
The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw
With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts,
Could never keep those 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
That venturous foot could reach, to one or both 275
Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there.
Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills;
They played like two young ravens on the crags:
270
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Then they could write, ay and speak too, as well
As many of their betters and for Leonard!
The very night before he went away,
In my own house I put into his hand
A Bible, and I'd wager house and field
That, if he be alive, he has it yet.
Leonard. It seems, these Brothers have not lived
to be
285
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
44
280
Leonard. Then James still is left among you! 290
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.
But, as I said, old Walter was too weak
300
To strive with such a torrent; when he died,
The estate and house were sold; and all their sheep,
A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know,
Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years:
Well -- all was gone, and they were destitute,
And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake,
Resolved to try his fortune on the seas.
Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him.
If there were one among us who had heard
That Leonard Ewbank was come home again,
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
45
From the Great Gavel, down by Leeza's banks, 310
And down the Enna, far as Egremont,
The day would be a joyous festival;
And those two bells of ours, which there you see
Hanging in the open air — but, O good Sir!
This is sad talk they'll never sound for him
Living or dead. When last we heard of him,
He was in slavery among the Moors
Upon the Barbary coast.- "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.
Leonard.
If that day
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.
G
315
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 offices about him,
That, though he was not of a timid nature,
Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boy
320
Happy! Sir-
Leonard. You said his kindred all were in their
32.
330
335
In him was somewhat checked; and, when his Brother
Was gone to sea, and he was left alone,
46
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
The little colour that he had was soon
Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and
pined
340
Leonard. But these are all the graves of full-grown
men!
Priest. Ay, Sir, that passed away: we took him to
us;
He was the child of all the dale — he lived
Three months with one, and six months with another,
And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love: 345
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, 355
How did he die at last?
Priest.
One sweet May-morning,
(It will be twelve years since when Spring returns)
He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs,
With two or 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 humour 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 rock
That rises like a column from the vale,
M
350
360
365
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
47
Whence by our shepherds it is called, THE PILLAR.
Upon its aëry 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; till one of them by chance
Entering, when evening was far spent, the house
Which at that time was James's home, there learned
That nobody had seen him all that day:
The morning came, and still he was unheard of:
The neighbours were alarmed, and to the brook
Some hastened; some ran to 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!
376
380
Leonard. And that then is his grave! - Before
his death
You say that he saw many happy years?
Priest. Ay, that he did
Leonard.
And all went well with him?
Priest. If he had one, the Youth had twenty homes.
Leonard. And you believe, then, that his mind was
easy?
J
370
384
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,
390
He talked about him with a cheerful love.
Leonard. He could not come to an unhallowed end!
Priest. Nay, God forbid! You recollect I men-
tioned
A habit which disquietude and grief
Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured 395
That, as the day was warm, he had lain down
48
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
On the soft heath, and, waiting for his comrades,
He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep
He to the margin of the precipice
400
Had walked, and from the summit had fallen head-
long:
And so no doubt he perished. When the Youth
Fell, in his hand he must have grasped, we think,
His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of rock
It had been caught mid-way; and there for years
It hung; and mouldered there.
The Priest here ended
405
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 churchyard
gate,
As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round, 410
And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother!"
The Vicar did not hear the words: and now,
He pointed towards his dwelling-place, entreating
That Leonard would partake his homely fare:
The other thanked him with an earnest voice;
But added, that, the evening being calm,
He would pursue his journey. So they parted.
It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove
That overhung the road: he there stopped short,
And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed
All that the Priest had said: his early years
Were with him:- his long absence, cherished hopes,
And thoughts which had been his an hour before,
All pressed on him with such a weight, that now,
This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed 425
A place in which he could not bear to live:
415
420
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
49
So he relinquished all his purposes.
He travelled back to Egremont: and thence,
That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest,
Reminding him of what had passed between them; 430
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 grey-headed Mariner..
MICHAEL
435
1800
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 simple object appertains
A story unenriched with strange events,
Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,
A PASTORAL POEM
Ir from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. 5
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
10
Who journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is in truth an utter solitude;
15
20
50
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Or for the summer shade. It was the first
Of those domestic tales that spake 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 25
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 delight of a few natural hearts;
And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake
Of youthful Poets, who among these hills
Will be my second self when I am gone.
30
35
UPON the forest-side in Grasmere Vale
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name;
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb:
His bodily frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen,
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs,
And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt
And watchful more than ordinary men.
Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds,
Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes,
When others heeded not, He heard the South 50
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,
40
45
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
51
"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 65
The common air; hills, which with vigorous step
He had so often climbed; which had impressed
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
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 Pair had but one inmate in their house,
An only Child, who had been born to them
1
55
60
70
The certainty of honourable gain;
Those fields, those hills - what could they less? had
laid
75
80
85
52
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
90
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 and Father were come home, even then,
Their labour did not cease; unless when all
Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there,
Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, 100
Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes,
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the
meal
95
Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named)
And his old Father both betook themselves
To such convenient work as might employ
Their hands by the 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.
111
Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge,
That in our ancient uncouth country style
With huge and black projection overbrowed
Large space beneath, as duly as the light.
Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp;
An aged utensil, which had performed
Service beyond all others of its kind.
Early at evening did it burn - and late,
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours,
Which, going by from year to year, had found,
And left, the couple neither gay perhaps
105
115
120
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
53
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 sate,
Father and Son, while far 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.
Thus living on through such a length of years, 140
The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs.
Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heart
This son of his old age was yet more dear
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same
125
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
130
135
Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all 145
Than that a child, more than all other gifts
That earth can offer to declining man,
150
54 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
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, as with a woman's gentle hand.
And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy
Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love,
Albeit of a stern unbending mind,
To have the Young-one in his sight, when he
Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool
Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched
Under the large old oak, that near his door
Stood single, and, from matchless depth 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, 170
With others round them, earnest all and blithe,
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed
Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts
Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears.
And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up
A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek
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 equipt
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,
175
155
160
165
180
185
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
55
Something between a hindrance and a help;
And for this cause not always, I believe,
Receiving from his Father hire of praise;
Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice,
Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform.
But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand
Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights,
Not fearing toil, nor length of weary 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 200
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?
Thus in his father's sight the Boy grew up:
And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year,
He was his comfort and his daily hope.
206
While in this sort the simple household lived
From day to day, to Michael's ear there came
Distressful tidings. Long before the time
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound 210
In surety for his brother's son, a man
Of an industrious life, and ample means;
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly
Had prest upon him; and old Michael now
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture,
A grievous penalty, but little less
Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim,
At the first hearing, for a moment took
More hope out of his life than he supposed
That any old man ever could have lost.
As soon as he had armed himself with strength
To look his trouble in the face, it seemed
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195
215
220
56
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once
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
That was, and made an evil choice, if he
Were false to us; and if he were not false,
There are ten thousand to whom loss like this
Had been no sorrow. I forgive him; - but
"Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.
When I began, 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.
Another kinsman
In this distress.
Thriving in trade and Luke to him shall go 250
And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift
this loss, and then
If here he stay,
Where every one is poor,
We have, thou know'st,
he will be our friend
He is a prosperous man,
He quickly will repair
He may return to us.
What can be done?
What can be gained?”
.. . .
225
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235
240
245
At this the old Man paused,
57
I POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
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 260
And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought
A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares;
And, with this basket on his arm, the lad
Went up to London, found a master there,
Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy
To go and overlook his merchandise
Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich,
And left estates and monies to the poor,
And, at his birth-place, built a chapel, floored
With marble, which he sent from foreign lands.
These thoughts, and many others of like sort,
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,
And her face brightened. The old Man was glad,
And thus resumed: "Well, Isabel! this scheme
These two days has been meat and drink to me. 275
Far more than we have lost is left us yet.
We have enough - I wish indeed that I
Were younger;- but this hope is a good hope.
-Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best
Buy for him more, and let us send him forth
To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night:
-If he could go, the Boy should go to-night."
Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth
With a light heart. The Housewife for five days
Was restless morn and night, and all day long
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare
Things needful for the journey of her son.
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came
To stop her in her work: for, when she lay
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270
280
285
58
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
By Michael's side, she through the last two nights 290
Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep:
And when they rose at 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 all together sat
Like happy people round a Christmas fire.
With daylight Isabel resumed her work;
And all the ensuing week the house appeared
As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length
The expected letter from their kinsman came,
With kind assurances that he would do
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy;
To which, requests were added, that forthwith
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more
The letter was read over; Isabel
Went forth to show it to the neighbours round;
Nor was there at that time on English land
A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel
Had to her house returned, the old Man said,
“He shall depart to-morrow." To this word
The Housewife answered, talking much of things
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 Greenhead Ghyll,
In that deep valley, Michael had designed
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305
310
315
320
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
59
To build a Sheepfold; and, 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 stopped, 330
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 touch
On things thou canst not know of. After thou
First cam❜st into the world as oft befalls
To new-born infants thou didst sleep away
Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue
Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on,
And still I loved thee with increasing love.
Never to living ear came sweeter sounds
Than when I heard thee by our own fireside
First uttering, without words, a natural tune;
While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy
Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed month,
And in the open fields my life was passed
350
And on the mountains; else I think that thou
Hadst 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.
M
M
325
335
340
345
355
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand,
And said, "Nay, do not take it so
I see
That these are things of which I need not speak. 360
Even to the utmost I have been to thee
60
A kind and a good Father: and herein
I but repay a gift which I myself
Received at others' 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 loth
To give their bodies to the family mould.
I wished that thou should'st 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
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 should'st go."
375
365
370
380
At this the old Man paused;
Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood,
Thus, after a short silence, he resumed:
"This was a work for us; and now, my Son, 385
It is a work for me. But, lay one stone
Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands.
Nay, Boy, be of good hope; - we both may live
To see a better day. At eighty-four
I still am strong and hale; - do thou thy part; 390
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
61
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
395
All works which I was wont to do alone,
Before I knew thy face. Heaven bless thee, Boy!
Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast
With many hopes; it should be so
yes yes
I knew that thou could'st never have a wish
M
To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me 400
Only by links of love: when thou art gone,
What will be left to us! But, I forget
My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone,
As I requested; and hereafter, Luke,
When thou art gone away, should evil men
Be thy companions, think of me, my Son,
And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts,
And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear
And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou
May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived,
Who, being innocent, did for that cause
Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well-
When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see
A work which is not here: a covenant
"Twill be between us; but, whatever fate
Befall thee, I shall love thee to 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 first stone of the Sheepfold. At the sight
The old Man's grief broke from him; to his heart.
He pressed his Son, he kissèd him and wept;
And to the house together they returned.
- Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace,
""
405
410
415
420
62
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Ere the night fell:- with morrow's dawn the Boy
Began his journey, and when he had reached 420
The public way, he put on a bold face;
And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors,
Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,
That followed him till he was out of sight.
430
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 through-
out
"The prettiest letters that were ever seen.
Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.
So, many months passed on: and once again
The Shepherd went about his daily work
With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now
Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour
He to that valley took his way, and there
Wrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime Luke be-
""
gan
To slacken in his duty; and, at length,
He in the dissolute city gave himself
To evil courses: ignominy and shame
Fell on him, so that he was driven at last
To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas.
There is a comfort in the strength of love;
"Twill make a thing endurable, which else
Would overset the brain, or break the heart:
I have conversed with more than one who well
Remember the old Man, and what he was
Years after he had heard this heavy news.
His bodily frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks
He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud,
435
440
445
450
455
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
63
And listened to the wind; and, as before,
Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep,
And for the land, his small inheritance.
And to that hollow dell from time to time
Did he repair, to build the Fold of which
His flock had need. "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, 465
And never lifted up a single stone.
There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes was he seen
Sitting alone, or with 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 stranger's hand.
The Cottage which was named the EVENING
STAR
460
470
475
Is gone the ploughshare has been through the
ground
On which it stood; great changes have been
wrought
In all the neighbourhood:- yet the oak is left
That grew beside their door; and the remains 480
Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seen.
Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll.
1800
In the following three poems the charming reminiscences of child-
hood of the poet and his sister Dorothy (the Emmeline of the poems)
are illuminated with psychological insight into a child's mind, — its
64
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
mingled fascination and dread of an object, its masculine ruthlessness
and its feminine delicacy, its long perspective of time, as for instance,
on a day before a holiday.
THE SPARROW'S NEST
BEHOLD, within the leafy shade,
Those bright blue eggs together laid!
On me the chance-discovered sight
Gleamed like a vision of delight.
I started seeming to espy
The home and sheltered bed,
The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by
My Father's house, in wet or dry
My sister Emmeline and I
Together visited.
She looked at it and seemed to fear it;
Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it:
Such heart was in her, being then
A little Prattler among men.
The Blessing of my later years
Was with me when a boy:
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears;
And humble cares, and delicate fears;
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears;
5
TO A BUTTERFLY
STAY near me do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!
Much converse do I find in thee,
Historian of my infancy!
10
15
And love, and thought, and joy. 20
1801
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
65
Float near me; do not yet depart!
Dead times revive in thee:
Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemn image to my heart,
My father's family!
Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time, when, in our childish plays,
My sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the butterfly!
A very hunter did I rush
Upon the prey:- with leaps and springs
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her, feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.
MARCH, 1802
TO A BUTTERFLY
I've watched you now a full half-hour,
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little Butterfly! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless! not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!
This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
10
5
10
15
10
5
10
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
:
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.
APRIL 20, 1802
The following two poems have affinities with the Ode on Intima-
tions of Immortality. The first, the last three lines of which Words-
worth used as a motto for the Ode, really expresses the germ thought
of that great poem. It implies the principle of continuous personal
identity, the evidence being based on a repeated, or invariable, ex-
perience. Evidently parts of the second, addressed to Hartley Cole-
ridge, eldest son of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, were once intended for
the Ode. The strange boy, with flashing eyes, pouring out strange
speculations, was well fitted to be treated as too spiritual to sustain
the shocks of mundane existence.
“MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD”
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.
15
TO H. C.
MARCH 26, 1802
SIX YEARS OLD
O THOU! whose fancies from afar are brought;
Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,
And fittest to unutterable thought
The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol;
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
67
Thou faery voyager! that dost float
In such clear water, that thy boat
And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest
But when she sate within the touch of thee.
O too industrious folly!
O vain and causeless melancholy!
Nature will either end thee quite;
Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,
Preserve for thee, by individual right,
A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks.
What hast thou to do with sorrow,
Or the injuries of to-morrow?
Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth,
Ill fitted to sustain unkindly shocks,
May rather seem
To brood on air than on an earthly stream;
Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,
Where earth and heaven do make one imagery; 10
O blessed vision! happy child!
Thou art so exquisitely wild,
I think of thee with many fears
For what may be thy lot in future years.
I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest,
Lord of thy house and hospitality;
Or to be trailed along the soiling earth;
A gem that glitters while it lives,
And no forewarning gives;
But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife
Slips in a moment out of life.
LO
5
16
20
25
1802
30
The materials for the following poem, a companion piece of
Michael, were gathered in 1800, but were not wrought into a poem
until 1802. The poem is perhaps the supreme example of Words-
worth's making the most of a slight, almost trivial, incident. The
power of the poet's imagination is at its highest in portraying
68 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
the Leech-gatherer. By imaginative suggestion the atmosphere is
charged with spiritual significance: the old man seems an elemental
energy of the solitary moor, a power rising out of the earth as a
monitor startling the poet from his wayward thoughts. Getting
a new insight into the mystery of man's inward power of being,
the poet felt transformed into a new spirit of self-possession, for
which he is humbly thankful.
RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE
I
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.
20
III
I was a Traveller then upon the moor,
I saw the hare that raced about with joy;
I heard the woods and distant waters roar;
Or heard them not, as happy as a boy:
The pleasant season did my heart employ:
My old remembrances went from me wholly;
And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy.
5
II
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;
11
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.
15
20
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 69
IV
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.
V
I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky;
And I bethought me of the playful hare:
Even such a happy Child of earth am I;
Even as these blissful creatures do I fare;
Far from the world I walk, and from all care;
But there may come another day to me
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.
VI
My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,
As if life's business were a summer mood;
As if all needful things would come unsought
To genial faith, still rich in genial good;
But how can He expect that others should
Build for him, sow for him, and at his call
Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
VII
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:
25
30
35
40
45
70 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
By our own spirits are we deified:
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;
But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
VIII
Now, whether it were by peculiar 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:
55
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
IX
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; 60
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;
50
X
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.
XI
Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face,
Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood:
65
71
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
71
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.
XII
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:
And now a stranger's privilege I took;
And, drawing to his side, to him did say,
"This morning gives us promise of a glorious day."
XIII
A gentle answer did the old Man make,
In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew:
And him with further words I thus bespake,
"What occupation do you there pursue?
This is a lonesome place for one like you."
Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise.
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes.
75
80
85
90
XIV
His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,
But each in solemn order followed each,
With something of a lofty utterance drest -
Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach 95
Of ordinary men; a stately speech;
Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use,
Religious men, who give to God and man their dues.
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XV
He told, that to these waters he had come
To gather leeches, being old and poor:
Employment hazardous and wearisome!
And he had many hardships to endure:
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. 105
XVI
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.
XVII
My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills;
And hope that is unwilling to be fed;
Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;
And mighty Poets in their misery dead.
— Perplexed, and longing to be comforted,
My question eagerly did I renew,
"How is it that you live, and what is it you do?"
100
XVIII
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.
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73
"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."
.. .
125
XIX
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.
130
XX
And soon with this he other matter blended,
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind,
But stately in the main; and when he ended,
I could have laughed myself to scorn to find
In that decrepit Man so firm a mind.
"God," said I, "be my help and stay secure;
I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!"
139
135
tr
One day in May, 1802, Dorothy Wordsworth read Milton's Son-
nets to her brother. Says Wordsworth of the occasion: “I took fire,
if I may be allowed to say so, and produced three sonnets the same
afternoon, the first I ever wrote, except an irregular one at school."
Though perfectly individual to Wordsworth, his sonnets have a Mil-
tonic grandeur in them. They are also notable for their power of
condensed expression. All but the last two of the following sonnets
are on political themes. In earlier years (1790–95) Wordsworth had
been an ardent advocate of the French Revolution. In 1793, when
England declared war against the French Republic, the poet was
greatly shocked at the conduct of his own country. But in 1797 Na-
poleon, who had risen to power in France, rather arbitrarily disposed
of the Venetian Republic; in 1798 he attacked the liberties of Swit-
zerland; in 1799 he was made First Consul; and in 1802 he was made
Consul for life. These events gradually turned Wordsworth against
France and especially against Napoleon; gradually, too, he began
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
.
to see that the only true liberty is of the type which, partially and
by slow degrees, had been wrought out by his own native country.
These sonnets express his patriotism, and suggest the ultimate
grounds of political wisdom. They apply ethical principles to politi-
cal matters. A leader of men must be truly democratic, keep in
touch with the common man, be willing to lay upon himself the low-
liest duties, and possess an inward majesty and strength of mind
('Man's unconquerable mind'). Besides, a nation is great by its
soul only. No philosophy of Nature is adequate to regenerate na-
tions. Though a mighty bulwark of safety for England in 1802,
the winds and the waters of the English Channel were nothing in
themselves; there was a conscious inward rectitude in the soul of the
nation that made it obedient to spiritual, human law, and that made
it worthy to be saved.
"I GRIEVED FOR BUONAPARTE”
7
I GRIEVED for Buonaparté, with a vain
And an unthinking grief! The tenderest mood
5
Of that Man's mind what can it be? what food
Fed his first hopes? what knowledge could he gain?
"Tis not in battles that from youth we train
The Governor who must be wise and good,
And temper with the sternness of the brain
Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
Wisdom doth live with children round her knees:
Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk
Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk
Of the mind's business: these are the degrees
By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk
True Power doth grow on; and her rights are these.
10
1802
P
COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE
NEAR CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802
FAIR Star of evening, Splendour of the west,
Star of my Country! - on the horizon's brink
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
75
Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink
On England's bosom; yet well pleased to rest,
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest
Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,
Should'st be my Country's emblem; and should'st
wink,
Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest
In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot
Beneath thee, that is England; there she lies.
Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,
One life, one glory! — I, with many a fear
For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,
Among men who do not love her, linger here.
\
1802
LO
5
10
ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE
VENETIAN REPUBLIC
ONCE did She hold the gorgeous east in fee;
And was the safeguard of the west: the worth
Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty.
She was a maiden City, bright and free;
No guile seduced, no force could violate;
And, when she took unto herself a Mate,
She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
And what if she had seen those glories fade,
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay;
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
When her long life hath reached its final day:
Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade
Of that which once was great, is passed away.
AUGUST, 1802
LO
5
10
;
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TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE
TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy man of men!
Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den; -
O miserable Chieftain! where and when
Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies;
There's not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and man's unconquerable mind.
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AUGUST, 1802
NEAR DOVER, SEPTEMBER, 1802
5
INLAND, within a hollow vale, I stood;
And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear,
The coast of France the coast of France how near!
Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood.
I shrunk; for verily the barrier flood.
Was like a lake, or river bright and fair,
A span of waters; yet what power is there!
What mightiness for evil and for good!
Even so doth God protect us if we be
Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll, 10
Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity;
Yet in themselves are nothing! One decree
Spake laws to them, and said that by the soul
Only, the Nations shall be great and free.
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WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1802
O FRIEND! I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,
To think that now our life is only drest
For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,
Or groom! We must run glittering like a brook 5
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:
The wealthiest man among us is the best:
No grandeur now in nature or in book
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry; and these we adore:
Plain living and high thinking are no more:
The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religion breathing household laws.
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MILTON! thou should'st be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: 10
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
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"IT IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT OF"
It is not to be thought of that the Flood
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity
Hath flowed, "with pomp of waters, unwithstood,"
Roused though it be full often to a mood
Which spurns the check of salutary bands,
That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands
Should perish; and to evil and to good
Be lost forever. In our halls is hung
Armoury of the invincible Knights of old:
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakspeare spake; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held. In everything we are sprung
Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold.
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1802
For dearly must we prize thee; we who find.
In thee a bulwark for the cause of men:
And I by my affection was beguiled:
What wonder if a Poet now and then,
Among the many movements of his mind,
Felt for thee as a lover or a child!
"WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY”
WHEN I have borne in memory what has tamed
Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart
When men change swords for ledgers, and desert
The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed
I had, my Country! — am I to be blamed?
Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,
Verily, in the bottom of my heart,
Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.
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COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE
SEPTEMBER 3, 1802
EARTH has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
1802
"IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM
AND FREE”
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea:
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
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A sound like thunder-everlastingly.
Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, 10
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;
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And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.
1802
Nowhere is Wordsworth more immediately engaging than in po-
ems that treat of small, or detached, objects of Nature as birds,
trees, flowers, etc. He was writing from knowledge derived from
long and affectionate familiarity. Speaking of The Green Linnet
Coleridge said: "What can be more accurate yet more lovely than
the two concluding stanzas?" Exactness and charm are strikingly
combined in the two poems To the Daisy, though in the second the
poet, in giving fanciful names to the flower, was exercising that fac-
ulty of mind which he and Coleridge designated fancy as distin-
guished from imagination proper. Had Wordsworth allowed his
fancy freer range he sometimes would have been more charming, cer-
tainly more popular, but not a more powerful poet than he is. Yew-
Trees illustrates the rich and full power of imagination. While
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud, full of fancy and also imaginative
truth, has won great favor with many readers, To the Cuckoo was
Wordsworth's own favorite among his shorter poems. In this poem
concrete details, accurately rendered, are completely enveloped in an
atmosphere of mystery and spirituality.
TO THE DAISY
"Her divine skill taught me this,
That from every thing I saw
I could some instruction draw,
And raise pleasure to the height
Through the meanest object's sight.
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustelling;
By a Daisy whose leaves spread
Shut when Titan goes to bed;
Or a shady bush or tree;
She could more infuse in me
Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man."
G. WITHER
IN youth from rock to rock I went,
From hill to hill in discontent
Of pleasure high and turbulent,
Most pleased when most uneasy;
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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 may sun thee;
Whole Summer-fields are thine by right;
And Autumn, melancholy Wight!
Doth in thy crimson head delight
When rains are on thee.
In shoals and bands, a morrice train,
Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane;
Pleased at his greeting 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 are wanted.
Be violets in their secret mews
The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose;
Proud be the rose, with rains and dews
Her head impearling,
Thou 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 April sky,
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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.
A hundred times, by rock or bower,
Ere thus I have lain couched 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 stray invention.
A lowlier pleasure;
The homely sympathy that heeds
The common life, our nature breeds;
A wisdom fitted to the needs
Of hearts at leisure.
Fresh-smitten by the morning ray,
When thou art up, alert and gay,
Then, cheerful Flower! my spirits play
With kindred gladness:
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If stately passions in me burn,
And one chance look to Thee should turn, 50
I drink out of an humbler urn
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest
Hath often eased my pensive breast
Of careful sadness.
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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 pleasant course, when day's begun
As ready to salute the sun
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 favourite.
TO THE SAME FLOWER
WITH little here to do or see
Of things that in the great world be,
Daisy! again I talk to thee,
For thou art worthy,
Thou unassuming Common-place
Of Nature, with that homely face,
And yet with something of a grace,
Which Love makes for thee!
1802
Oft on the dappled turf at ease
I sit, and play with similies,
Loose types of things through all degrees,
Thoughts of thy raising:
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And many a fond and idle name
I give to thee, for praise or blame,
As is the humour of the game,
While I am gazing.
A nun demure of lowly port;
Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,
In thy simplicity the sport
Of all temptations;
A queen in crown of rubies drest;
A starveling in a scanty vest;
Are all, as seems to suit thee best,
Thy appellations.
A little cyclops, with one eye
Staring to threaten and defy,
That thought comes next and instantly
The freak is over,
The shape will vanish and behold
A silver shield with boss of gold,
That spreads itself, some faery bold
In fight to cover!
Map
I see thee glittering from afar -
And then thou art a pretty star;
Not quite so fair as many are
In heaven above thee!
Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;
May peace come never to his nest,
Who shall reprove thee!
Bright Flower! for by that name at last,
When all my reveries are past,
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I call thee, and to that cleave fast,
Sweet silent creature!
That breath'st with me in sun and air,
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
My heart with gladness, and a share
Of thy meek nature!
THE GREEN LINNET
BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring's unclouded weather,
In this sequestered nook how sweet.
To sit upon my orchard-seat!
And birds and flowers once more to greet,
My last year's friends together.
One have I marked, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest:
Hail to Thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion!
Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
Presiding Spirit here to-day,
Dost lead the revels of the May;
And this is thy dominion.
While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,
Make all one band of paramours,
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
Art sole in thy employment:
A Life, a Presence like the Air,
Scattering thy gladness without care,
Too blest with any one to pair;
Thyself thy own enjoyment.
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Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
Behold him perched in ecstasies,
Yet seeming still to hover;
There! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
That cover him all over.
My dazzled sight he oft deceives,
A Brother of the dancing leaves;
Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves
Pours forth his song in gushes;
As if by that exulting strain
He mocked and treated with disdain
The voiceless Form he chose to feign,
While fluttering in the bushes.
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YEW-TREES
THERE is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,
Which to this day stands single, in the midst
Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore;
Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands
Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched
To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea
And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,
Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.
Of vast circumference and gloom profound
This solitary Tree! a living thing
Produced too slowly ever to decay;
Of form and aspect too magnificent
To be destroyed. But worthier still of note
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Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,
Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;
Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth
Of intertwisted fibres serpentine
Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved;
Nor uniformed with Phantasy, and looks
That threaten the profane; - a pillared shade, 20
Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,
By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged
Perennially beneath whose sable roof
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Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked
With unrejoicing berries- ghostly Shapes
May meet at noontide; Fear and trembling Hope,
Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton
And Time the Shadow; there to celebrate,
As in a natural temple scattered o'er
With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,
United worship; or in mute repose
To lie, and listen to the mountain flood
Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.
TO THE CUCKOO
O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?
While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear,
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off, and near.
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Though babbling only to the Vale,
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.
O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place;
That is fit home for Thee!
'I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD”
I WANDERED lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
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When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
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 a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did 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.
THE SMALL CELANDINE
THERE is a Flower, the lesser Celandine,
That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain;
And, the first moment that the sun may shine,
Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!
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When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, 5
Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,
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Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm,
In close self-shelter, like a Thing at rest.
But lately, one rough day, this Flower I passed
And recognised it, though an altered form,
Now standing forth an offering to the blast,
And buffeted at will by rain and storm.
I stopped, and said with inly-muttered voice,
"It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold:
This neither is its courage nor its choice,
But its necessity in being old.
"The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew;
It cannot help itself in its decay;
Stiff in its members, withered, changed of hue."
And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was grey.
My
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To be a Prodigal's Favourite then, worse truth,
A Miser's Pensioner behold our lot!
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AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS
1803
20
O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth
Age might but take the things Youth needed not!
1804
SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH
I SHIVER, Spirit fierce and bold,
At thought of what I now behold:
Burns was born in 1759; Wordsworth eleven years later. Burns
died in 1796 when Wordsworth was twenty-six. Being neighbors
across the borderland of Scotland and England, the later poet was
profoundly influenced by the earker. Adopting in the following two
poems Burns's favorite measure, Wordsworth enters deeply into the
spirit of Burns. In the first poem he expresses generously his in-
debtedness to him; in the second he makes a noble apology for him.
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
As vapours breathed from dungeons cold,
Strike pleasure dead,
So sadness comes from out the mould
Where Burns 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.
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.
away
Off weight nor press on weight!
Dark thoughts! - they came, but not to stay;
With chastened feelings would I pay
15
The tribute due
The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow,
The struggling heart, where be they now?—
Full soon the Aspirant of the plough,
The prompt, the brave,
Slept, with the obscurest, in the low
And silent grave.
I mourned with thousands, but as one
More deeply grieved, for He was gone
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Whose light I hailed when first it shone,
And showed my youth
How Verse may build a princely throne
On humble truth.
Alas! where'er the current tends,
Regret pursues and with it blends, -
Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends
By Skiddaw seen,
Neighbours we were, and loving friends
We might have been;
True friends though diversely inclined;
But heart with heart and mind with mind,
Where the main fibres 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
Might we together
Have sate and talked where gowans blow,
Or on wild heather.
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There, too, a Son, his joy and pride,
(Not three weeks past the Stripling died,)
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What treasures would have then been placed 5*
Within my reach; of knowledge graced
By fancy what a rich repast!
But why go on?
Oh! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast,
His grave grass-grown.
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Lies gathered to his Father's side,
Soul-moving sight!
Yet one to which is not denied
Some sad delight:
For he is safe, a quiet bed
Hath early found among the dead,
Harboured where none can be misled,
Wronged, or distrest;
And surely here it may be said
That such are blest.
And oh for Thee, by pitying grace
Checked oft-times in a devious 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.
Too frail to keep the lofty vow
That must have followed when his brow
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THOUGHTS
SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING, ON THE BANKS OF
NITH, NEAR THE POET'S RESIDENCE
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Was wreathed
"The Vision" tells us how
With holly spray,
He faltered, drifted to and fro,
And passed away.
Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng
Our minds when, lingering all too long,
Over the grave of Burns we hung
In social grief-
App
Indulged as if it were a wrong
To seek relief.
But, leaving each unquiet theme
Where gentlest judgments may misdeem,
And prompt to welcome every gleam
Of good and fair,
Let us beside this limpid Stream
Breathe hopeful air.
Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight;
Think rather of those moments bright
When to the consciousness of right
His course was true,
When Wisdom prospered in his sight
And virtue grew.
Yes, freely let our hearts expand,
Freely as in youth's season bland,
When side by side, his Book in hand,
We wont to stray,
Our pleasure varying at command
Of each sweet Lay.
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How oft inspired must he have trod
These pathways, yon far-stretching road!
There lurks his home; in that Abode,
With mirth elate,
Or in his nobly-pensive mood,
The 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 trained her Burns to win applause
That shames the Schools.
Through busiest street and loneliest glen
Are felt the flashes of his pen;
He rules 'mid winter snows, and when
Bees fill their hives;
Deep in the general heart of men
His power survives.
What need of fields in some far clime
Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime,
And all that fetched the flowing rhyme
From genuine springs,
Shall dwell together till old Time
Folds up his wings?
Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven
This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven;
The rueful conflict, the heart riven
With vain endeavour,
And memory of Earth's bitter leaven,
Effaced forever.
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But why to Him confine the prayer,
When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear
On the frail heart the purest share
With all that live?
The best of what we do and are,
Just God, forgive!
The following three poems are typical of Wordsworth's treatment
of women characters. They are rendered ideally but not fantasti-
cally; they are highly spiritual yet real. In lyric loveliness the
beauty of natural objects is woven into the inmost traits of char-
acter.
TO A HIGHLAND GIRL
SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
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Twice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these grey rocks; that household lawn; 5
Those 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 laid asleep!
But, O fair Creature! in the light
Of common day, so heavenly bright,
I bless Thee, Vision as thou art,
I bless thee with a human heart;
God shield thee to thy latest years!
Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers;
And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
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With earnest feeling 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:
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
The freedom of a Mountaineer:
A face with gladness overspread!
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred!
And seemliness complete, that sways
Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
With no restraint, but such as springs
From quick and eager visitings
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
Of thy few words of English speech:
A bondage sweetly brooked, 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?
O happy pleasure! here to dwell
Beside thee in some heathy dell;
Adopt your homely ways, and dress,
A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess!
But I could frame a wish for thee
More like a grave reality:
Thou art to me but as a wave
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Of the wild sea; and I would have
Some claim upon thee, if I could,
Though but of common neighbourhood.
What joy to hear thee, and to see!
Thy elder Brother I would be,
Thy Father anything to thee!
Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
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Hath led me to this lonely place.
Joy have I had; and going hence
I bear away my recompence.
In spots like these it is we prize
Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:
Then, why should I be loth to stir?
I feel this place was made for her;
To give new pleasure like the past,
Continued long as life shall last.
Nor am I loth, 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 I do now, the cabin small,
The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
And Thee, the Spirit of them all!
THE 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;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
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No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar 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;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending; —
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
"SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT”
SHE was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
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Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.
5
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. 20
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The following poem, a study in maternal sorrow, is an excellent
example of how Wordsworth's characters maintain an outward
calm but reveal inward stirrings of feelings to depths profound. The
perturbations grow deeper and deeper until the poem reaches its
climax.
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 101
THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET
I
WHERE art thou, my beloved Son,
Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
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?
II
Seven years, alas! to have received
No tidings of an only child;
To have despaired, have hoped, believed,
And been for evermore beguiled;
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
I catch at them, and then I miss;
Was ever darkness like to this?
III
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.
IV
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!
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He knows it not, he cannot guess:
Years to a mother bring distress;
But do not make her love the less.
V
Neglect me! no, I suffered long
From that ill thought; and, 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.
VI
My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
Hopeless of honour and of gain,
Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
Think not of me with grief and pain:
I now can see with better eyes;
And worldly grandeur I despise,
And fortune with her gifts and lies.
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VIII
Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men;
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Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;
They mount how short a voyage brings 45
The wanderers back to their delight!
Chains tie us down by land and sea;
And wishes, vain as mine, may bẹ
All that is left to comfort thee.
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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.
IX
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.
X
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.
XI
Beyond participation lie
My troubles, and beyond relief:
If any chance to heave a sigh,
They pity me, and not my grief.
Then come to me, my Son, or send
Some tidings that my woes may end,
I have no other earthly friend!
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Though the first two books of The Prelude were composed 1799–
1800 the remaining twelve books, excepting several short passages of
earlier composition, were written in 1804 and 1805. The poem is a
spiritual autobiography, recounting the inner life of the author from
childhood to maturity that is, up to the age of thirty-four when
the last part of the poem was composed. It is generally, though not
strictly, chronological. The poet selected only such incidents as, in
his memory, had a significant bearing upon his inner poetic and spir-
itual development. Roughly, after the introduction the first two
books cover his life from childhood to the age of seventeen (1770–87);
Books Three to Eight inclusive recount his college days, his vacations,
and his early travels (1787-92); Books Nine, Ten, and Eleven deal
with the great crisis of his relation to the French Revolution (1792-
95); the last part of the Eleventh and the remaining three books con-
sider his restoration and his readjustment to life after the Revolu-
tion (1795-1804-05).
K
The poem has wide philosophic implications. In the following se-
lections, for the purpose of making something like a continuous nar-
rative, the narrative parts have been chosen rather than the philoso-
phic passages. Nevertheless, the balance is usually maintained,
owing to the fact that the philosophic truth is woven thoroughly into
the narrative; wherever those interweavings are perfect we have the
best passages. The poet never wearies in telling what, in various
ways, Nature has done for him, she has put him through a process
of real education. Still, we must be on our guard against the popular
conception that Nature is the main subject of the poem. Nature is
not an end but a means to an end, namely, to give us a deeper insight
into the growth of the individual and into the soul of humanity-
"My theme no other than the very heart of man (Book XIII).
"The God who sees into the heart" (Book III) and the soul of man
with its creative and immortal powers are entities not wholly con-
tained in Nature, that transcend Nature. "The mind is lord and
master outward sense the obedient servant of her will" is the
tone and burden of the last twelve books of the poem.
The poet
seems to see this greatness of man's being as an implanted power in
the heart of a child, which unmistakably asserts itself now and again
in the great moments of our experience. It is these moments that
Wordsworth traces and it is these that give us a sense of our contin-
uous personal identity and teach us "how the mind of man becomes
a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells"
(Book XIV).
""
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THE PRELUDE
OR, GROWTH OF A POET'S MIND
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL POEM
INTRODUCTION
kad
BOOK FIRST
CHILDHOOD AND SCHOOL-TIME
Was it for this
That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved
To blend his murmurs with my nurse's song,
And, from his alder shades and rocky falls,
And from his fords and shallows, sent a voice
When he had left the mountains and received
On his smooth breast the shadow of those towers
That yet survive, a shattered monument
Of feudal sway, the bright blue river passed
Along the margin of our terrace walk;
A tempting playmate whom we dearly loved.
Oh, many a time have I, a five years' child,
In a small mill-race severed from his stream,
Made one long bathing of a summer's day;
Basked in the sun, and plunged and basked again
Alternate, all a summer's day, or scoured
The sandy fields, leaping through flowery groves
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That flowed along my dreams? For this, didst thou,
O Derwent! winding among grassy holms
Where I was looking on, a babe in arms,
Make ceaseless music that composed my thoughts
To more than infant softness, giving me
Amid the fretful dwellings of mankind
A foretaste, a dim earnest, of the calm
That Nature breathes among the hills and groves.
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Of yellow ragwort; or, when rock and hill,
The woods, and distant Skiddaw's lofty height, 295
Were bronzed with deepest radiance, stood alone.
Beneath the sky, as if I had been born
On Indian plains, and from my mother's hut
Had run abroad in wantonness, to sport
A naked savage, in the thunder shower.
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Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up
Fostered alike by beauty and by fear:
Much favoured in my birth-place, and no less
In that beloved Vale to which erelong
We were transplanted; there were we let loose 305
For sports of wider range. Ere I had told
Ten birth-days, when among the mountain slopes
Frost, and the breath of frosty wind, had snapped
The last autumnal crocus, 'twas my joy
With store of springes o'er my shoulder hung
To range the open heights where woodcocks run
Along the smooth green turf. Through half the night,
Scudding away from snare to snare, I plied
That anxious visitation; moon and stars
Were shining o'er my head. I was alone,
And seemed to be a trouble to the peace
That dwelt among them. Sometimes it befell
In these night wanderings, that a strong desire
O'erpowered my better reason, and the bird
Which was the captive of another's toil
Became my prey; and when the deed was done
I heard among the solitary hills
Low breathings coming after me, and sounds
Of undistinguishable motion, steps
Almost as silent as the turf they trod.
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Nor less, when spring had warmed the cultured
Vale,
Moved we as plunderers where the mother-bird
Had in high places built her lodge; though mean
Our object and inglorious, yet the end
Was not ignoble. Oh! when I have hung
Above the raven's nest, by knots of grass
And half-inch fissures in the slippery rock
But ill sustained, and almost (so it seemed)
Suspended by the blast that blew amain,
Shouldering the naked crag, oh, at that time
While on the perilous ridge I hung alone,
With what strange utterance did the loud dry wind
Blow through my ear! the sky seemed not a sky
Of earth — and with what motion moved the clouds!
Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows
Like harmony in music; there is a dark
Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles.
Discordant elements, makes them cling together
In one society. How strange, that all
The terrors, pains, and early miseries,
Regrets, vexations, lassitudes interfused
Within my mind, should e'er have borne a part,
And that a needful part, in making up
The calm existence that is mine when I
Whether her fearless visitings, or those
That came with soft alarm, like hurtless light
Opening the peaceful clouds; or she would use
Severer interventions, ministry
More palpable, as best might suit her aim.
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Am worthy of myself! Praise to the end!
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Thanks to the means which Nature deigned to em-
ploy;
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One summer evening (led by her) I found
A little boat tied to a willow tree
Within a rocky cave, its usual home.
Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in
Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth
And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice
Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on;
Leaving behind her still, on either side,
Small circles glittering idly in the moon,
Until they melted all into one track
Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows,
Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point
With an unswerving line, I fixed my view
Upon the summit of a craggy ridge,
The horizon's utmost boundary; far above
Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.
She was an elfin pinnace; lustily
I dipped my oars into the silent lake,
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And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat
Went heaving through the water like a swan;
When, from behind that craggy steep till then
The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge,
As if with voluntary power instinct,
Upreared its head. I struck and struck again, 380
And growing still in stature the grim shape
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Towered up between me and the stars, and still,
For so it seemed, with purpose of its own
And measured motion like a living thing
Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned, 385
And through the silent water stole my way
Back to the covert of the willow tree;
There in her mooring-place I left my bark,
And through the meadows homeward went, in grave
And serious mood; but after I had seen
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That spectacle, for many days, my brain
Worked with a dim and undetermined sense
Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts
There hung a darkness, call it solitude
Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes
Remained, no pleasant images of trees,
Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields;
But huge and mighty forms, that do not live
Like living men, moved slowly through the mind
By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.
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Wisdom and Spirit of the universe!
Thou Soul that art the eternity of thought
That givest to forms and images a breath
And everlasting motion, not in vain.
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By day or star-light thus from my first dawn 405
Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me
The passions that build up our human soul;
Not with the mean and vulgar works of man,
But with high objects, with enduring things-
With life and nature purifying thus
The elements of feeling and of thought,
And sanctifying, by such discipline,
Both pain and fear, until we recognise
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.
Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me
With stinted kindness. In November days,
When vapours rolling down the valley made
A lonely scene more lonesome, among woods,
At noon and 'mid the calm of summer nights,
When, by the margin of the trembling lake,
Beneath the gloomy hills homeward I went
In solitude, such intercourse was mine;
Mine was it in the fields both day and night,
And by the waters, all the summer long.
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And in the frosty season, when the sun
Was set, and visible for many a mile
The cottage windows blazed through twilight gloom,
I heeded not their summons: happy time
for me
Clear and loud.
It was indeed for all of us
It was a time of rapture!
The village clock tolled six, I wheeled about,
Proud and exulting like an untired horse
That cares not for his home. All shod with steel,
We hissed along the polished ice in games
Confederate, imitative of the chase
And woodland pleasures, the resounding horn,
The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare.
So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
And not a voice was idle; with the din
Smitten, the precipices rang aloud;
The leafless trees and every icy crag
Tinkled like iron; while far distant hills.
Into the tumult sent an alien sound
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng,
To cut across the reflex of a star
That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed
Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes,
When we had given our bodies to the wind,
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Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars
Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west 445
The orange sky of evening died away.
Not seldom from the uproar I retired
Into a silent bay, or sportively
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And all the shadowy banks on either side
Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still 455
The rapid line of motion, then at once
Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 111
Wheeled by me
even as if the earth had rolled
With visible motion her diurnal round!
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched
Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep.
Ye Presences of Nature in the sky
And on the earth! Ye Visions of the hills!
And Souls of lonely places! can I think
A vulgar hope was yours when ye employed
Such ministry, when ye, through many a year
Haunting me thus among my boyish sports,
On caves and trees, upon the woods and hills,
Impressed, upon all forms, the characters
Of danger or desire; and thus did make
The surface of the universal earth,
Ї
With triumph and delight, with hope and fear,
Work like a sea?
Not uselessly employed,
Might I pursue this theme through every change
Of exercise and play, to which the year
Did summon us in his delightful round.
Nor, sedulous as I have been to trace
How Nature by extrinsic passion first
Peopled the mind with forms sublime or fair,
And made me love them, may I here omit
How other pleasures have been mine, and joys
Of subtler origin; how I have felt,
Not seldom even in that tempestuous time,
Those hallowed and pure motions of the sense
Which seem, in their simplicity, to own.
An intellectual charm; that calm delight
Which, if I err not, surely must belong
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To those first-born affinities that fit
Our new existence to existing things,
And, in our dawn of being, constitute
The bond of union between life and joy.
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Yes, I remember when the changeful earth,
And twice five summers on my mind had stamped 560
The faces of the moving year, even then
I held unconscious intercourse with beauty
Old as creation, drinking in a pure
Organic pleasure from the silver wreaths
Of curling mist, or from the level plain
Of waters coloured by impending clouds.
Thus oft amid those fits of vulgar joy
Which, through all seasons, on a child's pursuits
Are prompt attendants, 'mid that giddy bliss
Which, like a tempest, works along the blood
And is forgotten; even then I felt
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The sands of Westmoreland, the creeks and bays
Of Cumbria's rocky limits, they can tell
How, when the Sea threw off his evening shade,
And to the shepherd's hut on distant hills
Sent welcome notice of the rising moon,
How I have stood, to fancies such as these
A stranger, linking with the spectacle
No conscious memory of a kindred sight,
And bringing with me no peculiar sense
Of quietness or peace; yet have I stood,
Even while mine eye hath moved o'er many a league
Of shining water, gathering as it seemed,
Through every hair-breadth in that field of light,
New pleasure like a bee among the flowers.
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Gleams like the flashing of a shield; the earth
And common face of Nature spake to me
Rememberable things; sometimes, 'tis true,
By chance collisions and quaint accidents
(Like those ill-sorted unions, work supposed 590
Of evil-minded fairies), yet not vain
Nor profitless, if haply they impressed
Collateral objects and appearances,
Albeit lifeless then, and doomed to sleep
Until maturer seasons call them forth
To impregnate and to elevate the mind..
-And if the vulgar joy by its own weight.
Wearied itself out of the memory,
The scenes which were a witness of that joy
Remained in their substantial lineaments
Depicted on the brain, and to the eye
Were visible, a daily sight; and thus
By the impressive discipline of fear,
By pleasure and repeated happiness,
So frequently repeated, and by force
Of obscure feelings representative
Of things forgotten, these same scenes so bright,
So beautiful, so majestic in themselves,
Though yet the day was distant, did become
Habitually dear, and all their forms
ܟܕ
And changeful colours by invisible links.
Were fastened to the affections.
BOOK SECOND
SCHOOL-TIME (continued)
When summer came,
Our pastime was, on bright half-holidays,
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To sweep along the plain of Windermere
With rival oars; and the selected bourne
Was now an Island musical with birds
That sang and ceased not; now a Sister Isle
Beneath the oaks' umbrageous covert, sown
With lilies of the valley like a field;
And now a third small Island, where survived
In solitude the ruins of a shrine
"
1
Once to Our Lady dedicate, and served
Daily with chaunted rites. In such a race
So ended, disappointment could be none,
Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy:
We rested in the shade, all pleased alike,
Conquered and conqueror. Thus the pride of
strength,
And the vain-glory of superior skill,
Were tempered; thus was gradually produced
A quiet independence of the heart;
And to my Friend who knows me I may add,
Fearless of blame, that hence for future days
Ensued a diffidence and modesty,
And I was taught to feel, perhaps too much,
The self-sufficing power of Solitude.
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Our daily meals were frugal, Sabine fare!
More than we wished we knew the blessing then
Of vigorous hunger hence corporeal strength 80
Unsapped by delicate viands; for, exclude
A little weekly stipend, and we lived
Through three divisions of the quartered year
In penniless poverty. But now to school
From the half-yearly holidays returned,
We came with weightier purses, that sufficed
To furnish treats more costly than the Dame
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Of the old grey stone, from her scant board, supplied,
Hence rustic dinners on the cool green ground,
Or in the woods, or by a river side.
Or shady fountains, while among the leaves
Soft airs were stirring, and the mid-day sun
Unfelt shone brightly round us in our joy.
Nor is my aim neglected if I tell
How sometimes, in the length of those half-years, 95
We from our funds drew largely; - proud to curb,
And eager to spur on, the galloping steed;
And with the courteous inn-keeper, whose stud
Supplied our want, we haply might employ
Sly subterfuge, if the adventure's bound
Were distant: some famed temple where of yore
The Druids worshipped, or the antique walls
Of that large abbey, where within the Vale
Of Nightshade, to St. Mary's honour built,
Stands yet a mouldering pile with fractured arch,
Belfry, and images, and living trees;
A holy scene! Along the smooth green turf
Our horses grazed. To more than inland peace,
Left by the west wind sweeping overhead
From a tumultuous ocean, trees and towers
In that sequestered valley may be seen,
Both silent and both motionless alike;
Such the deep shelter that is there, and such
The safeguard for repose and quietness.
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Our steeds remounted and the summons given,
With whip and spur we through the chauntry flew
In uncouth race, and left the cross-legged knight,
And the stone-abbot, and that single wren
Which one day sang so sweetly in the nave
Of the old church, that though from recent showers
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The earth was comfortless, and, touched by faint 121
Internal breezes, sobbings of the place
And respirations, from the roofless walls
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The shuddering ivy dripped large drops - yet still
So sweetly 'mid the gloom the invisible bird
Sang to herself, that there I could have made
My dwelling-place, and lived for ever there
To hear such music. Through the walls we flew
And down the valley, and, a circuit made
In wantonness of heart, through rough and smooth 130
We scampered homewards. Oh, ye rocks and streams,
And that still spirit shed from evening air!
Even in this joyous time I sometimes felt
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Your presence, when with slackened step we breathed
Along the sides of the steep hills, or when
Lighted by gleams of moonlight from the sea
We beat with thundering hoofs the level sand.
Midway on long Winander's eastern shore,
Within the crescent of a pleasant bay,
A tavern stood; no homely-featured house,
Primeval like its neighbouring cottages,
But 'twas a splendid place, the door beset.
With chaises, grooms, and liveries, and within
Decanters, glasses, and the blood-red wine.
In ancient times, and ere the Hall was built
On the large island, had this dwelling been
More worthy of a poet's love, a hut,
Proud of its own bright fire and sycamore shade.
But though the rhymes were gone that once in-
scribed
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The threshold, and large golden characters,
Spread o'er the spangled sign-board, had dislodged
The old Lion and usurped his place, in slight ·
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And mockery of the rustic painter's hand
Yet, to this hour, the spot to me is dear
With all its foolish pomp. The garden lay
Upon a slope surmounted by a plain
Of a small bowling-green; beneath us stood
A grove, with gleams of water through the trees
And over the tree-tops; nor did we want
Refreshment, strawberries and mellow cream.
There, while through half an afternoon we played
On the smooth platform, whether skill prevailed
Or happy blunder triumphed, bursts of glee
Made all the mountains ring. But, ere night-fall,
When in our pinnace we returned at leisure
Over the shadowy lake, and to the beach
Of some small island steered our course with one,
The Minstrel of the Troop, and left him there,
And rowed off gently, while he blew his flute
Alone upon the rock — oh, then, the calm
And dead still water lay upon my mind
Even with a weight of pleasure, and the sky,
Never before so beautiful, sank down
Into my heart, and held me like a dream!
Thus were my sympathies enlarged, and thus
Daily the common range of visible things
Grew dear to me: already I began
To love the sun; a boy I loved the sun,
Not as I since have loved him, as a pledge
And surety of our earthly life, a light
Which we behold and feel we are alive;
Nor for his bounty to so many worlds
· But for this cause, that I had seen him lay
His beauty on the morning hills, had seen
The western mountain touch his setting orb,
In many a thoughtless hour, when, from excess
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Of happiness, my blood appeared to flow
For its own pleasure, and I breathed with joy.
And, from like feelings, humble though intense,
To patriotic and domestic love
Analogous, the moon to me was dear;
For I could dream away my purposes,
Standing to gaze upon her while she hung
Midway between the hills, as if she knew
No other region, but belonged to thee,
Yea, appertained by a peculiar right
To thee and thy grey huts, thou one dear Vale!
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From early days,
Beginning not long after that first time
In which, a Babe, by intercourse of touch
I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart,
I have endeavoured to display the means
Whereby this infant sensibility,
Great birthright of our being, was in me
Augmented and sustained. Yet is a path
More difficult before me; and I fear
That in its broken windings we shall need
The chamois' sinews, and the eagle's wing: 275
For now a trouble came into my mind
From unknown causes. I was left alone
Seeking the visible world, nor knowing why.
The props of my affections were removed,
And yet the building stood, as if sustained
By its own spirit! All that I beheld
Was dear, and hence to finer influxes
The mind lay open to a more exact
And close communion. Many are our joys
In youth, but oh! what happiness to live
When every hour brings palpable access
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 119
Of knowledge, when all knowledge is delight,
And sorrow is not there! The seasons came,
And every season wheresoe'er I moved
Unfolded transitory qualities,
Which, but for this most watchful power of love,
Had been neglected; left a register
Of permanent relations, else unknown.
Hence life, and change, and beauty, solitude
More active ever than "best society” –
Society made sweet as solitude
By silent inobtrusive sympathies,
And gentle agitations of the mind
From manifold distinctions, difference
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Perceived in things, where, to the unwatchful eye, 300
No difference is, and hence, from the same source,
Sublimer joy; for I would walk alone,
Under the quiet stars, and at that time
Have felt whate'er there is of power in sound
To breathe an elevated mood, by form
Or image unprofaned; and I would stand,
If the night blackened with a coming storm,
Beneath some rock, listening to notes that are
The ghostly language of the ancient earth,
Or make their dim abode in distant winds.
Thence did I drink the visionary power;
And deem not profitless those fleeting moods
Of shadowy exultation: not for this,
That they are kindred to our purer mind
And intellectual life; but that the soul,
Remembering how she felt, but what she felt
Remembering not, retains an obscure sense
Of possible sublimity, whereto
With growing faculties she doth aspire,
With faculties still growing, feeling still
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That whatsoever point they gain, they yet
Have something to pursue.
And not alone,
'Mid gloom and tumult, but no less 'mid fair
And tranquil scenes, that universal power
And fitness in the latent qualities
And essences of things, by which the mind
Is moved with feelings of delight, to me
Came strengthened with a superadded soul,
A virtue not its own. My morning walks
Were early; oft before the hours of school
I travelled round our little lake, five miles
Of pleasant wandering. Happy time! more dear
For this, that one was by my side, a Friend,
Then passionately loved; with heart how full
Would he peruse these lines! For many years 335
Have since flowed in between us, and, our minds
Both silent to each other, at this time
We live as if those hours had never been.
Nor seldom did I lift our cottage latch
Far earlier, ere one smoke-wreath had risen
From human dwelling, or the vernal thrush
Was audible; and sate among the woods
Alone upon some jutting eminence,
At the first gleam of dawn-light, when the Vale,
Yet slumbering, lay in utter solitude.
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How shall I seek the origin? where find
Faith in the marvellous things which then I felt?
Oft in these moments such a holy calm
Would overspread my soul, that bodily eyes
Were utterly forgotten, and what I saw
Appeared like something in myself, a dream,
A prospect in the mind.
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121
"Twere long to tell
What spring and autumn, what the winter snows,
And what the summer shade, what day and night,
Evening and morning, sleep and waking, thought
From sources inexhaustible, poured forth
To feed the spirit of religious love
In which I walked with Nature. But let this
Be not forgotten, that I still retained
My first creative sensibility;
That by the regular action of the world
My soul was unsubdued. A plastic power
Abode with me; a forming hand, at times
Rebellious, acting in a devious mood;
A local spirit of his own, at war
With general tendency, but, for the most,
Subservient strictly to external things
With which it communed. An auxiliar light
Came from my mind, which on the setting sun
Bestowed new splendour; the melodious birds, 370
The fluttering breezes, fountains that run on
Murmuring so sweetly in themselves, obeyed
A like dominion, and the midnight storm
Grew darker in the presence of my eye:
Hence my obeisance, my devotion hence,
And hence my transport.
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Is more poetic as resembling more
Creative agency. The song would speak
Of that interminable building reared
By observation of affinities
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Nor should this, perchance,
Pass unrecorded, that I still had loved
The exercise and produce of a toil,
Than analytic industry to me
More pleasing, and whose character I deem 380
122 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
385
In objects where no brotherhood exists.
To passive minds. My seventeenth year was come
And, whether from this habit rooted now
So deeply in my mind, or from excess
In the great social principle of life
Coercing all things into sympathy,
To unorganic natures were transferred
My own enjoyments; or the power of truth
Coming in revelation, did converse
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With things that really are; I, at this time,
Saw blessings spread around me like a sea.
Thus while the days flew by, and years passed on,
From Nature and her overflowing soul,
I had received so much, that all my thoughts
Were steeped in feeling; I was only then
Contented, when with bliss ineffable
I felt the sentiment of Being spread
O'er all that moves and all that seemeth still;
O'er all that, lost beyond the reach of thought
And human knowledge, to the human eye
Invisible, yet liveth to the heart;
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O'er all that leaps and runs, and shouts and sings,
Or beats the gladsome air; o'er all that glides
Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself,
And mighty depth of waters. Wonder not
If high the transport, great the joy I felt,
Communing in this sort through earth and heaven
With every form of creature, as it looked
Towards the Uncreated with a countenance
Of adoration, with an eye of love.
One song they sang, and it was audible,
Most audible, then, when the fleshly ear,
O'ercome by humblest prelude of that strain,
Forgot her functions, and slept undisturbed.
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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 with grateful voice
To speak of you, ye mountains, and ye lakes
And sounding cataracts, ye mists and winds 425
That dwell among the hills where I was born.
If in my youth I have been pure in heart,
If, mingling with the world, I am content
With my own modest pleasures, and have lived
With God and Nature communing, removed 430
From little enmities and low desires
}
The gift is yours; if in these times of fear,
This melancholy waste of hopes o'erthrown,
If, 'mid indifference and apathy,
A never-failing principle of joy
And purest passion.
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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 sneers
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, 445
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
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:
BOOK THIRD
RESIDENCE AT CAMBRIDGE
The Evangelist St. John my patron was:
Three Gothic courts are his, and in the first
Was my abiding-place, a nook obscure;
Right underneath, the College kitchens made
A humming sound, less tuneable than bees,
But hardly less industrious; with shrill notes
Of sharp command and scolding intermixed.
Near me hung Trinity's loquacious clock,
Who never let the quarters, night or day,
Slip by him unproclaimed, and told the hours
Twice over with a male and female voice.
Her pealing organ was my neighbour too;
And from my pillow, looking forth by light
Of moon or favouring stars, I could behold
The antechapel where the statue stood
Of Newton with his prism and silent face,
The marble index of a mind for ever
Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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Of College labours, of the Lecturer's room
All studded round, as thick as chairs could stand, 65
With loyal students, faithful to their books,
Half-and-half idlers, hardy recusants,
And honest dunces of important days,
Examinations, when the man was weighed
As in a balance! of excessive hopes,
Tremblings withal and commendable fears,
Small jealousies, and triumphs good or bad
Let others that know more speak as they know.
Such glory was but little sought by me,
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And little won. Yet from the first crude days
Of settling time in this untried abode,
I was disturbed at times by prudent thoughts,
Wishing to hope without a hope, some fears
About my future worldly maintenance,
And, more than all, a strangeness in the mind,
A feeling that I was not for that hour,
Nor for that place. But wherefore be cast down?
For (not to speak of Reason and her pure
Reflective acts to fix the moral law
Deep in the conscience, nor of Christian Hope,
Bowing her head before her sister Faith
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As one far mightier), hither I had come,
Bear witness Truth, endowed with holy powers
And faculties, whether to work or feel.
Oft when the dazzling show no longer new
Had ceased to dazzle, ofttimes did I quit
My comrades, leave the crowd, buildings and groves,
And as I paced alone the level fields
Far from those lovely sights and sounds sublime
With which I had been conversant, the mind
Drooped not; but there into herself returning,
With prompt rebound seemed fresh as heretofore.
At least I more distinctly recognised
Her native instincts: let me dare to speak
A higher language, say that now I felt
What independent solaces were mine,
To mitigate the injurious sway of place
Or circumstance, how far soever changed
In youth, or to be changed in after years.
As if awakened, summoned, roused, constrained,
I looked for universal things; perused
The common countenance of earth and sky:
Earth, nowhere unembellished by some trace
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Of that first Paradise whence man was driven;
And sky, whose beauty and bounty are expressed
By the proud name she bears the name of Heaven.
I called on both to teach me what they might;
Or, turning the mind in upon herself,
Pored, watched, expected, listened, spread my
thoughts
*
And spread them with a wider creeping; felt
Incumbencies more awful, visitings
Of the Upholder of the tranquil soul,
That tolerates the indignities of Time,
And, from the centre of Eternity
All finite motions overruling, lives
In glory immutable. But peace! enough
Here to record that I was mounting now
To such community with highest truth -
A track pursuing, not untrod before,
From strict analogies by thought supplied
Or consciousnesses not to be subdued.
To every natural form, rock, fruits, or flower,
Even the loose stones that cover the highway,
I gave a moral life: I saw them feel,
Or linked them to some feeling: the great mass
Lay bedded in a quickening soul, and all
That I beheld respired with inward meaning.
Add that whate'er of Terror or of Love
Or Beauty, Nature's daily face put on
From transitory passion, unto this
I was as sensitive as waters are
To the sky's influence in a kindred mood
Of passion; was obedient as a lute
That waits upon the touches of the wind.
Unknown, unthought of, yet I was most rich —
I had a world about me 'twas my own;
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I made it, for it only lived to me,
And to the God who sees into the heart.
Such sympathies, though rarely, were betrayed
By outward gestures and by visible looks:
Some called it madness so indeed it was,
If child-like fruitfulness in passing joy,
If steady moods of thoughtfulness matured
To inspiration, sort with such a name;
If prophecy be madness; if things viewed
By poets in old time, and higher up
By the first men, earth's first inhabitants,
May in these tutored days no more be seen
With undisordered sight. But leaving this,
It was no madness, for the bodily eye
Amid my strongest workings evermore
Was searching out the lines of difference
As they lie hid in all external forms,
Near or remote, minute or vast; an eye
Which, from a tree, a stone, a withered leaf,
To the broad ocean and the azure heavens
Spangled with kindred multitudes of stars,
Could find no surface where its power might sleep;
Which spake perpetual logic to my soul,
And by an unrelenting agency
Did bind my feelings even as in a chain.
P
BOOK FOURTH
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SUMMER VACATION
BRIGHT was the summer's noon when quickening steps
Followed each other till a dreary moor
Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top
Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge,
I overlooked the bed of Windermere,
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Like a vast river, stretching in the sun.
With exultation, at my feet I saw
Lake, islands, promontories, gleaming bays,
A universe of Nature's fairest forms
Proudly revealed with instantaneous burst,
Magnificent, and beautiful, and gay.
I bounded down the hill shouting amain.
For the old Ferryman; to the shout the rocks.
Replied, and when the Charon of the flood
Had stayed his oars, and touched the jutting pier, 15
I did not step into the well-known boat
Without a cordial greeting. Thence with speed
Up the familiar hill I took my way
Towards that sweet Valley where I had been reared;
"Twas but a short hour's walk, ere veering round
I saw the snow-white church upon her hill
Sit like a throned Lady, sending out
A gracious look all over her domain.
Yon azure smoke betrays the lurking town;
With eager footsteps I advance and reach
The cottage threshold where my journey closed.
Glad welcome had I, with some tears, perhaps,
From my old Dame, so kind and motherly,
While she perused me with a parent's pride.
The thoughts of gratitude shall fall like dew
Upon thy grave, good creature! While my heart
Can beat never will I forget thy name.
Heaven's blessing be upon thee where thou liest
After thy innocent and busy stir
10
In narrow cares, thy little daily growth
Of calm enjoyments, after eighty years,
And more than eighty, of untroubled life;
Childless, yet by the strangers to thy blood
Honoured with little less than filial love.
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What joy was mine to see thee once again,
Thee and thy dwelling, and a crowd of things
About its narrow precincts all beloved,
And many of them seeming yet my own!
Why should I speak of what a thousand hearts
Have felt, and every man alive can guess?
The rooms, the court, the garden were not left
Long unsaluted, nor the sunny seat
Round the stone table under the dark pine,
Friendly to studious or to festive hours;
Nor that unruly child of mountain birth,
The famous brook, who, soon as he was boxed
Within our garden, found himself at once,
As if by trick insidious and unkind,
Stripped of his voice and left to dimple down
(Without an effort and without a will)
A channel paved by man's officious care.
I looked at him and smiled, and smiled again,
And in the press of twenty thousand thoughts,
“Ha,” quoth I, "pretty prisoner, are you there!"
Well might sarcastic Fancy then have whispered, 60
"An emblem here behold of thy own life;
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In its late course of even days with all
Their smooth enthralment"; but the heart was full,
Too full for that reproach. My aged Dame
Walked proudly at my side: she guided me;
I willing, nay nay, wishing to be led.
-The face of every neighbour whom I met
Was like a volume to me; some were hailed
Upon the road, some busy at their work,
Unceremonious greetings interchanged
With half the length of a long field between.
Among my schoolfellows I scattered round
Like recognitions, but with some constraint
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Attended, doubtless, with a little pride,
But with more shame, for my habiliments,
The transformation wrought by gay attire.
Not less delighted did I take my place
At our domestic table: and, dear Friend!
In this endeavour simply to relate
A Poet's history, may I leave untold
The thankfulness with which I laid me down
In my accustomed bed, more welcome now
Perhaps than if it had been more desired
Or been more often thought of with regret;
That lowly bed whence I had heard the wind
Roar, and the rain beat hard; where I so oft
Had lain awake on summer nights to watch
The moon in splendour couched among the leaves
Of a tall ash, that near our cottage stood;
Had watched her with fixed eyes while to and fro 90
In the dark summit of the waving tree
She rocked with every impulse of the breeze.
Among the favourites whom it pleased me well
To see again, was one by ancient right
Our inmate, a rough terrier of the hills;
By birth and call of nature pre-ordained
To hunt the badger and unearth the fox
Among the impervious crags, but having been
From youth our own adopted, he had passed
Into a gentler service. And when first
The boyish spirit flagged, and day by day
Along my veins I kindled with the stir,
The fermentation, and the vernal heat
Of poesy, affecting private shades
Like a sick Lover, then this dog was used
To watch me, an attendant and a friend,
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Obsequious to my steps early and late,
Though often of such dilatory walk
Tired, and uneasy at the halts I made.
A hundred times when, roving high and low,
I have been harassed with the toil of verse,
Much pains and little progress, and at once
Some lovely Image in the song rose up
Full-formed, like Venus rising from the sea;
Then have I darted forwards to let loose
My hand upon his back with stormy joy,
Caressing him again and yet again.
And when at evening on the public way
I sauntered, like a river murmuring
And talking to itself when all things else
Are still, the creature trotted on before;
Such was his custom; but whene'er he met
A passenger approaching, he would turn
To give me timely notice, and straightway,
Grateful for that admonishment, I hushed
My voice, composed my gait, and, with the air
And mien of one whose thoughts are free, advanced
To give and take a greeting that might save
My name from piteous rumours, such as wait
On men suspected to be crazed in brain.
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Those walks well worthy to be prized and loved-
Regretted! that word, too, was on my tongue,
But they were richly laden with all good,
And cannot be remembered but with thanks
And gratitude, and perfect joy of heart-
Those walks in all their freshness now came back
Like a returning Spring. When first I made
Once more the circuit of our little lake,
If ever happiness hath lodged with man,
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That day consummate happiness was mine,
Wide-spreading, steady, calm, contemplative.
The sun was set, or setting, when I left
Our cottage door, and evening soon brought on
A sober hour, not winning or serene,
For cold and raw the air was, and untuned:
But as a face we love is sweetest then
When sorrow damps it, or, whatever look
It chance to wear, is sweetest if the heart
Have fulness in herself; even so with me
It fared that evening. Gently did my soul
Put off her veil, and, self-transmuted, stood
Naked, as in the presence of her God.
While on I walked, a comfort seemed to touch
A heart that had not been disconsolate:
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Strength came where weakness was not known to be,
At least not felt; and restoration came
Like an intruder knocking at the door
Of unacknowledged weariness. I took
The balance, and with firm hand weighed myself.
Of that external scene which round me lay,
Little, in this abstraction, did I see;
Remembered less; but I had inward hopes
And swellings of the spirit, was rapt and soothed,
Conversed with promises, had glimmering views
How life pervades the undecaying mind;
How the immortal soul with God-like power
Informs, creates, and thaws the deepest sleep
That time can lay upon her; how on earth,
Man, if he do but live within the light
Of high endeavours, daily spreads abroad
His being armed with strength that cannot fail.
Nor was there want of milder thoughts, of love,
Of innocence, and holiday repose;
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And more than pastoral quiet, 'mid the stir
Of boldest projects, and a peaceful end
At last, or glorious, by endurance won.
Thus musing, in a wood I sate me down
Alone, continuing there to muse: the slopes
And heights meanwhile were slowly overspread
With darkness, and before a rippling breeze
The long lake lengthened out its hoary line,
And in the sheltered coppice where I sate,
Around me from among the hazel leaves,
Now here, now there, moved by the straggling wind,
Came ever and anon a breath-like sound,
Quick as the pantings of the faithful dog,
The off and on companion of my walk;
And such, at times, believing them to be,
I turned my head to look if he were there;
Then into solemn thought I passed once more.
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Of trivial pleasures was a poor exchange
For books and nature at that early age.
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Yes, that heartless chase
'Tis true, some casual knowledge might be gained 300
Of character or life; but at that time,
Of manners put to school I took small note,
And all my deeper passions lay elsewhere.
Far better had it been to exalt the mind
By solitary study, to uphold
Intense desire through meditative peace;
And yet, for chastisement of these regrets,
The memory of one particular hour
'Mid a throng
Doth here rise up against me.
Of maids and youths, old men, and matrons staid, 310
A medley of all tempers, I had passed
The night in dancing, gayety, and mirth,
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With din of instruments and shuffling feet,
And glancing forms, and tapers glittering,
And unaimed prattle flying up and down;
Spirits upon the stretch, and here and there
Slight shocks of young love-liking interspersed,
Whose transient pleasure mounted to the head,
And tingled through the veins. Ere we retired,
The cock had crowed, and now the eastern sky 320
Was kindling, not unseen, from humble copse
And open field, through which the pathway wound,
And homeward led my steps. Magnificent
The morning rose, in memorable pomp,
Glorious as e'er I had beheld in front,
The sea lay laughing at a distance; near,
The solid mountains shone, bright as the clouds,
Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light;
And in the meadows and the lower grounds
Was all the sweetness of a common dawn
Dews, vapors, and the melody of birds,
And labourers going forth to till the fields.
Ah! need I say, dear Friend! that to the brim.
My heart was full; I made no vows, but vows
Were then made for me; bond unknown to me
Was given, that I should be, else sinning greatly,
A dedicated Spirit. On I walked
In thankful blessedness, which yet survives.
BOOK FIFTH
BOOKS
Ma
Great and benign, indeed, must be the power
Of living nature, which could thus so long
Detain me from the best of other guides
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;
And dearest helpers, left unthanked, unpraised,
Even in the time of lisping infancy;
And later down, in prattling childhood even,
While I was travelling back among those days,
How could I ever play an ingrate's part?
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Once more should I have made those bowers resound,
By intermingling strains of thankfulness
With their own thoughtless melodies; at least
It might have well beseemed me to repeat
Some simply fashioned tale, to tell again,
In slender accents of sweet verse, some tale
That did bewitch me then, and soothes me now. 180 ·
O Friend! O Poet! brother of my soul,
Think not that I could pass along untouched
By these remembrances. Yet wherefore speak?
Why call upon a few weak words to say
What is already written in the hearts
Of all that breathe? what in the path of all
Drops daily from the tongue of every child,
Wherever man is found? The trickling tear
Upon the cheek of listening Infancy
Proclaims it, and the insuperable look
That drinks as if it never could be full.
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That portion of my story I shall leave
There registered: whatever else of power
Or pleasure sown, or fostered thus, may be
Peculiar to myself, let that remain
Where still it works, though hidden from all search
Among the depths of time. Yet is it just
That here, in memory of all books which lay
Their sure foundations in the heart of man,
Whether by native prose, or numerous verse,
That in the name of all inspirèd souls -
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From Homer the great Thunderer, from the voice
That roars along the bed of Jewish song,
And that more varied and elaborate,
Those trumpet-tones of harmony that shake
Our shores in England, - from those loftiest notes
Down to the low and wren-like warblings, made
For cottagers and spinners at the wheel,
And sun-burnt travellers resting their tired limbs,
Stretched under wayside hedge-rows, ballad tunes, 210
Food for the hungry ears of little ones,
And of old men who have survived their joys
"Tis just that in behalf of these, the works,
And of the men that framed them, whether known
Or sleeping nameless in their scattered graves,
That I should here assert their rights, attest
Their honours, and should, once for all, pronounce
Their benediction; speak of them as Powers
For ever to be hallowed; only less,
For what we are and what we may become,
Than Nature's self, which is the breath of God,
Or His pure Word by miracle revealed.
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There was a Boy: ye knew him well, ye cliffs
And islands of Winander!
many a time
At evening, when the earliest stars began
To move along the edges of the hills,
Rising or setting, would he stand alone
Beneath the trees or by the glimmering lake,
And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands
Pressed closely palm to palm, and to his mouth
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,
That they might answer him; and they would shout
Across the watery vale, and shout again,
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Responsive to his call, with quivering peals,
And long halloos and screams, and echoes loud,
Redoubled and redoubled, concourse wild
Of jocund din; and, when a lengthened pause
Of silence came and baffled his best skill,
Then sometimes, in that silence while he hung
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
Has carried far into his heart the voice
Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene
Would enter unawares into his mind,
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received
Into the bosom of the steady lake.
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This Boy was taken from his mates, and died
In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.
Fair is the spot, most beautiful the vale
Where he was born; the grassy churchyard hangs
Upon a slope above the village school,
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And through that churchyard when my way has led
On summer evenings, I believe that there.
A long half hour together I have stood
Mute, looking at the grave in which he lies!
Even now appears before the mind's clear eye
That self-same village church; I see her sit
(The throned Lady whom erewhile we hailed)
On her green hill, forgetful of this Boy
Who slumbers at her feet, forgetful, too,
Of all her silent neighbourhood of graves,
And listening only to the gladsome sounds
That, from the rural school ascending, play
Beneath her and about her. May she long
Behold a race of young ones like to those
With whom I herded! (easily, indeed,
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We might have fed upon a fatter soil
Of arts and letters but be that forgiven) –
A race of real children; not too wise,
Too learned, or too good; but wanton, fresh,
And bandied up and down by love and hate;
Not unresentful where self-justified;
Fierce, moody, patient, venturous, modest, shy; 415
Mad at their sports like withered leaves in winds;
Though doing wrong and suffering, and full oft
Bending beneath our life's mysterious weight
Of pain, and doubt, and fear, yet yielding not
In happiness to the happiest upon earth.
Simplicity in habit, truth in speech,
Be these the daily strengtheners of their minds;
May books and Nature be their early joy!
And knowledge, rightly honoured with that name
Knowledge not purchased by the loss of power! 425
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A gracious spirit o'er this earth presides,
And o'er the heart of man; invisibly
It comes, to works of unreproved delight,
And tendency benign, directing those
Who care not, know not, think not, what they do. 495
The tales that charm away the wakeful night
In Araby, romances; legends penned
For solace by dim light of monkish lamps;
Fictions, for ladies of their love, devised
By youthful squires; adventures endless, spun
By the dismantled warrior in old age,
Out of the bowels of those very schemes
In which his youth did first extravagate;
These spread like day, and something in the shape
Of these will live till man shall be no more.
Dumb yearnings, hidden appetites, are ours,
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139
And they must have their food. Our childhood sits,
Our simple childhood, sits upon a throne
That hath more power than all the elements.
I guess not what this tells of Being past,
Nor what it augurs of the life to come;
But so it is; and, in that dubious hour
That twilight — when we first begin to see
This dawning earth, to recognise, expect,
And, in the long probation that ensues,
The time of trial, ere we learn to live
In reconcilement with our stinted powers;
To endure this state of meagre vassalage,
Unwilling to forego, confess, submit,
Uneasy and unsettled, yoke-fellows
To custom, mettlesome, and not yet tamed
And humbled down oh! then we feel, we feel,
We know where we have friends. Ye dreamers, then,
Forgers of daring tales! we bless you then,
Impostors, drivellers, dotards, as the ape
Philosophy will call you: then we feel
With what, and how great might ye are in league,
Who make our wish, our power, our thought a deed,
An empire, a possession, ye whom time
And seasons serve; all Faculties to whom
Earth crouches, the elements are potter's clay,
Space like a heaven filled up with northern lights,
Here, nowhere, there, and everywhere at once.
¿
Dep
Relinquishing this lofty eminence
For ground, though humbler, not the less a tract
Of the same isthmus, which our spirits cross
In progress from their native continent
To earth and human life, the Song might dwell
On that delightful time of growing youth,
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140 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
540
When craving for the marvellous gives way
To strengthening love for things that we have seen;
When sober truth and steady sympathies,
Offered to notice by less daring pens,
Take firmer hold of us, and words themselves
Move us with conscious pleasure.
I am sad
At thought of rapture now forever flown;
Almost to tears I sometimes could be sad
To think of, to read over, many a page,
Poems withal of name, which at that time
Did never fail to entrance me, and are now
Dead in my eyes, dead as a theatre
Fresh emptied of spectators. Twice five years
Or less I might have seen, when first my mind
With conscious pleasure opened to the charm
Of words in tuneful order, found them sweet
For their own sakes, a passion, and a power;
And phrases pleased me chosen for delight,
For pomp, or love. Oft, in the public roads
Yet unfrequented, while the morning light
Was yellowing the hill tops, I went abroad
With a dear friend, and for the better part
Of two delightful hours we strolled along
By the still borders of the misty lake,
Repeating favourite verses with one voice,
Or conning more, as happy as the birds
That round us chaunted. Well might we be glad,
Lifted above the ground by airy fancies,
More bright than madness or the dreams of wine;
And, though full oft the objects of our love
Were false, and in their splendour over-wrought, 570
Yet was there surely then no vulgar power
Working within us, nothing less, in truth,
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141
Than that most noble attribute of man,
Though yet untutored and inordinate,
That wish for something loftier, more adorned,
Than is the common aspect, daily garb,
Of human life. What wonder, then, if sounds
Of exultation echoed through the groves!
For, images, and sentiments, and words,
And everything encountered or pursued
In that delicious world of poesy,
Kept holiday, a never-ending show,
With music, incense, festival, and flowers!
Here must we pause: this only let me add,
From heart-experience, and in humblest sense
Of modesty, that he, who in his youth
A daily wanderer among woods and fields
With living Nature hath been intimate,
Not only in that raw unpractised time
Is stirred to ecstasy, as others are,
By glittering verse; but further, doth receive,
In measure only dealt out to himself,
Knowledge and increase of enduring joy
From the great Nature that exists in works
Of mighty Poets. Visionary power
Attends the motions of the viewless winds,
Embodied in the mystery of words:
There, darkness makes abode, and all the host
Of shadowy things work endless changes, - there,
As in a mansion like their proper home,
Even forms and substances are circumfused
By that transparent veil with light divine,
And, through the turnings intricate of verse,
Present themselves as objects recognised,
In flashes, and with glory not their own.
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1
BOOK SIXTH
CAMBRIDGE AND THE ALPS
When from the Vallais we had turned, and clomb
Along the Simplon's steep and rugged road,
Following a band of muleteers, we reached
A halting-place, where all together took
Their noon-tide meal. Hastily rose our guide,
Leaving us at the board; awhile we lingered,
Then paced the beaten downward way that led
Right to a rough stream's edge, and there broke off;
The only track now visible was one
570
That from the torrent's further brink held forth
Conspicuous invitation to ascend
A lofty mountain. After brief delay
Crossing the unbridged stream, that road we took,
And clomb with eagerness, till anxious fears
Intruded, for we failed to overtake
Our comrades gone before. By fortunate chance,
While every moment added doubt to doubt,
A peasant met us, from whose mouth we learned
That to the spot which had perplexed us first
We must descend, and there should find the road,
Which in the stony channel of the stream
Lay a few steps, and then along its banks;
And, that our future course, all plain to sight,
Was downwards, with the current of that stream.
Loth to believe what we so grieved to hear,
For still we had hopes that pointed to the clouds,
We questioned him again, and yet again;
But every word that from the peasant's lips
Came in reply, translated by our feelings,
Ended in this, that we had crossed the Alps.
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 143
Imagination
here the Power so called
Through sad incompetence of human speech,
That awful Power rose from the mind's abyss
Like an unfathered vapour that enwraps,
At once, some lonely traveller. I was lost;
Halted without an effort to break through;
But to my conscious soul I now can say
"I recognise thy glory": in such strength
Of usurpation, when the light of sense
Goes out, but with a flash that has revealed
The invisible world, doth greatness make abode,
There harbours; whether we be young or old,
Our destiny, our being's heart and home,
Is with infinitude, and only there;
With hope it is, hope that can never die,
Effort, and expectation, and desire,
And something evermore about to be.
Under such banners militant, the soul
Seeks for no trophies, struggles for no spoils
That may attest her prowess, blest in thoughts
That are their own perfection and reward,
Strong in herself and in beatitude
That hides her, like the mighty flood of Nile
Poured from his fount of Abyssinian clouds
To fertilize the whole Egyptian plain.
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The melancholy slackening that ensued
Upon those tidings by the peasant given
Was soon dislodged. Downwards we hurried fast,
And, with the half-shaped road which we had missed,
Entered a narrow chasm. The brook and road
Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy strait,
And with them did we journey several hours
At a slow pace. The immeasurable height
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Of woods decaying, never to be decayed,
The stationary blasts of waterfalls,
And in the narrow rent at every turn
Winds thwarting winds, bewildered and forlorn,
The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky,
The rocks that muttered close upon our ears,
Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside
As if a voice were in them, the sick sight
And giddy prospect of the raving stream,
The unfettered clouds and region of the Heavens,
Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light - 635
Were all like workings of one mind, the features
Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree;
Characters of the great Apocalypse,
The types and symbols of Eternity,
Of first, and last, and midst, and without end.
BOOK SEVENTH
RESIDENCE IN LONDON
Genius of Burke! forgive the pen seduced
By specious wonders, and too slow to tell
Of what the ingenuous, what bewildered men,
Beginning to mistrust their boastful guides,
And wise men, willing to grow wiser, caught,
Rapt auditors! from thy most eloquent tongue
Now mute, forever mute in the cold grave.
I see him, old, but vigorous in age,
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Stand like an oak whose stag-horn branches start 520
Out of its leafy brow, the more to awe
The younger brethren of the grove. But some
While he forewarns, denounces, launches forth,
Against all systems built on abstract rights,
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 145
Keen ridicule; the majesty proclaims
Of Institutes and Laws, hallowed by time;
Declares the vital power of social ties
Endeared by Custom; and with high disdain,
Exploding upstart Theory, insists
Upon the allegiance to which men are born-
Some say at once a froward multitude
Murmur (for truth is hated, where not loved)
As the winds fret within the Æolian cave,
Galled by their monarch's chain. The times were big
With ominous change, which, night by night, pro-
voked
535
Keen struggles, and black clouds of passion raised;
But memorable moments intervened,
RETROSPECT.
▬▬▬▬▬
Ma
525
When Wisdom, like the Goddess from Jove's brain,
Broke forth in armour of resplendent words,
Startling the Synod. Could a youth, and one 540
In ancient story versed, whose breast had heaved
Under the weight of classic eloquence,
Sit, see, and hear, unthankful, uninspired?
530
Ungovernable, and your terrifying winds,
That howl so dismally for him who treads
BOOK EIGHTH
LOVE OF NATURE LEADING TO LOVE
OF MAN
Hail to you
Moors, mountains, headlands, and ye hollow vales,
Ye long deep channels for the Atlantic's voice,
Powers of my native region! Ye that seize
The heart with firmer grasp! Your snows and
streams
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116 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Companionless your awful solitudes!
There, 'tis the shepherd's task the winter long
To wait upon the storms: of their approach
Sagacious, into sheltering coves he drives.
His flock, and thither from the homestead bears
A toilsome burden up the craggy ways,
And deals it out, their regular nourishment
Strewn on the frozen snow. And when the spring
Looks out, and all the pastures dance with lambs, 230
And when the flock, with warmer weather, climbs
Higher and higher, him his office leads.
225
To watch their goings, whatsoever track
The wanderers choose. For this he quits his home
At day-spring, and no sooner doth the sun
Begin to strike him with a fire-like heat,
Than he lies down upon some shining rock,
And breakfasts with his dog. When they have stolen,
As is their wont, a pittance from strict time,
For rest not needed or exchange of love,
Then from his couch he starts; and now his feet
Crush out a livelier fragrance from the flowers
Of lowly thyme, by Nature's skill enwrought
In the wild turf: the lingering dews of morn
Smoke round him, as from hill to hill he hies,
His staff protending like a hunter's spear,
Or by its aid leaping from crag to crag,
And o'er the brawling beds of unbridged streams.
Philosophy, methinks, at Fancy's call,
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Might deign to follow him through what he does 250
Or sees in his day's march; himself he feels,
In those vast regions where his service lies,
A freeman, wedded to his life of hope
And hazard, and hard labour interchanged
With that majestic indolence so dear
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 147
To native man. A rambling schoolboy, thus,
I felt his presence in his own domain,
As of a lord and master, or a power,
Or genius, under Nature, under God,
Presiding; and severest solitude
Had more commanding looks when he was there.
When up the lonely brooks on rainy days
Angling I went, or trod the trackless hills
By mists bewildered, suddenly mine eyes
Have glanced upon him distant a few steps,
In size a giant, stalking through thick fog,
His sheep like Greenland bears; or, as he stepped
Beyond the boundary line of some hill-shadow,
His form hath flashed upon me, glorified
By the deep radiance of the setting sun:
Or him have I descried in distant sky,
A solitary object and sublime,
Above all height! like an aerial cross
Stationed alone upon a spiry rock
Of the Chartreuse, for worship. Thus was man 275
Ennobled outwardly before my sight,
And thus my heart was early introduced
To an unconscious love and reverence
Of human nature; hence the human form
To me became an index of delight,
Of grace and honour, power and worthiness.
BOOK NINTH
RESIDENCE IN FRANCE
Night by night
Did I frequent the formal haunts of men,
Whom, in the city, privilege of birth
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Sequestered from the rest, societies
Polished in arts, and in punctilio versed;
Whence, and from deeper causes, all discourse
Of good and evil of the time was shunned
With scrupulous care; but these restrictions soon 120
Proved tedious, and I gradually withdrew
Into a noisier world, and thus ere long
Became a patriot; and my heart was all
Given to the people, and my love was theirs.
148
A band of military Officers,
Then stationed in the city, were the chief
Of my associates: some of these wore swords
That had been seasoned in the wars, and all
Were men well-born; the chivalry of France.
In age and temper differing, they had yet
One spirit ruling in each heart; alike
(Save only one, hereafter to be named)
Were bent upon undoing what was done:
This was their rest and only hope; therewith
No fear had they of bad becoming worse,
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130
135
For worst to them was come; nor would have stirred,
Or deemed it worth a moment's thought to stir,
In anything, save only as the act
Looked thitherward. One, reckoning by years,
Was in the prime of manhood, and erewhile
He had sate lord in many tender hearts;
Though heedless of such honours now, and changed:
His temper was quite mastered by the times,
And they had blighted him, had eaten away
The beauty of his person, doing wrong
Alike to body and to mind: his port,
Which once had been erect and open, now
Was stooping and contracted, and a face,
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 149
Endowed by Nature with her fairest gifts
Of symmetry and light and bloom, expressed,
As much as any that was ever seen,
A ravage out of season, made by thoughts.
Unhealthy and vexatious. With the hour,
That from the press of Paris duly brought
Its freight of public news, the fever came,
A punctual visitant, to shake this man,
Disarmed his voice and fanned his yellow cheek
Into a thousand colours; while he read,
Or mused, his sword was haunted by his touch
Continually, like an uneasy place
In his own body. "Twas in truth an hour
Of universal ferment; mildest men
Were agitated; and commotions, strife
Of passion and opinion, filled the walls
Of peaceful houses with unquiet sounds.
The soil of common life was, at that time,
Too hot to tread upon.
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165
Meantime, day by day, the roads
Were crowded with the bravest youth of France,
And all the promptest of her spirits, linked
In gallant soldiership, and posting on
To meet the war upon her frontier bounds.
Yet at this very moment do tears start
Into mine eyes: I do not say I weep
270
I wept not then, but tears have dimmed my sight,
In memory of the farewells of that time,
Domestic severings, female fortitude
At dearest separation, patriot love
And self-devotion, and terrestrial hope,
Encouraged with a martyr's confidence;
Even files of strangers merely seen but once,
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150 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
And for a moment, men from far with sound
Of music, martial tunes, and banners spread,
Entering the city, here and there a face,
Or person, singled out among the rest,
Yet still a stranger and beloved as such;
Even by these passing spectacles my heart.
Was oftentimes uplifted, and they seemed.
Arguments sent from Heaven to prove the cause
Good, pure, which no one could stand up against,
Who was not lost, abandoned, selfish, proud,
Mean, miserable, wilfully depraved,
Hater perverse of equity and truth.
Among that band of Officers was one,
Already hinted at, of other mould —
A patriot, thence rejected by the rest,
And with an oriental loathing spurned,
As of a different caste. A meeker man
Than this lived never, nor a more benign,
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Meek though enthusiastic. Injuries
Made him more gracious, and his nature then 295
Did breathe its sweetness out most sensibly,
As aromatic flowers on Alpine turf,
When foot hath crushed them. He through the
events
Of that great change wandered in perfect faith,
As through a book, an old romance, or tale
Of Fairy, or some dream of actions wrought
Behind the summer clouds. By birth he ranked
With the most noble, but unto the poor
Among mankind he was in service bound,
As by some tie invisible, oaths professed
To a religious order. Man he loved
As man; and, to the mean and the obscure,
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151
And all the homely in their homely works,
Transferred a courtesy which had no air
Of condescension; but did rather seem
A passion and a gallantry, like that
Which he, a soldier, in his idler day
IIad paid to woman: somewhat vain he was,
Or seemed so, yet it was not vanity,
But fondness, and a kind of radiant joy
Diffused around him, while he was intent
On works of love or freedom, or revolved
Complacently the progress of a cause,
Whereof he was a part: yet this was meek
And placid, and took nothing from the man
That was delightful. Oft in solitude.
With him did I discourse about the end
Of civil government, and its wisest forms;
Of ancient loyalty, and chartered rights,
Custom and habit, novelty and change;
Of self-respect, and virtue in the few
For patrimonial honour set apart,
And ignorance in the labouring multitude.
For he, to all intolerance indisposed,
Balanced these contemplations in his mind;
And I, who at that time was scarcely dipped
Into the turmoil, bore a sounder judgment.
Than later days allowed; carried about me,
With less alloy to its integrity,
The experience of past ages, as, through help 335
Of books and common life, it makes sure way
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To youthful minds, by objects over near
Not pressed upon, nor dazzled or misled.
By struggling with the crowd for present ends.
But though not deaf, nor obstinate to find 340
152 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Error without excuse upon the side
Of them who strove against us, more delight
We took, and let this freely be confessed,
In painting to ourselves the miseries
Of royal courts, and that voluptuous life
Unfeeling, where the man who is of soul
The meanest thrives the most; where dignity,
True personal dignity, abideth not;
A light, a cruel, and vain world cut off
From the natural inlets of just sentiment,
From lowly sympathy and chastening truth:
Where good and evil interchange their names,
And thirst for bloody spoils abroad is paired
With vice at home. We added dearest themes -
Man and his noble nature, as it is
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350
The gift which God has placed within his power,
His blind desires and steady faculties.
Capable of clear truth, the one to break
Bondage, the other to build liberty
On firm foundations, making social life,
Through knowledge spreading and imperishable,
As just in regulation, and as pure
As individual in the wise and good.
And fan each other; thought of sects, how keen
They are to put the appropriate nature on,
Triumphant over every obstacle
Of custom, language, country, love, or hate,
360
We summoned up the honourable deeds
Of ancient Story, thought of each bright spot, 365
That would be found in all recorded time,
Of truth preserved and error passed away;
Of single spirits that catch the flame from Heaven,
And how the multitudes of men will feed
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153
And what they do and suffer for their creed;
How far they travel, and how long endure;
How quickly mighty Nations have been formed,
From least beginnings; how, together locked
By new opinions, scattered tribes have made
One body, spreading wide as clouds in heaven.
To aspirations then of our own minds
Did we appeal; and, finally, beheld
A living confirmation of the whole
Before us, in a people from the depth
Of shameful imbecility uprisen,
Fresh as the morning star. Elate we looked
Upon their virtues; saw, in rudest men,
Self-sacrifice the firmest; generous love,
And continence of mind, and sense of right,
Uppermost in the midst of fiercest strife.
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Along that very Loire, with festal mirth
Resounding at all hours, and innocent yet
Of civil slaughter, was our frequent walk;
Or in wide forests of continuous shade,
Lofty and over-arched, with open space
Beneath the trees, clear footing many a mile
A solemn region. Oft amid those haunts,
From earnest dialogues I slipped in thought,
And let remembrance steal to other times,
When, o'er those interwoven roots, moss-clad,
And smooth as marble or a waveless sea,
Some Hermit, from his cell forth-strayed, might pace
In sylvan meditation undisturbed;
As on the pavement of a Gothic church.
Walks a lone Monk, when service hath expired,
In peace and silence. But if e'er was heard,
Heard, though unseen,
a devious traveller,
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Retiring or approaching from afar
With speed and echoes loud of trampling hoofs
From the hard floor reverberated, then
It was Angelica thundering through the woods
Upon her palfrey, or that gentle maid
Erminia, fugitive as fair as she.
Sometimes methought I saw a pair of knights
Joust underneath the trees, that as in storm
Rocked high above their heads; anon, the din
Of boisterous merriment, and music's roar,
In sudden proclamation, burst from haunt
Of Satyrs in some viewless glade, with dance
Rejoicing o'er a female in the midst,
A mortal beauty, their unhappy thrall.
The width of those huge forests, unto me
A novel scene, did often in this way
Master my fancy while I wandered on
With that revered companion. And sometimes -
When to a convent in a meadow green,
By a brook-side, we came, a roofless pile,
And not by reverential touch of Time
Dismantled, but by violence abrupt -
In spite of those heart-bracing colloquies,
In spite of real fervour, and of that
Less genuine and wrought up within myself -
I could not but bewail a wrong so harsh,
466
And for the Matin-bell to sound no more
Grieved, and the twilight taper, and the cross 475
High on the topmost pinnacle, a sign
(How welcome to the weary traveller's eyes!)
Of hospitality and peaceful rest.
And when the partner of those varied walks
Pointed upon occasion to the site
Of Romorentin, home of ancient kings,
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To the imperial edifice of Blois,
Or to that rural castle, name now slipped
From my remembrance, where a lady lodged,
By the first Francis wooed, and bound to him 485
In chains of mutual passion, from the tower,
As a tradition of the country tells,
Practised to commune with her royal knight
By cressets and love-beacons, intercourse
"Twixt her high-seated residence and his
Far off at Chambord on the plain beneath;
Even here, though less than with the peaceful
house
Religious, 'mid those frequent monuments
Of Kings, their vices and their better deeds,
Imagination, potent to inflame
At times with virtuous wrath and noble scorn,
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Did also often mitigate the force
Of civic prejudice, the bigotry,
So call it, of a youthful patriot's mind;
And on these spots with many gleams I looked 500
Of chivalrous delight. Yet not the less,
Hatred of absolute rule, where will of one
Is law for all, and of that barren pride
In them who, by immunities unjust,
Between the sovereign and the people stand, 505
His helper and not theirs, laid stronger hold
Daily upon me, mixed with pity too
And love; for where hope is, there love will be
For the abject multitude. And when we chanced
One day to meet a hunger-bitten girl,
Who crept along fitting her languid gait
Unto a heifer's motion, by a cord
510
Tied to her arm, and picking thus from the lane
Its sustenance, while the girl with pallid hands
156 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Was busy knitting in a heartless mood.
Of solitude, and at the sight my friend.
In agitation said, ""Tis against that
That we are fighting," I with him believed.
That a benignant spirit was abroad
Which might not be withstood, that poverty 520
Abject as this would in a little time
Be found no more, that we should see the earth
Unthwarted in her wish to recompense
The meek, the lowly, patient child of toil,
All institutes for ever blotted out
That legalised exclusion, empty pomp
Abolished, sensual state and cruel power
Whether by edict of the one or few;
And finally, as sum and crown of all,
Should see the people having a strong hand
In framing their own laws; whence better days
To all mankind. But, these things set apart,
Was not this single confidence enough
To animate the mind that ever turned
Should cease; and open accusation lead
To sentence in the hearing of the world,
And open punishment, at the air
Be free to breathe in, and the heart of man
Dread nothing.
BOOK TENTH
RESIDENCE IN FRANCE (continued)
515
A thought to human welfare? That henceforth 535
Captivity by mandate without law
-To Paris I returned,
And ranged, with ardour heretofore unfelt,
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The spacious city, and in progress passed
The prison where the unhappy Monarch lay,
Associate with his children and his wife
In bondage; and the palace, lately stormed
With roar of cannon by a furious host.
I crossed the square (an empty area then!)
Of the Carrousel, where so late had lain
The dead, upon the dying heaped, and gazed
On this and other spots, as doth a man
Upon a volume whose contents he knows
Are memorable, but from him locked up,
Being written in a tongue he cannot read,
So that he questions the mute leaves with pain,
And half upbraids their silence. But that night
I felt most deeply in what world I was,
What ground I trod on, and what air I breathed. 65
High was my room and lonely, near the roof
Of a large mansion or hotel, a lodge
That would have pleased me in more quiet times;
Nor was it wholly without pleasure then.
With unextinguished taper I kept watch,
Reading at intervals; the fear gone by
Pressed on me almost like a fear to come.
I thought of those September massacres,
Divided from me by one little month,
Saw them and touched: the rest was conjured up 75
From tragic fictions or true history,
Remembrances and dim admonishments.
The horse is taught his manage, and no star
Of wildest course but treads back his own steps;
For the spent hurricane the air provides
As fierce a successor; the tide retreats
But to return out of its hiding-place
In the great deep; all things have second birth;
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The earthquake is not satisfied at once;
And in this way I wrought upon myself,
Until I seemed to hear a voice that cried,
To the whole city, "Sleep no more." The trance
Fled with the voice to which it had given birth;
But vainly comments of a calmer mind
Promised soft peace and sweet forgetfulness.
The place, all hushed and silent as it was,
Appeared unfit for the repose of night,
Defenceless as a wood where tigers roam.
With zeal expanding in Truth's holy light,
The gift of tongues might fall, and power arrive
From the four quarters of the winds to do
For France, what without help she could not do,
A work of honour; think not that to this
My inmost soul
Was agitated; yea, I could almost
Have prayed that throughout earth upon all men, 135
By patient exercise of reason made
Worthy of liberty, all spirits filled
I added, work of safety: from all doubt
Or trepidation for the end of things
Far was I, far as angels are from guilt.
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Well might my wishes be intense, my thoughts
Strong and perturbed, not doubting at that time 210
But that the virtue of one paramount mind
Would have abashed those impious crests have
quelled
Outrage and bloody power, and in despite
Of what the People long had been and were
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
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Through ignorance and false teaching, sadder proof
Of immaturity, and in the teeth
216
Of desperate opposition from without -
Have cleared a passage for just government,
And left a solid birthright to the State,
Redeemed, according to example given
By ancient lawgivers.
Twice had the trees let fall
Their leaves, as often Winter had put on
His hoary crown, since I had seen the surge
Beat against Albion's shore, since ear of mine
Had caught the accents of my native speech
Upon our native country's sacred ground.
A patriot of the world, how could I glide
Into communion with her sylvan shades,
Erewhile my tuneful haunt? It pleased me more
To abide in the great City, where I found
The general air still busy with the stir
220
In this frame of mind,
Dragged by a chain of harsh necessity,
So seemed it, now I thankfully acknowledge,
Forced by the gracious providence of Heaver
To England I returned, else (though assured
That I both was and must be of small weight,
No better than a landsman on the deck
Of a ship struggling with a hideous storm)
Doubtless, I should have then made common cause
With some who perished; haply perished too,
A poor mistaken and bewildered offering, -
Should to the breast of Nature have gone back,
With all my resolutions, all my hopes,
A Poet only to myself, to men
230
Useless, and even, beloved Friend! a soul
To thee unknown!
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160 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Of that first memorable onset made
By a strong levy of humanity
Upon the traffickers in Negro blood;
Effort which, though defeated, had recalled
To notice old forgotten principles,
And through the nation spread a novel heat
Of virtuous feeling. For myself, I own
That this particular strife had wanted power
To rivet my affections; nor did now
Its unsuccessful issue much excite
250
My sorrow; for I brought with me the faith
That, if France prospered, good men would not long
Pay fruitless worship to humanity,
All else was progress on the self-same path
On which, with a diversity of pace,
I had been travelling: this a stride at once
Into another region. As a light
And pliant harebell, swinging in the breeze
On some grey rock its birthplace
so had I
Wantoned, fast rooted on the ancient tower
Of my beloved country, wishing not
255
And this most rotten branch of human shame,
Object, so seemed it, of superfluous pains,
Would fall together with its parent tree.
What, then, were my emotions, when in arms
Britain put forth her free-born strength in league,
Oh, pity and shame! with those confederate Powers!
Not in my single self alone I found,
But in the minds of all ingenuous youth,
Change and subversion from that hour. No shock
Given to my moral nature had I known
Down to that very moment; neither lapse
Nor turn of sentiment that might be named
A revolution, save at this one time;
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 161
A happier fortune than to wither there:
Now was I from that pleasant station torn
And tossed about in whirlwind. I rejoiced,
Yea, afterwards - truth most painful to record!-
Exulted, in the triumph of my soul,
When Englishmen by thousands were o'erthrown,
Left without glory on the field, or driven,
Brave hearts! to shameful flight. It was a grief, —
Grief call it not, 'twas anything but that,
A conflict of sensations without name,
Of which he only, who may love the sight
Of a village steeple, as I do, can judge,
When, in the congregation bending all
To their great Father, prayers were offered up,
Or praises for our country's victories;
And, 'mid the simple worshippers, perchance
I only, like an uninvited guest
Whom no one owned, sate silent, shall I add,
Fed on the day of vengeance yet to come.
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Oh! much have they to account for, who could
tear,
By violence, at one decisive rent,
From the best youth in England their dear pride,
Their joy, in England; this, too, at a time
In which worst losses easily might wean
The best of names, when patriotic love
Did of itself in modesty give way,
Like the Precursor when the Deity
Is come Whose harbinger he was; a time
In which apostasy from ancient faith
Seemed but conversion to a higher creed;
Withal a season dangerous and wild,
A time when sage Experience would have snatched
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162 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Flowers out of any hedge-row to compose
A chaplet in contempt of his grey locks.
When the proud fleet that bears the red-cross
flag
In that unworthy service was prepared
To mingle, I beheld the vessels lie,
A brood of gallant creatures, on the deep;
I saw them in their rest, a sojourner
Through a whole month of calm and glassy days 320
In that delightful island which protects
Their place of convocation - there I heard,
Each evening, pacing by the still sea-shore,
A monitory sound that never failed, —
The sunset cannon. While the orb went down
In the tranquillity of nature, came
That voice, ill requiem! seldom heard by me
Without a spirit overcast by dark
Imaginations, sense of woes to come,
Sorrow for human kind, and pain of heart.
Domestic carnage now filled the whole year
With feast-days; old men from the chimney-nook,
The maiden from the bosom of her love,
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The mother from the cradle of her babe,
The warrior from the field - all perished, all- 360
Friends, enemies, of all parties, ages, ranks,
Head after head, and never heads enough
For those that bade them fall. They found their joy,
They made it proudly, eager as a child,
(If like desires of innocent little ones
May with such heinous appetites be compared),
Pleased in some open field to exercise
A toy that mimics with revolving wings
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 163
The motion of a wind-mill; though the air
Do of itself blow fresh, and make the vanes
Spin in his eyesight, that contents him not,
But with the plaything at arm's length, he sets
His front against the blast, and runs amain,
That it may whirl the faster.
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Amid the depth
Of those enormities, even thinking minds
Forgot, at seasons, whence they had their being,
Forgot that such a sound was ever heard
As Liberty upon earth: yet all beneath
Her innocent authority was wrought,
Nor could have been, without her blessed name. 389
ka
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Most melancholy at that time, O Friend!
Were my day-thoughts, my nights were misera-
ble;
Through months, through years, long after the last
beat
Of those atrocities, the hour of sleep
To me came rarely charged with natural gifts,
Such ghastly visions had I of despair
And tyranny, and implements of death;
And innocent victims sinking under fear,
And momentary hope, and worn-out prayer,
Each in his separate cell, or penned in crowds
For sacrifice, and struggling with fond mirth
And levity in dungeons, where the dust
Was laid with tears. Then suddenly the scene
Changed, and the unbroken dream entangled me
In long orations, which I strove to plead
Before unjust tribunals, with a voice
Labouring, a brain confounded, and a sense,
Death-like, of treacherous desertion, felt
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In the last place of refuge - my own soul.
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But as the ancient Prophets, borne aloft
In vision, yet constrained by natural laws
With them to take a troubled human heart,
Wanted not consolations, nor a creed
Of reconcilement, then when they denounced,
On towns and cities, wallowing in the abyss
Of their offences, punishment to come;
Or saw, like other men, with bodily eyes,
Before them, in some desolated place,
The wrath consummate and the threat fulfilled;
So, with devout humility be it said,
So, did a portion of that spirit fall
On me uplifted from the vantage-ground
Of pity and sorrow to a state of being
450
That through the time's exceeding fierceness saw
Glimpses of retribution, terrible,
And in the order of sublime behests:
But, even if that were not, amid the awe
Of unintelligible chastisement,
Not only acquiescences of faith
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Survived, but daring sympathies with power,
Motions not treacherous or profane, else why
Within the folds of no ungentle breast
Their dread vibration to this hour prolonged? 460
Wild blasts of music thus could find their way
Into the midst of turbulent events;
So that worst tempests might be listened to.
Then was the truth received into my heart,
That, under heaviest sorrow earth can bring, 465
If from the affliction somewhere do not grow
Honour which could not else have been, a faith,
An elevation, and a sanctity,
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
165
If new strength be not given nor old restored,
The blame is ours, not Nature's. When a taunt 470
Was taken up by scoffers in their pride,
Saying, "Behold the harvest that we reap
From popular government and equality,"
I clearly saw that neither these nor aught
Of wild belief engrafted on their names
By false philosophy had caused the woe,
But a terrific reservoir of guilt
And ignorance filled up from age to age,
That could no longer hold its loathsome charge,
But burst and spread in deluge through the land. 480
BOOK ELEVENTH
FRANCE (concluded)
The quality of the metal which I saw.
What there is best in individual man,
Of wise in passion, and sublime in power,
Benevolent in small societies,
It hath been told
That I was led to take an eager part
In arguments of civil polity,
Abruptly, and indeed before my time:
I had approached, like other youths, the shield
Of human nature from the golden side,
80
And would have fought, even to the death, to attest
And great in large ones, I had oft revolved,
Felt deeply, but not thoroughly understood
By reason: nay, far from it; they were yet,
As cause was given me afterwards to learn,
Not proof against the injuries of the day;
Lodged only at the sanctuary's door,
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Not safe within its bosom. Thus prepared,
And with such general insight into evil,
And of the bounds which sever it from good,
As books and common intercourse with life
Must needs have given to the inexperienced mind,
When the world travels in a beaten road,
Guide faithful as is needed - I began
To meditate with ardour on the rule
And management of nations; what it is
And ought to be; and strove to learn how far
Their power or weakness, wealth or poverty,
Their happiness or misery, depends
Upon their laws, and fashion of the State.
Med p
O pleasant exercise of hope and joy!
For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood
Upon our side, us who were strong in love!
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be young was very Heaven! O times,
In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways
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 favoured spots alone, but the whole Earth,
The beauty wore of promise that which sets.
(As at some moments 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!
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They who had fed their childhood upon dreams, 125
The play-fellows 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 hearts' 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 find our happiness, or not at all!
135
In the main outline, such it might be said
Was my condition, till with open war
Britain opposed the liberties of France.
This threw me first out of the pale of love;
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Why should I not confess that Earth was then 145
To me, what an inheritance, new-fallen,
Seems, when the first time visited, to one
Who thither comes to find in it his home?
He walks about and looks upon the spot
With cordial transport, moulds it and remoulds, 150
And is half-pleased with things that are amiss,
"Twill be such joy to see them disappear.
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Soured and corrupted, upwards to the source,
My sentiments; was not, as hitherto,
A swallowing up of lesser things in great,
But change of them into their contraries;
And thus a way was opened for mistakes
And false conclusions, in degree as gross,
In kind more dangerous. What had been a pride,
Was now a shame; my likings and my loves.
Ran in new channels, leaving old ones dry;
And hence a blow that, in maturer age,
Would but have touched the judgment, struck more
deep
Into sensations near the heart: meantime,
As from the first, wild theories were afloat,
To whose pretensions, sedulously urged,
I had but lent a careless ear, assured
That time was ready to set all things right,
And that the multitude, so long oppressed,
Would be oppressed no more.
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But now, become oppressors in their turn,
Frenchmen had changed a war of self-defence
For one of conquest, losing sight of all
Which they had struggled for: up mounted now,
Openly in the eye of earth and heaven,
The scale of liberty. I read her doom,
With anger vexed, with disappointment sore,
But not dismayed, nor taking to the shame
Of a false prophet. While resentment rose
Striving to hide, what nought could heal, the wounds.
Of mortified presumption, I adhered
216
More firmly to old tenets, and, to prove
Their temper, strained them more; and thus, in heat
Of contest, did opinions every day
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 169
Grow into consequence, till round my mind
They clung, as if they were its life, nay more,
The very being of the immortal soul.
A strong shock
Was given to old opinions; all men's minds
Had felt its power, and mine was both let loose,
Let loose and goaded. After what hath been
Already said of patriotic love,
Suffice it here to add, that, somewhat stern
In temperament, withal a happy man,
And therefore bold to look on painful things,
Free likewise of the world, and thence more bold,
I summoned ny best skill, and toiled, intent
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To anatomise the frame of social life;
Yea, the whole body of society
Searched to its heart. Share with me, Friend! the
280
wish
That some dramatic tale, endued with shapes
Livelier, and flinging out less guarded words
Than suit the work we fashion, might set forth 285
What then I learned, or think I learned, of truth,
And the errors into which I fell, betrayed
By present objects, and by reasonings false
From their beginnings, inasmuch as drawn
Out of a heart that had been turned aside
From Nature's way by outward accidents,
And which was thus confounded, more and more
Misguided, and misguiding. So I fared,
Dragging all precepts, judgments, maxims, creeds,
Like culprits to the bar; calling the mind,
Suspiciously, to establish in plain day
Her titles and her honours; now believing,
Now disbelieving; endlessly perplexed
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With impulse, motive, right and wrong, the ground
Of obligation, what the rule and whence
The sanction; till, demanding formal proof,
And seeking it in every thing, I lost
All feeling of conviction, and, in fine,
Sick, wearied out with contrarieties,
Yielded up moral questions in despair.
This was the crisis of that strong disease,
This the soul's last and lowest ebb; I drooped,
Deeming our blessèd reason of least use
Where wanted most: "The lordly attributes
Of will and choice," I bitterly exclaimed,
"What are they but a mockery of a Being
Who hath in no concerns of his a test
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Of good and evil; knows not what to fear
Or hope for, what to covet or to shun;
And who, if those could be discerned, would yet 315
Be little profited, would see, and ask
Where is the obligation to enforce?
And, to acknowledged law rebellious, still,
As selfish passion urged, would act amiss;
The dupe of folly, or the slave of crime.”
320
Depressed, bewildered thus, I did not walk
With scoffers, seeking light and gay revenge
From indiscriminate laughter, nor sate down
In reconcilement with an utter waste
Of intellect; such sloth I could not brook
(Too well I loved, in that my spring of life,
Painstaking thoughts, and truth, their dear reward),
But turned to abstract science, and there sought
Work for the reasoning faculty enthroned
Where the disturbances of space and time
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Whether in matters various, properties
Inherent, or from human will and power
Derived find no admission. Then it was
Thanks to the bounteous Giver of all good!
That the beloved Sister in whose sight
Those days were passed, now speaking in a voice
Of sudden admonition - like a brook
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335
That did but cross a lonely road, and now
Is seen, heard, felt, and caught at every turn,
Companion never lost through many a league - 340
Maintained for me a saving intercourse
.
With my true self; for, though bedimmed and changed
Much, as it seemed, I was no further changed
Than as a clouded and a waning moon:
She whispered still that brightness would return; 345
She, in the midst of all, preserved me still
A Poet, made me seek beneath that name,
And that alone, my office upon earth;
And, lastly, as hereafter will be shown,
If willing audience fail not, Nature's self,
By all varieties of human love
Assisted, led me back through opening day
To those sweet counsels between head and heart
Whence grew that genuine knowledge, fraught with
peace,
350
Which, through the later sinkings of this cause, 355
Hath still upheld me, and upholds me now
In the catastrophe (for so they dream,
And nothing less), when, finally to close
And seal up all the gains of France, a Pope
Is summoned in, to crown an Emperor
This last opprobrium, when we see a people,
That once looked up in faith, as if to Heaven
For manna, to take a lesson from the dog
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Returning to his vomit; when the sun
That rose in splendour, was alive, and moved
In exultation with a living pomp
Of clouds his glory's natural retinue —
Hath dropped all functions by the gods bestowed,
And, turned into a gewgaw, a machine,
Sets like an Opera phantom.
Thus, O Friend!
370
Through times of honour and through times of shame
Descending, have I faithfully retraced
The perturbations of a youthful mind
Under a long-lived storm of great events -
A story destined for thy ear, who now,
Among the fallen of nations, dost abide
Where Etna, over hill and valley, casts
His shadow stretching towards Syracuse,
The city of Timoleon! Righteous Heaven!
How are the mighty prostrated! They first,
They first of all that breathe should have awaked
When the great voice was heard from out the tombs
Of ancient heroes. If I suffered grief
For ill-requited France, by many deemed
A trifler only in her proudest day;
Have been distressed to think of what she once
Promised, now is; a far more sober cause
Thine eyes must see of sorrow in a land,
To the reanimating influence lost
Of memory, to virtue lost and hope,
Though with the wreck of loftier years bestrewn.
But indignation works where hope is not,
And thou, O Friend! wilt be refreshed. There is
365
One great society alone on earth:
The noble Living and the noble Dead.
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173
BOOK TWELFTH
IMAGINATION AND TASTE, HOW IMPAIRED AND
RESTORED
LONG time have human ignorance and guilt
Detained us, on what spectacles of woe
Compelled to look, and inwardly oppressed
With sorrow, disappointment, vexing thoughts,
Confusion of the judgment, zeal decayed,
And, lastly, utter loss of hope itself
And things to hope for! Not with these began
Our song, and not with these our song must end.
Ye motions of delight, that haunt the sides
Of the green hills; ye breezes and soft airs,
Whose subtle intercourse with breathing flowers,
LO
Feelingly watched, might teach Man's haughty race
How without injury to take, to give
Without offence; ye who, as if to show
The wondrous influence of power gently used,
Bend the complying heads of lordly pines,
And, with a touch, shift the stupendous clouds
Through the whole compass of the sky; ye brooks,
Muttering along the stones, a busy noise
By day, a quiet sound in silent night;
Ye waves, that out of the great deep steal forth
In a calm hour to kiss the pebbly shore,
Not mute, and then retire, fearing no storm;
And you, ye groves, whose ministry it is
To interpose the covert of your shades,
Even as a sleep, between the heart of man
And outward troubles, between man himself,
Not seldom, and his own uneasy heart:
Oh! that I had a music and a voice
Harmonious as your own, that I might tell
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What ye have done for me.
There are in our existence spots of time,
That with distinct pre-eminence retain
A renovating virtue, whence - depressed
By false opinion and contentious thought,
Or aught of heavier or more deadly weight,
In trivial occupations, and the round
Of ordinary intercourse — our minds
Are nourished and invisibly repaired;
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A virtue, by which pleasure is enhanced,
That penetrates, enables us to mount,
When high, more high, and lifts us up when fallen.
This efficacious spirit chiefly lurks
Among those passages of life that give
Profoundest knowledge to what point, and how,
The mind is lord and master outward sense
The obedient servant of her will. Such moments
Are scattered everywhere, taking their date
From our first childhood. I remember well,
That once, while yet my inexperienced hand
Could scarcely hold a bridle, with proud hopes
I mounted, and we journeyed towards the hills:
An ancient servant of my father's house
Was with me, my encourager and guide:
We had not travelled long, ere some mischance
Disjoined me from my comrade; and, through fear
Dismounting, down the rough and stony moor
I led my horse, and, stumbling on, at length
Came to a bottom, where in former times
A murderer had been hung in iron chains.
The gibbet-mast had mouldered down, the bones
And iron case were gone; but on the turf,
Hard by, soon after that fell deed was wrought,
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 175
Some unknown hand had carved the murderer's
name.
The monumental letters were inscribed
In times long past; but still, from year to year
By superstition of the neighbourhood,
The grass is cleared away, and to this hour
The characters are fresh and visible:
A casual glance had shown them, and I fled,
Faltering and faint, and ignorant of the road:
Then, reascending the bare common, saw
A naked pool that lay beneath the hills,
The beacon on the summit, and, more near,
A girl, who bore a pitcher on her head,
And seemed with difficult steps to force her way
Against the blowing wind. It was, in truth,
An ordinary sight; but I should need
Colours and words that are unknown to man,
To paint the visionary dreariness
Which, while I looked all round for my lost guide,
Invested moorland waste and naked pool,
The beacon crowning the lone eminence,
The female and her garments vexed and tossed 260
By the strong wind. When, in the blessèd hours
Of early love, the loved one at my side,
I roamed, in daily presence of this scene,
Upon the naked pool and dreary crags,
And on the melancholy beacon, fell
A spirit of pleasure and youth's golden gleam;
And think ye not with radiance more sublime
For these remembrances, and for the power
They had left behind? So feeling comes in aid
Of feeling, and diversity of strength
Attends us, if but once we have been strong.
Oh! mystery of man, from what a depth
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Proceed thy honours. I am lost, but see
In simple childhood something of the base
On which thy greatness stands; but this I feel, 275
That from thyself it comes, that thou must give,
Else never canst receive. The days gone by
Return upon me almost from the dawn
Of life: the hiding-places of man's power
Open; I would approach them, but they close.
I see by glimpses now; when age comes on,
May scarcely see at all; and I would give,
While yet we may, as far as words can give,
Substance and life to what I feel, enshrining,
Such is my hope, the spirit of the Past
For future restoration. Yet another
Of these memorials:-
One Christmas-time,
On the glad eve of its dear holidays,
Feverish, and tired, and restless, I went forth
Into the fields, impatient for the sight
Of those led palfreys that should bear us home;
My brothers and myself. There rose a crag,
That, from the meeting-point of two highways
Ascending, overlooked them both, far stretched;
Thither, uncertain on which road to fix
My expectation, thither I repaired,
Scout-like, and gained the summit; 'twas a day
Tempestuous, dark, and wild, and on the grass
I sate half-sheltered by a naked wall;
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Upon my right hand couched a single sheep,
Upon my left a blasted hawthorn stood;
With those companions at my side, I watched,
Straining my eyes intensely, as the mist
Gave intermitting prospect of the copse
And plain beneath. Ere we to school returned, —
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 177
That dreary time, ere we had been ten days
Sojourners in my father's house, he died;
And I and my three brothers, orphans then,
Followed his body to the grave. The event,
With all the sorrow that it brought, appeared
A chastisement; and when I called to mind
That day so lately past, when from the crag
I looked in such anxiety of hope;
With trite reflections of morality,
Yet in the deepest passion, I bowed low
To God, Who thus corrected my desires;
And, afterwards, the wind and sleety rain,
And all the business of the elements,
The single sheep, and the one blasted tree,
And the bleak music from that old stone wall,
The noise of wood and water, and the mist
That on the line of each of those two roads
Advanced in such indisputable shapes;
All these were kindred spectacles and sounds
To which I oft repaired, and thence would drink, 325
As at a fountain; and on winter nights,
M
Down to this very time, when storm and rain
Beat on my roof, or, haply, at noon-day,
While in a grove I walk, whose lofty trees,
Laden with summer's thickest foliage, rock
In a strong wind, some working of the spirit,
Some inward agitations thence are brought,
Whate'er their office, whether to beguile
Thoughts over-busy in the course they took,
Or animate an hour of vacant ease.
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320
330
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178 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
BOOK THIRTEENTH
IMAGINATION AND TASTE, HOW IMPAIRED AND
RESTORED (concluded)
Long time in search of knowledge did I range
The field of human life, in heart and mind
Benighted; but, the dawn beginning now
To reappear, 'twas proved that not in vain
I had been taught to reverence a Power
That is the visible quality and shape
And image of right reason; that matures
Her processes by steadfast laws; gives birth
To no impatient or fallacious hopes,
No heat of passion or excessive zeal,
No vain conceits; provokes to no quick turns
Of self-applauding intellect; but trains
To meekness, and exalts by humble faith;
Holds up before the mind intoxicate
With present objects, and the busy dance
Of things that pass away, a temperate show
Of objects that endure; and by this course
Disposes her, when over-fondly set
On throwing off incumbrances, to seek
In man, and in the frame of social life,
Whate'er there is desirable and good
Of kindred permanence, unchanged in form
And function, or, through strict vicissitude
Of life and death, revolving. Above all
Were re-established now those watchful thoughts 40
Which, seeing little worthy or sublime
In what the Historian's pen so much delights
power and energy detached
To blazon
From moral purpose
early tutored me
(pat
Map
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 179
To look with feelings of fraternal love
Upon the unassuming things that hold
A silent station in this beauteous world.
Thus moderated, thus composed, I found
Once more in Man an object of delight,
Of pure imagination, and of love;
And, as the horizon of my mind enlarged,
Again I took the intellectual eye
For my instructor, studious more to see
Great truths, than touch and handle little ones.
Knowledge was given accordingly; my trust
Became more firm in feelings that had stood
The test of such a trial: clearer far
My sense of excellence
of right and wrong:
The promise of the present time retired
Into its true proportion; sanguine schemes,
Ambitious projects, pleased me less; I sought
For present good in life's familiar face,
And built thereon my hopes of good to come.
p
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60
When I began to enquire,
To watch and question those I met, and speak
Without reserve to them, the lonely roads
Were open schools in which I daily read
With most delight the passions of mankind,
Whether by words, looks, sighs, or tears, revealed; 165
There saw into the depth of human souls,
Souls that appear to have no depth at all
To careless eyes. And now convinced at heart
How little those formalities, to which
With overweening trust alone we give
The name of Education, have to do
With real feeling and just sense; how vain
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180 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
A correspondence with the talking world
Proves to the most; and called to make good search
If man's estate, by doom of Nature yoked
With toil, be therefore yoked with ignorance;
If virtue be indeed so hard to rear,
And intellectual strength so rare a boon
I prized such walks still more, for there I found
Hope to my hope, and to my pleasure peace
And steadiness, and healing and repose
To every angry passion. There I heard,
From mouths of men obscure and lowly, truths
Replete with honour; sounds in unison
With loftiest promises of good and fair.
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Mag
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185
Here, calling up to mind what then I saw,
A youthful traveller, and see daily now
In the familiar circuit of my home,
Here might I pause, and bend in reverence
To Nature, and the power of human minds,
To men as they are men within themselves.
How oft high service is performed within,
When all the external man is rude in show,
Not like a temple rich with pomp and gold,
But a mere mountain chapel, that protects
Its simple worshippers from sun and shower.
Of these, said I, shall be my song; of these,
If future years mature me for the task,
Will I record the praises, making verse
Deal boldly with substantial things; in truth
And sanctity of passion, speak of these,
That justice may be done, obeisance paid
Where it is due: thus haply shall I teach,
Inspire; through unadulterated ears
Pour rapture, tenderness, and hope, my theme 240
225
230.
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTHI 181
No other than the very heart of man,
As found among the best of those who live
Not unexalted by religious faith,
245
Nor uninformed by books, good books, though few —
In Nature's presence: thence may I select
Sorrow, that is not sorrow, but delight;
And miserable love, that is not pain.
To hear of, for the glory that redounds.
Therefrom to human kind, and what we are.
Be mine to follow with no timid step
Where knowledge leads me: it shall be my pride
That I have dared to tread this holy ground,
Speaking no dream, but things oracular;
Matter not lightly to be heard by those
Who to the letter of the outward promise
Do read the invisible soul; by men adroit
In speech, and for communion with the world.
Accomplished; minds whose faculties are then
Most active when they are most eloquent,
And elevated most when most admired.
Men may be found of other mould than these,
Who are their own upholders, to themselves
Encouragement, and energy, and will,
Expressing liveliest thoughts in lively words
As native passion dictates. Others, too,
There are among the walks of homely life
Still higher, men for contemplation framed,
Shy, and unpractised in the strife of phrase;
Meek men, whose very souls perhaps would sink
Beneath them, summoned to such intercourse:
Theirs is the language of the heavens, the power,
The thought, the image, and the silent joy:
Words are but under-agents in their souls;
When they are grasping with their greatest strength,
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270
182 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
They do not breathe among them: this I speak 275
In gratitude to God, Who feeds our hearts
For His own service; knoweth, loveth us,
When we are unregarded by the world.
BOOK FOURTEENTH
CONCLUSION
IN one of those excursions (may they ne'er
Fade from remembrance!) through the Northern
tracts
Of Cambria ranging with a youthful friend,
I left Bethgelert's huts at couching-time,
And westward took my way, to see the sun
Rise, from the top of Snowdon. To the door
Of a rude cottage at the mountain's base
We came, and roused the shepherd who attends
The adventurous stranger's steps, a trusty guide;
Then, cheered by short refreshment, sallied forth. 10
LO
5
It was a close, warm, breezeless summer night,
Wan, dull, and glaring, with a dripping fog
Low-hung and thick that covered all the sky;
But, undiscouraged, we began to climb
The mountain-side. The mist soon girt us round, 15
And, after ordinary travellers' talk
With our conductor, pensively we sank
Each into commerce with his private thoughts:
Thus did we breast the ascent, and by myself
Was nothing either seen or heard that checked
Those musings or diverted, save that once
The shepherd's lurcher, who, among the crags,
Had to his joy unearthed a hedgehog, teased
His coiled-up prey with barkings turbulent.
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 183
This small adventure, for even such it seemed
In that wild place and at the dead of night,
Being over and forgotten, on we wound
In silence as before. With forehead bent
Earthward, as if in opposition set
Against an enemy, I panted up
With eager pace, and no less eager thoughts.
Thus might we wear a midnight hour away,
Ascending at loose distance each from each,
And I, as chanced, the foremost of the band;
When at my feet the ground appeared to brighten, 35
And with a step or two seemed brighter still;
Nor was time given to ask or learn the cause,
For instantly a light upon the turf
Fell like a flash, and lo! as I looked up,
The Moon hung naked in a firmament
Of azure without cloud, and at my feet
Rested a silent sea of hoary mist.
A hundred hills their dusky backs upheaved
All over this still ocean; and beyond,
Far, far beyond, the solid vapours stretched,
In headlands, tongues, and promontory shapes,
Into the main Atlantic, that appeared
To dwindle, and give up his majesty,
Usurped upon far as the sight could reach.
Not so the ethereal vault; encroachment none
Was there, nor loss; only the inferior stars
Had disappeared, or shed a fainter light
In the clear presence of the full-orbed Moon,
Who, from her sovereign elevation, gazed
Upon the billowy ocean, as it lay
All meek and silent, save that through a rift
Not distant from the shore whereon we stood,
A fixed, abysmal, gloomy, breathing-place-
All
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Mounted the roar of waters, torrents, streams
Innumerable, roaring with one voice!
Heard over earth and sea, and, in that hour,
For so it seemed, felt by the starry heavens.
60
When into air had partially dissolved
That vision, given to spirits of the night
And three chance human wanderers, in calm thought
Reflected, it appeared to me the type
Of a majestic intellect, its acts
66
And its possessions, what it has and craves,
What in itself it is, and would become.
There I beheld the emblem of a mind
That feeds upon infinity, that broods
Over the dark abyss, intent to hear
Its voices issuing forth to silent light
In one continuous stream; a mind sustained
By recognitions of transcendent power,
In sense conducting to ideal form,
In soul of more than mortal privilege.
One function, above all, of such a mind
Had Nature shadowed there, by putting forth,
'Mid circumstances awful and sublime,
That mutual domination which she loves
To exert upon the face of outward things,
So moulded, joined, abstracted, so endowed
With interchangeable supremacy,
85
That men, least sensitive, see, hear, perceive,
And cannot choose but feel. The power, which all
Acknowledge when thus moved, which Nature thus
To bodily sense exhibits, is the express
Resemblance of that glorious faculty
That higher minds bear with them as their own. 90
This is the very spirit in which they deal
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 185
With the whole compass of the universe:
They from their native selves can send abroad
Kindred mutations; for themselves create
A like existence; and, whene'er it dawns
Created for them, catch it, or are caught
By its inevitable mastery,
Like angels stopped upon the wing by sound
Of harmony from Heaven's remotest spheres.
Them the enduring and the transient both
Serve to exalt; they build up greatest things
From least suggestions; ever on the watch,
Willing to work and to be wrought upon,
They need not extraordinary calls
To rouse them; in a world of life they live,
By sensible impressions not enthralled,
But by their quickening impulse made more prompt
To hold fit converse with the spiritual world,
And with the generations of mankind
Spread over time, past, present, and to come,
Age after age, till Time shall be no more.
Such minds are truly from the Deity,
For they are Powers; and hence the highest bliss
That flesh can know is theirs the consciousness
Of Whom they are, habitually infused
Through every image and through every thought,
And all affections by communion raised
From earth to heaven, from human to divine;
Hence endless occupation for the Soul,
Whether discursive or intuitive;
Hence cheerfulness for acts of daily life,
Emotions which best foresight need not fear,
Most worthy then of trust when most intense.
Hence, amid ills that vex and wrongs that crush
Our hearts if here the words of Holy Writ
J
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115
120
125
186 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
that peace
May with fit reverence be applied
Which passeth understanding, that repose
In moral judgments which from this pure source
Must come, or will by man be sought in vain.
Imagination having been our theme,
So also hath that intellectual Love,
For they are each in each, and cannot stand
Dividually. Here must thou be, O Man!
Power to thyself; no Helper hast thou here;
Here keepest thou in singleness thy state:
No other can divide with thee this work:
No secondary hand can intervene
To fashion this ability; 'tis thine,
The prime and vital principle is thine
In the recesses of thy nature, far
From any reach of outward fellowship,
Else is not thine at all. But joy to him,
Oh, joy to him who here hath sown, hath laid
Here, the foundation of his future years!
For all that friendship, all that love can do,
All that a darling countenance can look
Or dear voice utter, to complete the man,
Perfect him, made imperfect in himself,
All shall be his: and he whose soul hath risen
Up to the height of feeling intellect
Shall want no humbler tenderness; his heart
Be tender as a nursing mother's heart;
Of female softness shall his life be full,
Of humble cares and delicate desires,
Mild interests and gentlest sympathies.
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Child of my parents! Sister of my soul!
Thanks in sincerest verse have been elsewhere
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 187
Poured out for all the early tenderness
Which I from thee imbibed: and 'tis most true
That later seasons owed to thee no less:
For, spite of thy sweet influence and the touch
Of kindred hands that opened out the springs
Of genial thought in childhood, and in spite
Of all that unassisted I had marked
In life or nature of those charms minute
That win their way into the heart by stealth
(Still to the very going-out of youth)
I too exclusively esteemed that love,
And sought that beauty, which, as Milton sings,
Hath terror in it. Thou didst soften down
This over-sternness; but for thee, dear Friend!
My soul, too reckless of mild grace, had stood
In her original self too confident,
Retained too long a countenance severe;
A rock with torrents roaring, with the clouds
Familiar, and a favourite of the stars:
But thou didst plant its crevices with flowers,
Hang it with shrubs that twinkle in the breeze,
And teach the little birds to build their nests
And warble in its chambers. At a time
When Nature, destined to remain so long
Foremost in my affections, had fallen back
Into a second place, pleased to become.
A handmaid to a nobler than herself,
When every day brought with it some new sense
Of exquisite regard for common things,
And all the earth was budding with these gifts
Of more refined humanity, thy breath,
Dear Sister! was a kind of gentler spring
That went before my steps. Thereafter came
One whom with thee friendship had early paired;
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188 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
She came, no more a phantom to adorn
A moment, but an inmate of the heart,
And yet a spirit, there for me enshrined
To penetrate the lofty and the low;
Even as one essence of pervading light
Shines, in the brightest of ten thousand stars
And the meek worm that feeds her lonely lamp
Couched in the dewy grass.
270
With such a theme, 275
Coleridge! with this my argument, of thee
Shall I be silent? O capacious Soul!
Placed on this earth to love and understand,
And from thy presence shed the light of love,
Shall I be mute, ere thou be spoken of?
Thy kindred influence to my heart of hearts
Did also find its way. Thus fear relaxed
Her overweening grasp; thus thoughts and things
In the self-haunting spirit learned to take
More rational proportions; mystery,
The incumbent mystery of sense and soul,
Of life and death, time and eternity,
Admitted more habitually a mild
Interposition - a serene delight
In closelier gathering cares, such as become
A human creature, howsoe'er endowed,
Poet, or destined for a humbler name;
And so the deep enthusiastic joy,
The rapture of the hallelujah sent
From all that breathes and is, was chastened,
stemmed
280
285
290
295
And balanced by pathetic truth, by trust
In hopeful reason, leaning on the stay
Of Providence; and in reverence for duty,
Here, if need be, struggling with storms, and there
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 189
Strewing in peace life's humblest ground with herbs,
At every season green, sweet at all hours.
301
Whether to me shall be allotted life,
390
And, with life, power to accomplish aught of worth,
That will be deemed no insufficient plea
For having given the story of myself,
Is all uncertain: but, beloved Friend!
When, looking back, thou seest, in clearer view
Than any liveliest sight of yesterday,
That summer, under whose indulgent skies,
Upon smooth Quantock's airy ridge we roved
Unchecked, or loitered 'mid her sylvan combs,
Thou in bewitching words, with happy heart,
Didst chaunt the vision of that Ancient Man,
The bright-eyed Mariner, and rueful woes
Didst utter of the Lady Christabel;
And I, associate with such labour, steeped
In soft forgetfulness the livelong hours,
Murmuring of him who, joyous hap, was found,
After the perils of his moonlight ride,
Near the loud waterfall; or her who sate
In misery near the miserable Thorn
When thou dost to that summer turn thy thoughts,
And hast before thee all which then we were,
To thee, in memory of that happiness,
It will be known, by thee at least, my Friend!
Felt, that the history of a Poet's mind
Is labour not unworthy of regard;
To thee the work shall justify itself.
S
Oh! yet a few short years of useful life,
And all will be complete, thy race be run,
Thy monument of glory will be raised;
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410
430
190 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Then, though (too weak to tread the ways of truth)
This age fall back to old idolatry,
Though men return to servitude as fast
As the tide ebbs, to ignominy and shame,
By nations, sink together, we shall still
Find solace knowing what we have learnt to know,
Rich in true happiness if allowed to be
Faithful alike in forwarding a day
Of firmer trust, joint labourers in the work
(Should Providence such grace to us vouchsafe)
Of their deliverance, surely yet to come.
Prophets of Nature, we to them will speak
A lasting inspiration, sanctified
By reason, blest by faith: what we have loved,
Others will love, and we will teach them how;
Instruct them how the mind of man becomes
A thousand times more beautiful than the earth
On which he dwells, above this frame of things 450
(Which, 'mid all revolution in the hopes
And fears of men, doth still remain unchanged)
In beauty exalted, as it is itself
Of quality and fabric more divine.
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445
1799-1805
The Prelude was intended as an introduction to a more extensive
poem to be called The Recluse, which in turn was to be in three parts.
The second part was later called The Excursion. The third part was
never written, while a fragment was produced for the first part. The
following selection from that fragment contains one of the finest
renderings of Wordsworth's humanism. He makes it as clear as he
can that his fundamental theme is the heart of man. It is because of
sublime passages of this kind that Wordsworth has been thought of
as the successor of Milton in English poetry.
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
191
1
THE RECLUSE
PART FIRST
BOOK FIRST
D
HOME AT GRASMERE
On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life,
Musing in solitude, I oft perceive
Fair trains of imagery before me rise,
Accompanied by feelings of delight
Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed;
And I am conscious of affecting thoughts
And dear remembrances, whose presence soothes 760
Or elevates the Mind, intent to weigh
The good and evil of our mortal state.
-To these emotions, whencesoe'er they come,
Whether from breath of outward circumstance,
Or from the Soul - an impulse to herself —
I would give utterance in numerous verse.
Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and Hope,
And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith;
Of blessed consolations in distress;
Of moral strength, and intellectual Power;
Of joy in widest commonalty spread;
Of the individual Mind that keeps her own
Inviolate retirement, subject there
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Thy guidance, or a greater Muse, if such
Descend to earth or dwell in highest heaven!
For I must tread on shadowy ground, must sink
755
765
To Conscience only, and the law supreme
Of that Intelligence which governs all-
I sing: — “fit audience let me find though few!"
So prayed, more gaining than he asked, the Bard-
In holiest mood. Urania, I shall need
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192 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Deep
and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds
To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil.
All strength all terror, single or in bands,
That ever was put forth in personal form
Jehovah — with his thunder, and the choir
Of shouting Angels, and the empyreal thrones
I pass them unalarmed. Not Chaos, not
The darkest pit of lowest Erebus,
790
Nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out
By help of dreams can breed such fear and awe
As fall upon us often when we look
Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man
My haunt, and the main region of my song
-Beauty a living Presence of the earth,
Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms
Which craft of delicate Spirits hath composed
From earth's materials waits upon my steps;
Pitches her tents before me as I move,
An hourly neighbour. Paradise, and groves
Elysian, Fortunate Fields like those of old
Sought in the Atlantic Main - why should they be
A history only of departed things,
Or a mere fiction of what never was?
For the discerning intellect of Man,
When wedded to this goodly universe
In love and holy passion, shall find these
A simple produce of the common day.
I, long before the blissful hour arrives,
Would chant, in lonely peace, the spousal verse 810
Of this great consummation: - and, by words
Which speak of nothing more than what we are,
Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep
Of Death, and win the vacant and the vain
To noble raptures; while my voice proclaims
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 193
How exquisitely the individual Mind
(And the progressive powers perhaps no less
Of the whole species) to the external World
Is fitted: and how exquisitely, too-
Theme this but little heard of among men
The external World is fitted to the Mind;
And the creation (by no lower name
Can it be called) which they with blended might
Accomplish: this is our high argument.
- Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft
Must turn elsewhere to travel near the tribes
And fellowships of men, and see ill sights
Of madding passions mutually inflamed;
Must hear Humanity in fields and groves
Pipe solitary anguish; or must hang
Brooding above the fierce confederate storm
Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore
Within the walls of cities may these sounds
Have their authentic comment; that even these
Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn! -
Descend, prophetic Spirit! that inspir'st
The human Soul of universal earth,
Dreaming on things to come; and dost possess
A metropolitan temple in the hearts
Of mighty Poets; upon me bestow
A gift of genuine insight; that my Song
With star-like virtue in its place may shine,
Shedding benignant influence, and secure
Itself from all malevolent effect
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Of those mutations that extend their sway
Throughout the nether sphere! And if with this
I mix more lowly matter; with the thing
Contemplated, describe the Mind and Man
Contemplating; and who, and what he was -
194 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
The transitory Being that beheld
This Vision;
when and where, and how he lived;
Be not this labour useless. If such theme
850
May sort with highest objects, then - dread Power!
Whose gracious favour is the primal source
Of all illumination
may my Life
Express the image of a better time,
nurse
More wise desires, and simpler manners;
My Heart in genuine freedom: - all pure thoughts
Be with me; so shall thy unfailing love
Guide, and support, and cheer me to the end! 860
1800?
855
The years 1804 to 1806 inclusive are memorable in Wordsworth's
poetry; for in these years were produced not only the last twelve
books of The Prelude but also the Ode to Duty, Elegiac Stanzas Sug-
gested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm, Character of the Happy
Warrior, Intimations of Immortality (except the first four stanzas writ-
ten earlier), and a goodly number of smaller pieces. These poems,
written when he was between thirty-two and thirty-six, represent
the poet at the height of his intellectual powers. The large group of
sonnets of 1802, with their stress on 'soul,' 'man's unconquerable
mind,' and character, rather than on mere Nature, are a sort of pre-
lude to the more varied and deeper strain in these poems. These
deal imaginatively with the moral law, the mystery of suffering,
heroism, man's immortality, and the ultimate truth of things. The
Ode to Duty, in a free paraphrase of Kant, exalts the starry heavens
above and the moral law within. It supplements the promptings of
the 'high instincts' of childhood and youth by the guidance of the
law of Duty. Through the exercise of a unique imaginative pene-
tration the poet perceives that the Godhead which keeps the stars in
their courses is the same which functions within his own humble be-
ing and may become to him a permanent guide. Through the death
of his brother John, early in 1805, the poet was confronted with the
necessity of putting his faith to a practical test. Elegiac Stanzas Sug-
gested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm, the finest fruit of his be-
reavement, expresses the poet's reaction to this ordeal. Greatly soft-
ening his energetic nature, this sorrow did not weaken his spirit but
rather released some hitherto hidden energies from a deeper level of
his being. The poem is one of the best examples of Wordsworth's
extraordinary power of eliciting soothing thoughts out of human
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 195
suffering, new hope and new strength of soul from the shocks of life.
Closely allied to these two poems is the Character of the Happy War-
rior. Endowed with a transcendental ‘inward light,' the hero, con-
forming his life to the best impulses of his early days and building
up his spiritual being harmoniously from within, achieves self-mas-
tery in the most trying circumstances. With majestic plainness of
manner this poem gives in small compass the distilled essence of
transcendental wisdom. Yes, I was the Mountain Echo implies
man's capacity to interpret mystic voices from another world; while
Loud is the Vale clearly implies belief in man's immortality.
The thought in these poems and also in some earlier ones leads up
to and helps to explain the thought in the Intimations of Immortality.
In the sonnet. It is a Beauteous Evening the poet teaches the princi-
ple of inwardness or immanence, that the Divine abides in the heart
of a child when from outward appearances we least suspect the fact.
In Book Six of The Prelude he teaches the principle of transcendence,
that there is something in the mind of man which transcends the
senses, and that beyond or behind Nature there is an invisible and
spiritual world, which supports and gives meaning to our physical
world and which is "our destiny, our being's heart and home." In
My Heart Leaps Up he suggests the principle of continuity. In In-
timations of Immortality these principles are drawn together in a sin-
gle conception, are shown to be different aspects of the self-same
thing. For in the inmost part of our being there has existed, from
our earliest childhood, a quality, a Power, which preserves our per-
sonal identity through life, and which has such spiritual dignity and
greatness that it demands on our part the faith that it gives conti-
nuity to our existence throughout eternity. This 'primal sympathy'
in the child and in the man is set over against 'sense and outward
things' and transcends them. This is our assurance of immortality.
This central principle is unnecessarily entangled with the doctrine
of pre-existence, which, the poet himself explained, was used as a sort
of poetic device to round out his thought. We infer pre-existence
because of the indomitable spirit within man that cannot die. The
device aids in giving epic dimensions to the poem, and gives us a
sense of the superiority of the soul over the physical world and over
all things of time.
ODE TO DUTY
STERN Daughter of the Voice of God!
O Duty! if that name thou love
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring, and reprovė;
196 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
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!
There are who ask not if thine eye
Be on them; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth:
Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot
Who do thy work, and know it not:
Oh! if through confidence misplaced
They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around
them cast.
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 firm support, according to their need.
Through no disturbance of my soul,
Or strong compunction in me wrought,
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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.
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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.
ELEGIAC STANZAS
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE, IN A
STORM, PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT
35
I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:
I saw thee every day; and all the while
Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.
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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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So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
So like, so very like, was day to day!
Whene'er I 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,
The consecration, and the Poet's dream;
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.
Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure-house divine
Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven; -
Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine
The very sweetest had to thee been given.
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.
Cπ
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'tis so no more;
So once it would have been,
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, I speak with mind serene.
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.
O'tis a passionate Work! - yet wise and well,
Well chosen is the spirit that is here;
That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell,
This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!
Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the
Friend,
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.
35
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.
40
And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,
I love to see the look with which it braves,
Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time,
The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.
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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
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought: 5
Whose high endeavours are an inward light
That makes the path before him always bright:
Who, with a natural instinct to discern
10
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 are 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,
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201
p
He labours good on good to fix, 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 honourable 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;
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait
For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state;
Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall,
Like showers of manna, if they come at all:
46
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 homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes;
Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be,
Are at his heart; and such fidelity
It is his darling passion to approve;
More brave for this, that he hath much to love:-
"Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high,
Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye,
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-
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 worth stand fast,
Looks forward, persevering to the last,
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 fall, to sleep 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
That every Man in arms should wish to be.
Sp
Unsolicited reply
To a babbling wanderer sent;
Like her ordinary cry,
Like
but oh, how different!
"YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN ECHO"
YES, it was the mountain Echo,
Solitary, clear, profound,
Answering to the shouting Cuckoo,
Giving to her sound for sound!
Hears not also mortal Life?
Hear not we, unthinking Creatures!
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203
Slaves of folly, love, or strife -
Voices of two different natures?
Have not we too? — yes, we have
Answers, and we know not whence;
Echoes from beyond the grave,
Recognised intelligence!
Such rebounds our inward ear
Catches sometimes from afar
Listen, ponder, hold them dear;
For of God, of God they are.
S -
LOUD is the Vale! the Voice is up
With which she speaks when storms are gone,
A mighty unison of streams!
Of all her Voices, One!
Loud is the Vale; this inland Depth
In peace is roaring like the Sea;
Yon star upon the mountain-top
Is listening quietly.
Sad was I, even to pain deprest,
Importunate and heavy load!
The Comforter hath found me here,
Upon this lonely road;
1806
LINES
Composed at Grasmere, during a walk one Evening, after a
stormy day, the Author having just read in a newspaper that the
dissolution of Mr. Fox was hourly expected.
And many thousands now are sad
Wait the fulfilment of their fear;
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For he must die who is their stay,
Their glory disappear.
A Power is passing from the earth
To breathless Nature's dark abyss;
But when the great and good depart
What is it more than this
C
That Man, who is from God sent forth,
Doth yet again to God return? -
Such ebb and flow must ever be,
Then wherefore should we mourn?
I
ODE
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS
OF EARLY CHILDHOOD
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 I may,
1806
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THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
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II
The Rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the Rose,
The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
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 past away a glory from the earth.
III
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound,
IV
Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see
205
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.
15
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; 25
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!
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Oh evil day! if I were sullen
While Earth herself is adorning,
This sweet May-morning,
And the Children are culling
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:-50
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
But there's a Tree, of many, one,
A single Field which I have looked upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The Pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
V
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!
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Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows, 70
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's Priest,
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 207
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, 80
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.
VII
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Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A six years' Darling of a pygmy size!
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother's 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-learnèd 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;
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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.
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,
Which we are toiling 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 put 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 provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy 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!
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209
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 realised,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised:
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
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 eternal Silence: truths that wake,
To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!
Hence in a 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.
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X
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,
170
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!
175
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now forever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In 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,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
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XI
And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not 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,
Even 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 colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
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211
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 201
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.
1803-06
The following poem shows Wordsworth's ability in a kind of poe-
try not usual with him. The rapid movement and the martial spirit
of this song of medieval tradition would do honour to Sir Walter
Scott. But the last four quatrains, standing in sharp contrast to
the preceding song, contain the real meaning of the poem and indi-
cate Wordsworth's originality and power.
SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM
CASTLE
UPON THE RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, THE
SHEPHERD, TO THE ESTATES AND HONOURS OF HIS
ANCESTORS
HIGH in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate,
And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song.
The words of ancient time I thus translate,
A festal strain that hath been silent long:
"From town to town, from tower to tower,
The red rose is a gladsome flower,
Her thirty years of winter past,
The red rose is revived at last;
She lifts her head for endless spring,
For everlasting blossoming:
Both roses flourish, red and white:
In love and sisterly delight
The two that were at strife are blended,
And all old troubles now are ended.
Joy! joy to both! but most to her
Who is the flower of Lancaster!
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Behold her how She smiles to-day
On this great throng, this bright array!
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!
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 lonely, a deserted Tower;
Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and groom:
We have them at the feast of Brough'm.
How glad Pendragon - though the sleep
Of years be on her!— She shall reap
A taste of this great pleasure, viewing
As in a dream her own renewing.
Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem
Beside her little humble stream;
And she that keepeth watch and ward
Her statelier Eden's course to guard;
They both are happy at this hour,
Though each is but a lonely Tower:-
But here is perfect joy and pride
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 213
For one fair House by Emont's side,
This day, distinguished without peer
To see her Master and to cheer
Him, and his Lady-mother dear!
Oh! it was a time forlorn
When the fatherless was born
Give her wings that she may fly,
Or she sees her infant die!
Swords that are with slaughter wild
Hunt the Mother and the Child.
Who will take them from the light?
- Yonder is a man in sight
Yonder is a house but where?
No, they must not enter there.
To the caves, and to the brooks,
To the clouds of heaven she looks;
She is speechless, but her eyes
Pray in ghostly agonies.
Blissful Mary, Mother mild,
Maid and Mother undefiled,
Save a Mother and her Child!
Now Who is he that bounds with joy
On Carrock's side, a Shepherd-boy?
No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass
Light as the wind along the grass.
Can this be He who hither came
In secret, like a smothered flame?
O'er whom such thankful tears were shed
For shelter, and a poor man's bread!
God loves the Child; and God hath willed
That those dear words should be fulfilled,
The Lady's words, when forced away,
The last she to her Babe did say:
'My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest
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I may not be; but rest thee, rest,
For lowly shepherd's life is best!'
Alas! when evil men are strong
No life is good, no pleasure long.
The Boy must part from Mosedale's groves,
And leave 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!
Hear it, good man, old in days!
Thou tree of covert and of rest
For this young Bird that is distrest;
Among thy branches safe he lay,
And he was free to sport and play,
When falcons were abroad for prey.
A recreant harp, that sings of fear
And heaviness in Clifford's ear!
I said, when evil men are strong,
No life is good, no pleasure long,
A weak and cowardly untruth!
Our Clifford was a happy Youth,
And thankful through a weary time,
That brought him up to manhood's prime.
Again he wanders forth at will,
And tends a flock from hill to hill:
His garb is humble; ne'er was seen
Such garb with such a noble mien;
Among the shepherd grooms no mate
Hath he, a Child of strength and state!
Yet lacks not friends for simple glee,
Nor yet for higher sympathy.
To his side the fallow-deer
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215
Came, and rested without fear;
The eagle, lord of land and sea,
Stooped down to pay him fealty;
And both the undying fish that swim
Through Bowscale-tarn did wait on him;
The pair were servants of his eye
In their immortality;
And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright,
Moved to and fro, for his delight.
He knew the rocks which Angels haunt
Upon the mountains visitant;
He hath kenned them taking wing:
And into caves where Faeries sing
He hath entered; and been told
By Voices how men lived of old.
Among the heavens his eye can see
The face of thing that is to be;
And, if that men report him right,
His tongue could whisper words of might.
Now another day is come,
Fitter hope, and nobler doom;
He hath thrown aside his crook,
And hath buried deep his book;
Armour rusting in his halls
On the blood of Clifford calls;
"Quell the Scot,' exclaims the Lance-
Bear me to the heart of France,
Is the longing of the Shield -
Tell thy name, thou trembling Field;
Field of death, where'er thou be,
Groan thou with our victory!
Happy day, and mighty hour,
When our Shepherd, in his power,
Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword,
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To his ancestors restored
Like a re-appearing Star,
Like a glory from afar,
First shall head the flock of war!"
Alas! the impassioned minstrel did not know
How, by Heaven's grace, this Clifford's heart was
framed,
How he, long forced 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.
155
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.
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Glad were the vales, and every cottage hearth;
The Shepherd-lord was honoured more and more;
And, ages after he was laid in earth,
"The good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore.
1807
171
The following sonnets, scattered through the years from 1806 to
1811, may be classed as personal and political. They carry forward
the spirit of the earlier group of 1802. Some of them, as for instance
The World Is Too Much With Us and the last one of the series Per-
sonal Talk are among the most beautiful and powerful he ever wrote.
The political ones express more obviously and explicitly the ethical
ideas implied in the 1802 group.
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
217
"NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR CONVENT'S
NARROW ROOM"
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 weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison, unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.
PERSONAL TALK
1806
I
I AM not One who much or oft delight
To season my fireside with personal talk.
Of friends, who live within an easy walk,
Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight:
And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright,
Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk,
These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk
Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.
Better than such discourse doth silence long,
Long, barren silence, square with my desire;
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,
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And listen to the flapping of the flame,
Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.
II
“Yet life,” you say, "is life; we have seen and see,
And with a living pleasure we describe;
And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe
16
The languid mind into activity.
Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee
Are fostered by the comment and the gibe."
Even be it so; yet still among your tribe,
Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me!
Children are blest, and powerful; their world lies
More justly balanced; partly at their feet,
And part far from them: sweetest melodies
Are those that are by distance made more sweet;
Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes,
He is a Slave; the meanest we can meet!
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III
Wings have we,
and as far as we can go,
We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood,
Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood
Which with the lofty sanctifies the low.
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,
Are a substantial world, both pure and good:
Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear, -
The gentle Lady married to the Moor;
And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb.
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Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
There find I personal themes, a plenteous store,
Matter wherein right voluble I am,
To which I listen with a ready ear;
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 219
IV
Nor can I not believe but that hereby
Great gains are mine; for thus I live remote
From evil-speaking; rancour, never sought,
Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie.
Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I
Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous
thought:
And thus from day to day my little boat
Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably.
Blessings be with them — and eternal praise,
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares
The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays!
Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs, 55
Then gladly would I end my mortal days.
1806
"THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US;
LATE AND SOON”
THE world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
The 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 God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
.
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Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
1806
TO SLEEP
A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring, the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;
I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie
Sleepless! and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away:
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
1806
THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE
SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND
LO
Two Voices are there; one is of the sea,
One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice:
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee
Thou fought'st against him; but hast vainly striven:
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft:
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left,
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For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be
That Mountain floods should thunder as before,
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful Voice be heard by thee!
1807
"AND IS IT AMONG RUDE UNTUTORED
DALES"
AND is it among rude untutored Dales,
There, and there only, that the heart is true?
And, rising to repel or to subdue,
Is it by rocks and woods that man prevails?
Ah no! though Nature's dread protection fails,
There is a bulwark in the soul. This knew
Iberian Burghers when the sword they drew
In Zaragoza, naked to the gales
Of fiercely-breathing war. The truth was felt
By Palafox, and many a brave compeer,
Like him of noble birth and noble mind;
By ladies, meek-eyed women without fear;
And wanderers of the street, to whom is dealt
The bread which without industry they find.
1809
"THE POWER OF ARMIES IS A VISIBLE
THING"
THE power of Armies is a visible thing,
Formal, and circumscribed in time and space;
But who the limits of that power shall trace
Which a brave People into light can bring
Or hide, at will, for freedom combating
By just revenge inflamed? No foot may chase,
No eye can follow, to a fatal place
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That power, that spirit, whether on the wing
Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind
Within its awful caves. From year to year
Springs this indigenous produce far and near;
No craft this subtle element can bind;
Rising like water from the soil, to find
In every nook a lip that it may cheer.
1811
"HERE PAUSE: THE POET CLAIMS AT
LEAST THIS PRAISE”
HERE pause: the poet claims at least this praise,
That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope
Of his pure song, which did not shrink from hope
In the worst moment of these evil days;
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From hope, the paramount duty that Heaven lays, 5
For its own honour, on man's suffering heart.
Never may from our souls one truth depart
That an accursed thing it is to gaze
On prosperous tyrants with a dazzled eye;
Nor-touched with due abhorrence of their guilt 10
For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt,
And justice labours in extremity —
Forget thy weakness, upon which is built,
O wretched man, the throne of tyranny!
1811
In the summer of 1803 when Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy
were wandering through Scotland they came to Clovenford, not far
from the “bonny holms of Yarrow" a most romantic spot in the
Scottish Lowlands. They considered the possibility of going thither,
but finally concluded not to do so, whereupon Wordsworth wrote
Yarrow Unvisited. Eleven years later in the autumn of 1814, Words-
worth, accompanied by James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, visited
the Vale of Yarrow, which resulted in Yarrow Visited. Seventeen
years later he was accompanied by Sir Walter Scott to Newark Cas-
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
223
tle on the Yarrow. Their pleasure, however, was clouded by the
fact that Scott was about to leave for Italy for the restoration of his
health, and it seemed to Wordsworth that this might be the last
time for such a meeting, which indeed it proved to be. This forebod-
ing colors the poem Yarrow Revisited. These poems can be read to-
gether not only to compare Wordsworth's earlier and later styles, but
also to note how a poem may be written on an object not yet seen by
the poet and poems on the same object after it has been seen.
YARROW UNVISITED
FROM Stirling castle we 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 dwelling!
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 Tiviot-dale, a land
Made blithe with plough and harrow:
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?
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"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;
30
And looked me in the face, to think
I thus could speak of Yarrow!
"Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms,
And sweet is Yarrow 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 St. Mary's Lake
Float double, swan and shadow!
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?
The treasured dreams of times long past,
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!
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For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
"Twill be another Yarrow!
"If Care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly,
Should we be loth 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!"
YARROW VISITED
SEPTEMBER, 1814
Yarrow?
AND is this
Of which my fancy cherished,
So faithfully, a waking dream?
An image that hath perished!
O 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!
This the Stream
1803
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.
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A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale,
Save where that pearly whiteness
Is round the rising sun diffused,
A tender hazy brightness;
Mild dawn of promise! that excludes
All profitless dejection;
Though not unwilling here to admit
A pensive recollection.
Where was it that the famous Flower
Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?
His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
On which the herd is feeding:
And haply from this crystal pool,
Now peaceful as the morning,
The Water-wraith ascended thrice -
And gave his doleful warning.
Delicious is the Lay that sings
The haunts of happy Lovers,
The path that leads them to the grove,
The leafy grove that covers:
And Pity sanctifies the Verse
That paints, by strength of sorrow,
The unconquerable strength of love;
Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!
But thou, that didst appear so fair
To fond imagination,
Dost rival in the light of day
Her delicate creation:
Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
A softness still and holy;
The grace of forest charms decayed,
And pastoral melancholy.
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That region left, the vale unfolds
Rich groves of lofty stature,
With Yarrow winding through the pomp
Of cultivated nature;
And, rising from those lofty groves,
Behold a Ruin hoary!
The shattered front of Newark's Towers,
Renowned in Border story.
Fair 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 deck 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.
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The vapours linger round the Heights,
They melt, and soon must vanish;
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine -
Sad thought, which I would banish,
But that I know, where'er I go,
Thy genuine image, Yarrow!
Will dwell with me to heighten joy,
And cheer my mind in sorrow.
YARROW REVISITED
THE gallant Youth, who may have gained,
Or seeks, a "winsome Marrow,"
Was but an Infant in the lap
When first I looked on Yarrow;
Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate
Long left without a warder,
I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee,
Great Minstrel of the Border!
Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day,
Their dignity installing
In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves
Were on the bough, or falling;
But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed
The forest to embolden;
Reddened the fiery hues, and shot
Transparence through the golden.
For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on
In foamy agitation;
And slept in many a crystal pool
For quiet contemplation:
No public and no private care
The freeborn mind enthralling,
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We made a day of happy hours,
Our happy days recalling.
Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of youth, 25
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 Muse, 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 Tiviot
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230 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
For mild Sorento'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 honour
As thy own Yarrow gave to me
When first I gazed upon her;
Beheld what I had feared to see,
Unwilling to surrender
Dreams treasured up from early days,
The holy and the tender.
And what, for this frail world, were all
That mortals do or suffer,
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231
Did no responsive harp, no pen,
Memorial tribute offer?
Yea, what were mighty Nature's self?
Her features, could they win us,
Unhelped by the poetic voice
That hourly speaks within us?
Nor deem that localised Romance
Plays false with our affections;
Unsanctifies our tears made sport
For fanciful dejections:
Ah, no! the visions of the past
Sustain the heart in feeling
Life as she is our changeful Life,
With friends and kindred dealing.
Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day
In Yarrow's groves were 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!)
Ere he his Tale recounted.
Flow on forever, Yarrow Stream!
Fulfil thy pensive duty,
Well pleased that future Bards should chant
For simple hearts thy beauty;
To dream-light dear while yet unseen,
Dear to the common sunshine,
And dearer still, as now I feel,
To memory's shadowy moonshine!
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Wordsworth published The Excursion in 1814. The poem repre-
sents the most ambitious effort of his literary life. Some parts of the
poem, particularly portions of the first book, date back to the period
of the Lyrical Ballads; certain other parts were produced in 1802 and
1803; it seems too that the whole outline of the poem was planned
prior to the completion of The Prelude and the Intimations of Im-
mortality. Yet the great body of the poem was written after 1807
and it reflects, in the main, the spirit of the poet's thought after that
time. It has lost some of the glow and the spirit of inwardness which
characterizes The Prelude. It aims to be more objective than The
Prelude, an added cause of its being less spiritually intense and more
doctrinaire.
Though it is a philosophical poem it does not at all have the man-
ner or arrangement of philosophy; it is cast in the form of a narra-
tive, dealing with persons and with concrete facts of life. Any one
equipped with the elementary principles of philosophical thinking
should have no serious difficulty in reading it. There are four chief
personages the Wanderer, the Solitary, the Pastor, and the Poet.
A secondary group of personages are those whose lives are narrated
by the Pastor and the Wanderer usually humble people. Many
critics have interpreted the poem as though its chief purpose were to
make an onslaught on the Solitary's misanthropy; but it is actually
much more inclusive. The poet's general purpose was to show that
in spite of tragedy and suffering, and partly because of it, human life
is worth living, and that the universe at heart is good, and not evil;
while his specific purpose was to reveal, to put every one in touch
with, the inner volitional and emotional springs of life which are the
key, not only to successful ethical living, but to a proper and reason-
able interpretation of the universe as a whole. He purposed to show
how the highest idealistic truth could be made effective in the life of
a misanthrope and how it could actually be embodied in the lives of
humblest people; in short, to bring a high religious philosophy into
the service of common humanity. That he was only partially suc-
cessful is due to the amazingly inherent difficulty of the task he set
himself. But the expenditure of his strong energies of mind in fusing
into a holy union the idealistic and the common, the ultimately di-
vine and the simple, accounts for the mighty influence of The Excur-
sion on nineteenth century thought.
The following selections do not intend to represent the poem as a
whole; they aim only to illustrate certain portions of it. The first
selection, taken from Book Two, gives one of the many tales scat-
tered throughout the poem; though one of the best, it is fairly rep-
resentative. The remaining selections aim to represent the cen-
tral doctrines of Wordsworth's teachings- the reconciliation of
devine Prescience with accountability in man, the law of duty,
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man's immortality, and the principle of optimism.
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233
THE EXCURSION
BOOK SECOND
730
"Now for the tale with which you threatened us!"
"In truth the threat escaped me unawares:
Should the tale tire you, let this challenge stand
For my excuse. Dissevered from mankind,
As to your eyes and thoughts we must have seemed
When ye looked down upon us from the crag,
Islanders 'mid a stormy mountain sea,
We are not so; - perpetually we touch
Upon the vulgar ordinances of the world;
And he, whom this our cottage hath to-day
Relinquished, lived dependent for his bread
Upon the laws of public charity.
The Housewife, tempted by such slender gains
As might from that occasion be distilled,
Opened, as she before had done for me,
Her doors to admit this homeless Pensioner;
The portion gave of coarse but wholesome fare
Which appetite required - a blind dull nook,
Such as she had, the kennel of his rest!
This, in itself not ill, would yet have been
Ill borne in earlier life; but his was now
The still contentedness of seventy years.
Calm did he sit under the wide-spread tree
Of his old age: and yet less calm and meek,
Winningly meek or venerably calm,
Than slow and torpid; paying in this wise.
A penalty, if penalty it were,
For spendthrift feats, excesses of his prime.
I loved the old Man, for I pitied him!
A task it was, I own, to hold discourse
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With one so slow in gathering up his thoughts,
But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes;
Mild, inoffensive, ready in his way,
And helpful to his utmost power: and there
Our housewife knew full well what she possessed!
He was her vassal of all labour, tilled
Her garden, from the pasture fetched her kine; 765
And, one among the orderly array
760
Of hay-makers, beneath the burning sun
Maintained his place; or heedfully pursued
His course, on errands bound, to other vales,
Leading sometimes an inexperienced child
Too young for any profitable task.
So moved he like a shadow that performed
Substantial service. Mark me now, and learn
For what reward! The moon her monthly round
Hath not completed since our dame, the queen
Of this one cottage and this lonely dale,
Into my little sanctuary rushed--
Voice to a rueful treble humanised,
And features in deplorable dismay.
I treat the matter lightly, but, alas!
It is most serious: persevering rain
Had fallen in torrents; all the mountain tops
Were hidden, and black vapours coursed their sides;
This had I seen, and saw; but, till she spake,
Was wholly ignorant that my ancient Friend - 785
Who at her bidding, early and alone,
Had clomb aloft to delve the moorland turf
For winter fuel to his noontide meal
Returned not, and now, haply, on the heights
Lay at the mercy of this raging storm.
'Inhuman!'. said I, 'was an old Man's life
Not worth the trouble of a thought? alas!
Mand
Magalla
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235
This notice comes too late.' With joy I saw
Her husband enter - from a distant vale.
We sallied forth together; found the tools
Which the neglected veteran had dropped,
But through all quarters looked for him in vain.
We shouted but no answer! Darkness fell
Without remission of the blast or shower,
And fears for our own safety drove us home.
I, who weep little, did, I will confess,
The moment I was seated here alone,
Honour my little cell with some few tears
Which anger and resentment could not dry.
All night the storm endured; and, soon as help
Had been collected from the neighbouring vale,
With morning we renewed our quest: the wind
Was fallen, the rain abated, but the hills
Lay shrouded in impenetrable mist;
And long and hopelessly we sought in vain:
Till, chancing on that lofty ridge to pass
A heap of ruin almost without walls.
And wholly without roof (the bleached remains.
Of a small chapel, where, in ancient time,
The peasants of these lonely valleys used
To meet for worship on that central height)
We there espied the object of our search,
Lying full three parts buried among tufts.
Of heath-plant, under and above him strewn,
To baffle, as he might, the watery storm:
And there we found him breathing peaceably,
Snug as a child that hides itself in sport
'Mid a green hay-cock in a sunny field.
We spake he made reply, but would not stir
At our entreaty; less from want of power
Than apprehension and bewildering thoughts.
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So was he lifted gently from the ground,
And with their freight homeward the shepherds moved
Through the dull mist, I following when a step,
A single step, that freed me from the skirts
Of the blind vapour, opened to my view
Glory beyond all glory ever seen
By waking sense or by the dreaming soul!
The appearance, instantaneously disclosed,
Was of a mighty city - boldly say
A wilderness of building, sinking far
And self-withdrawn into a boundless depth,
Far sinking into splendour - without end!
Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold,
With alabaster domes, and silver spires,
And blazing terrace upon terrace, high
Uplifted; here, serene pavilions bright,
In avenues disposed; there, towers begirt
With battlements that on their restless fronts
Bore stars illumination of all gems!
By earthly nature had the effect been wrought
Upon the dark materials of the storm
Now pacified; on them, and on the coves
And mountain steeps and summits, whereunto
The vapours had receded, taking there
Their station under a cerulean sky.
Oh, 'twas an unimaginable sight!
Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald turf,
Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky,
Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed,
Molten together, and composing thus,
Each lost in each, that marvellous array
Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge
Fantastic pomp of structure without name,
In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapped.
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 237
Right in the midst, where interspace appeared
Of open court, an object like a throne
Under a shining canopy of state
Stood fixed; and fixed resemblances were seen
To implements of ordinary use,
But vast in size, in substance glorified;
Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld
In vision forms uncouth of mightiest power
For admiration and mysterious awe.
This little Vale, a dwelling-place of Man,
Lay low beneath my feet; 'twas visible-
I saw not, but I felt that it was there.
That which I saw was the revealed abode
Of Spirits in beatitude: my heart
876
Swelled in my breast- 'I have been dead,' I cried,
'And now I live! Oh! wherefore do I live?'
And with that pang I prayed to be no more! -
-But I forget our Charge, as utterly
I then forgot him: - there I stood and gazed:
The apparition faded not away,
And I descended.
Having reached the house,
I found its rescued inmate safely lodged,
And in serene possession of himself,
Beside a fire whose genial warmth seemed met
By a faint shining from the heart, a gleam,
Of comfort, spread over his pallid face.
Great show of joy the housewife made, and truly
Was glad to find her conscience set at case;
And not less glad, for sake of her good name,
That the poor Sufferer had escaped with life.
But, though he seemed at first to have received
No harm, and uncomplaining as before
Went through his usual tasks, a silent change
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Soon showed itself: he lingered three short weeks;
And from the cottage hath been borne to-day." 895
BOOK FOURTH
"And what are things eternal? - powers depart,"
The grey-haired Wanderer steadfastly replied,
Answering the question which himself had asked,
"Possessions vanish, and opinions change,
And passions hold a fluctuating seat:
But, by the storms of circumstance unshaken,
And subject neither to eclipse nor wane,
Duty exists; immutably survive,
For our support, the measures and the forms,
Which an abstract intelligence supplies;
Whose kingdom is, where time and space are not.
Of other converse which mind, soul, and heart,
Do, with united urgency, require,
What more that may not perish? - Thou, dread
source,
Prime, self-existing cause and end of all
That in the scale of being fill their place;
Above our human region, or below,
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Set and sustained; thou, who didst wrap the cloud
Of infancy around us, that thyself,
Therein, with our simplicity awhile
Might'st hold, on earth, communion undisturbed;
Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep,
Or from its death-like void, with punctual care,
And touch as gentle as the morning light,
Restor'st us, daily, to the powers of sense
And reason's steadfast rule thou, thou alone
Art everlasting, and the blessèd Spirits,
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239
Which thou includest, as the sea her waves:
For adoration thou endur'st; endure
For consciousness the motions of thy will;
For apprehension those transcendent truths
Of the pure intellect, that stand as laws
(Submission constituting strength and power)
Even to thy Being's infinite majesty!
This universe shall pass away
a work
Glorious! because the shadow of thy might,
A step, or link, for intercourse with thee.
Ah! if the time must come, in which my feet
No more shall stray where meditation leads,
By flowing stream, through wood, or craggy wild, 105
Loved haunts like these; the unimprisoned Mind
May yet have scope to range among her own,
Her thoughts, her images, her high desires.
If the dear faculty of sight should fail,
Still, it may be allowed me to remember
What visionary powers of eye and soul
In youth were mine; when, stationed on the top
Of some huge hill-expectant, I beheld
The sun rise up, from distant climes returned
Darkness to chase, and sleep; and bring the day 115
His bounteous gift! or saw him toward the deep
Sink, with a retinue of flaming clouds
Attended; then, my spirit was entranced
With joy exalted to beatitude;
The measure of my soul was filled with bliss,
And holiest love; as earth, sea, air, with light,
With pomp, with glory, with magnificence!
Those fervent raptures are forever flown;
And, since their date, my soul hath undergone
Change manifold, for better or for worse:
-
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240 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Yet cease I not to struggle, and aspire
Heavenward; and chide the part of me that flags,
Through sinful choice; or dread necessity
On human nature from above imposed.
"Tis, by comparison, an easy task
Earth to despise; but, to converse with heaven
This is not easy: - to relinquish all
We have, or hope, of happiness and joy,
And stand in freedom loosened from this world,
I deem not arduous; but must needs confess
That 'tis a thing impossible to frame
Conceptions equal to the soul's desires;
And the most difficult of tasks to keep
Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
-Man is of dust: ethereal hopes are his,
Which, when they should sustain themselves aloft,
Want due consistence; like a pillar of smoke,
That with majestic energy from earth
Rises; but, having reached the thinner air,
Melts, and dissolves, and is no longer seen.
From this infirmity of mortal kind
Sorrow proceeds, which else were not; at least,
If grief be something hallowed and ordained,
If, in proportion, it be just and meet,
Yet, through this weakness of the general heart, 150
Is it enabled to maintain its hold
In that excess which conscience disapproves.
For who could sink and settle to that point
Of selfishness; so senseless who could be
As long and perseveringly to mourn
For any object of his love, removed
From this unstable world, if he could fix
A satisfying view upon that state
Of pure, imperishable, blessedness,
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 241
Which reason promises, and holy writ
Ensures to all believers? - Yet mistrust
Is of such incapacity, methinks,
No natural branch; despondency far less;
And, least of all, is absolute despair.
166
- And, if there be whose tender frames have drooped
Even to the dust; apparently, through weight
Of anguish unrelieved, and lack of power
An agonizing sorrow to transmute;
Deem not that proof is here of hope withheld
When wanted most; a confidence impaired
So pitiably, that, having ceased to see
With bodily eyes, they are borne down by love
Of what is lost, and perish through regret.
Oh! no, the innocent Sufferer often sees
Too clearly; feels too vividly; and longs
To realize the vision, with intense
And over-constant yearning; - there there lies
The excess, by which the balance is destroyed.
Too, too contracted are these walls of flesh,
This vital warmth too cold, these visual orbs,
Though inconceivably endowed, too dim
For any passion of the soul that leads
To ecstasy; and, all the crooked paths
Of time and change disdaining, takes its course
Along the line of limitless desires.
I, speaking now from such disorder free,
Nor rapt, nor craving, but in settled peace,
I cannot doubt that they whom you deplore
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185
Are glorified; or, if they sleep, shall wake
From sleep, and dwell with God in endless love. 190
Hope, below this, consists not with belief
In mercy, carried infinite degrees
Beyond the tenderness of human hearts:
212 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Hope, below this, consists not with belief
In perfect wisdom, guiding mightiest power,
That finds no limits but her own pure will."
"Within the soul a faculty abides,
That with interpositions, which would hide.
And darken, so can deal that they become
Contingencies of pomp; and serve to exalt
Her native brightness. As the ample moon,
In the deep stillness of a summer even
Rising behind a thick and lofty grove,
Burns, like an unconsuming fire of light,
In the green trees; and, kindling on all sides
Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil
Into a substance glorious as her own,
Yea, with her own incorporated, by power
Capacious and serene. Like power abides
In man's celestial spirit; virtue thus
Sets forth and magnifies herself; thus feeds
A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire,
195
'As men from men
Do, in the constitution of their souls,
Differ, by mystery not to be explained;
And as we fall by various ways, and sink
One deeper than another, self-condemned,
Through manifold degrees of guilt and shame;
So manifold and various are the ways.
Of restoration, fashioned to the steps
Of all infirmity, and tending all
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From the encumbrances of mortal life,
From error, disappointment - nay, from guilt; 1075
And sometimes, so relenting justice wills,
From palpable oppressions of despair."
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 243
To the same point, attainable by all-
Peace in ourselves, and union with our God.
For you, assuredly, a hopeful road.
Lies open: we have heard from you a voice
At every moment softened in its course
By tenderness of heart; have seen your eye,
Even like an altar lit by fire from heaven,
Kindle before us. Your discourse this day,
That, like the fabled Lethe, wished to flow
In creeping sadness, through oblivious shades
Of death and night, has caught at every turn 1125
The colors of the sun. Access for you
Is yet preserved to principles of truth,
Which the imaginative Will upholds
In seats of wisdom, not to be approached
By the inferior Faculty that moulds,
With her minute and speculative pains,
Opinion, ever changing!
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1130
I have seen
A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract
Of inland ground, applying to his ear
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell;
To which, in silence hushed, his very soul
Listened intensely; and his countenance soon
Brightened with joy; for from within were heard
Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed
Mysterious union with its native sea.
Even such a shell the universe itself
Is to the ear of Faith; and there are times,
I doubt not, when to you it doth impart.
Authentic tidings of invisible things;
Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power;
And central peace, subsisting at the heart
Of endless agitation. Here you stand,
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244 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Adore, and worship, when you know it not;
Pious beyond the intention of your thought;
Devout above the meaning of your will.
Yes, you have felt, and may not cease to feel.
The estate of man would be indeed forlorn
If false conclusions of the reasoning power
Made the eye blind, and closed the passages
Through which the ear converses with the heart. 1155
Has not the soul, the being of your life,
Received a shock of awful consciousness,
In some calm season, when these lofty rocks
At night's approach bring down the unclouded sky,
To rest upon their circumambient walls;
A temple framing of dimensions vast,
1160
And yet not too enormous for the sound
Of human anthems, choral song, or burst
Sublime of instrumental harmony,
To glorify the Eternal! What if these
Did never break the stillness that prevails
Here, if the solemn nightingale be mute,
And the soft woodlark here did never chant
Her vespers, Nature fails not to provide
Impulse and utterance. The whispering air
Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights,
And blind recesses of the caverned rocks;
The little rills, and waters numberless,
Inaudible by daylight, blend their notes
With the loud streams: and often, at the hour 1175
When issue forth the first pale stars, is heard,
Within the circuit of this fabric huge,
One voice the solitary raven, flying
Athwart the concave of the dark blue dome,
Unseen, perchance above all power of sight
An iron knell! with echoes from afar
P
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245
:
Faint and still fainter
The wanderer accompanies her flight
Through the calm region, fades upon the ear,
Diminishing by distance till it seemed
To expire; yet from the abyss is caught again,
And yet again recovered!"
K
M
as the cry, with which
99
BOOK NINTH
"To every Form of being is assigned,
Thus calmly spake the venerable Sage,
"An active Principle: - howe'er removed
From sense and observation, it subsists
In all things, in all natures; in the stars.
Of azure heaven, the unenduring clouds,
In flower and tree, in every pebbly stone
That paves the brooks, the stationary rocks,
The moving waters, and the invisible air.
Whate'er exists hath properties that spread
Beyond itself, communicating good,
A simple blessing, or with evil mixed;
Spirit that knows no insulated spot,
No chasm, no solitude; from link to link
It circulates, the Soul of all the worlds.
This is the freedom of the universe;
Unfolded still the more, more visible,
The more we know; and yet is reverenced least,
And least respected in the human Mind,
Its most apparent home. The food of hope 20
Is meditated action; robbed of this
Her sole support, she languishes and dies.
We perish also; for we live by hope
And by desire; we see by the glad light
And breathe the sweet air of futurity;
1185
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
And so we live, or else we have no life."
"Alas! what differs more than man from man!
And whence that difference? whence but from himself?
For see the universal Race endowed
With the same upright form! The sun is fixed,
And the infinite magnificence of heaven
Fixed, within reach of every human eye;
The sleepless ocean murmurs for all ears;
The vernal field infuses fresh delight
fly
Into all hearts. Throughout the world of sense,
Even as an object is sublime or fair,
That object is laid open to the view
Without reserve or veil; and as a power
Is salutary, or an influence sweet,
Are each and all enabled to perceive
That power, that influence, by impartial law.
Gifts nobler are vouchsafed alike to all;
Reason, and, with that reason, smiles and tears;
Imagination, freedom in the will;
Conscience to guide and check; and death to be
Foretasted, immortality conceived
By all, a blissful immortality,
To them whose holiness on earth shall make
The Spirit capable of heaven, assured.
•
The failure, if the Almighty, to this point
Liberal and undistinguishing, should hide
The excellence of moral qualities
From common understanding; leaving truth
And virtue, difficult, abstruse, and dark;
Hard to be won, and only by a few;
Strange, should He deal herein with nice respects,
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225
Strange, then, nor less than monstrous, might be
deemed
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
247
Believe it not:
like stars;
And frustrate all the rest!
The primal duties shine aloft
The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless,
Are scattered at the feet of Man
The generous inclination, the just rule,
Kind wishes, and good actions, and pure thoughts-
No mystery is here! Here is no boon
like flowers. 240
For high — yet not for low; for proudly graced -
Yet not for meek of heart. The smoke ascends 245
To heaven as lightly from the cottage hearth
As from the haughtiest palace. He, whose soul
Ponders this true equality, may walk
The fields of earth with gratitude and hope;
Yet, in that meditation, will he find
Motive to sadder grief, as we have found;
Lamenting ancient virtues overthrown,
And for the injustice grieving, that hath made
So wide a difference between man and man.
250
In the following two poems Wordsworth turns to classical sources
for his themes. The immediate cause of his revived interest in clas-
sical subjects was his activity in preparing his eldest son for entrance
in the university. Of the Laodamia he says: "The incident of the
trees growing and withering put the subject into my thoughts, and I
wrote with the hope of giving it a loftier tone than, so far as I know,
has been given to it by any of the Ancients who have treated of it.'
So in Dion he interprets the apparition of the Spectre as not merely
an ominous sign, as did Plutarch, but as having moral significance,
giving it a loftier tone. In both poems he achieved classical clear-
ness of outline and a majestic simplicity of manner.
""
LAODAMIA
"WITH sacrifice before the rising morn
Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired;
And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn
Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required:
248 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
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; 10
Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows;
And she expects the issue in repose.
O joy!
O terror! what hath she perceived?
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, wingèd Mercury!
Laodamía! 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!”
Mild Hermes spake - and touched her with his wand
That calms all fear; "Such grace hath crowned thy
prayer,
20
Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to
clasp;
5
Again that consummation she essayed;
But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp
As often as that eager grasp was made.
The Phantom parts - but parts to re-unite,
And re-assume his place before her sight.
"Protesiláus, lo! thy guide is gone!
Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice:
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249
This is our palace, - yonder is thy throne;
Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice.
Not to appal me have the gods bestowed
This precious boon; and blest a sad abode."
"Great Jove, Laodamia! doth not leave
His gifts imperfect: Spectre though I be,
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive;
But in reward of thy fidelity.
And something also did my worth obtain;
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain.
""
"Supreme of Heroes bravest, noblest, best!
Thy matchless courage I bewail no more,
Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest
By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore;
Thou found'st and I forgive thee here thou
art
A nobler counsellor than my poor heart.
"Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold
That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand
Should die; but me the threat could not withhold: 45
A generous cause a victim did demand;
And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain;
A self-devoted chief - by Hector slain.'
"But thou, though capable of sternest deed,
Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave;
And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed
Thou should'st elude the malice of the grave:
Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair
As when their breath. enriched Thessalian air.
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55
60
:
250 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
"No Spectre greets me, no vain Shadow this;
Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side!
Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss
To me, this day, a second time thy bride!"
Jove frowned in heaven: the conscious Parcæ threw
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue.
"This visage tells thee that my doom is past:
Nor should the change be mourned, even if the joys
Of sense were able to return as fast
And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys
Those raptures duly - Erebus disdains:
Calm pleasures there abide
majestic pains.
"Be taught, O faithful Consort, to control
Rebellious passion: for the Gods approve
The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul;
A fervent, not ungovernable, love.
Thy transports moderate; and meekly mourn
When I depart, for brief is my sojourn
دو
"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 Æson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers.
"The Gods to us are merciful
and they
Yet further may relent: for mightier far
Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway
Of magic potent over sun and star,
Is love, though oft to agony distrest,
And though his favourite seat be feeble woman's
breast.
•
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251
"Peace!" he said,
"But if thou goest, I follow
She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered;
The ghastly colour from his lips had fled;
In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared
Elysian beauty, melancholy grace,
Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
""
He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel
In worlds whose course is equable and pure;
No fears to beat away no strife to heal
The past unsighed for, and the future sure;
Spake of heroic arts in graver mood
Revived, with finer harmony pursued;
imaged there
Of all that is most beauteous
In happier beauty; more pellucid streams,
An ampler ether, a diviner air,
And fields invested with purpureal gleams;
Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day
Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey.
Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earned
That privilege by virtue. — “Ill,” 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;
"And while my youthful peers before my eyes
(Each hero following his peculiar bent)
Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise
By martial sports, or, seated in the tent,
Chieftains and kings in council were detained;
What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained.
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252 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
"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.
125
"Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang
When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife!
On thee too fondly did my memory hang,
And on the joys we shared in mortal life,
The paths which we had trod these fountains,
G
flowers,
My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers.
"But should suspense permit the Foe to cry,
'Behold they tremble! haughty their array,
Yet of their number no one dares to die?'
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 re-union in the shades below.
The invisible world with thee hath sympathised;
Be thy affections raised and solemnised.
"Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend-
Seeking a higher object. Love was given,
Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end;
For this the passion to excess was driven
That self might be annulled: her bondage prove
The fetters of a dream opposed to love.”
K
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
253
Aloud she shrieked! for Hermes reappears!
Round the dear Shade she would have clung - 'tis
vain:
The hours are past too brief had they been years;
And him no mortal effort can detain:
Add
Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day,
He through the portal takes his silent way,
And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse She lay.
156
Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved,
She perished; and, as for a wilful crime,
By the just Gods whom no weak pity moved,
Was doomed to wear out her appointed time,
Apart from happy Ghosts, that 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; 170
And ever, when such stature they had gained
That Ilium's walls were subject to their view,
The trees' tall summits withered at the sight;
A constant interchange of growth and blight!
DION
(See Plutarch)
I
SERENE, and fitted to embrace,
Where'er he turned, a swan-like grace
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254 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
17
Of haughtiness without pretence,
And to unfold a still magnificence,
Was princely Dion, in the power
And beauty of his happier hour.
And what pure homage then did wait
On Dion's virtues, while the lunar beam
Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere,
Fell round him in the grove of Academe,
Softening their inbred dignity austere -
That he, not too elate
With self-sufficing solitude,
But with majestic lowliness endued,
Might in the universal bosom reign,
And from affectionate observance gain
Help, under every change of adverse fate.
II
LO
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Five thousand warriors-O the rapturous day!
Each crowned with flowers, and armed with spear and
shield,
Or ruder weapon which their course might yield, 20
To Syracuse advance in bright array.
Who leads them on? The anxious people see
Long-exiled Dion marching at their head,
He also crowned with flowers of Sicily,
And in a white, far-beaming, corselet clad!
Pure transport undisturbed by doubt or fear
The gazers feel; and, rushing to the plain,
Salute those strangers as a holy train
Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear)
That brought their precious liberty again.
Lo! when the gates are entered, on each hand,
Down the long street, rich goblets filled with wine
In seemly order stand,
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POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 255
On tables set, as if for rites divine;
And, as the great Deliverer marches by,
He looks on festal ground with fruits bestrown;
And flowers are on his person thrown
In boundless prodigality;
Nor doth the general voice abstain from prayer,
Invoking Dion's tutelary care,
As if a very Deity he were!
35
III
Mourn, hills and groves of Attica! and mourn
Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn!
Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads
Your once sweet memory, studious walks and shades!
For him who to divinity aspired,
46
stars)
Which Dion learned to measure with sublime
40
Not on the breath of popular applause,
But through dependence on the sacred laws
Framed in the schools where Wisdom dwelt retired,
Intent to trace the ideal path of right
50
(More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved with
As, through the abysses of a joyless heart,
The heaviest plummet of despair can go -
But whence that sudden check? that fearful start!
delight; -
But He hath overleaped the eternal bars;
And, following guides whose craft holds no consent
With aught that breathes the ethereal element,
Hath stained the robes of civil power with blood,
Unjustly shed, though for the public good.
Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain,
Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain;
And oft his cogitations sink as low
55
60
256 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
He hears an uncouth sound
Anon his lifted eyes
Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound,
A Shape of more than mortal size
And hideous aspect, stalking round and round!
A woman's garb the Phantom wore,
And fiercely swept the marble floor, -
Like Auster whirling to and fro,
His force on Caspian foam to try;
Or Boreas when he scours the snow
That skins the plains of Thessaly,
Or when aloft on Mænalus he stops
His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops!
A
K
""
· 65
IV
So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping,
The sullen Spectre to her purpose bowed,
Sweeping vehemently sweeping
No pause admitted, no design avowed!
"Avaunt, inexplicable Guest! — avaunt,
Exclaimed the Chieftain "let me rather see
The coronal that coiling vipers make;
The torch that flames with many a lurid flake,
And the long train of doleful pageantry
Which they behold, whom vengeful Furies haunt;
Who, while they struggle from the scourge to flee,
Move where the blasted soil is not unworn,
And, in their anguish, bear what other minds
have borne!"
70
75
80
85
V
But Shapes that come not at an earthly call, 90
Will not depart when mortal voices bid;
Lords of the visionary eye whose lid,
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH_257
Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall!
Ye Gods, thought He, that servile Implement
Obeys a mystical intent!
Your Minister would brush away
The spots that to my soul adhere;
But should she labour night and day,
They will not, cannot disappear;
Whence angry perturbations,
Which no Philosophy can brook!
and that look
VI
Ill-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built
Upon the ruins of thy glorious name;
Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt,
Pursue thee with their deadly aim!
95
-
100
105
O matchless perfidy! portentous lust
Of monstrous crime! - that horror-striking blade,
Drawn in defiance of the Gods, hath laid
The noble Syracusan low in dust!
Shuddered the walls the marble city wept 110
And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh;
But in calm peace the appointed Victim slept,
As he had fallen in magnanimity;
Of spirit too capacious to require
That Destiny her course should change; too just 115
To his own native greatness to desire
That wretched boon, days lengthened by mistrust.
So were the hopeless troubles, that involved
The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved.
Released from life and cares of princely state,
He left this moral grafted on his Fate;
"Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends,
Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends,
Whose means are fair and spotless as his ends."
120
258
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Wordsworth was both a major and a minor poet. Not considering
his sonnets, he wrote a great deal of excellent minor poetry in his
later years. But this poetry inevitably demands comparison with
his earlier major works, and thereby suffers and is not often quoted.
Many of his religious pieces, as for instance Presentiments, The Prim-
rose of the Rock, Devotional Incitements, If This Great World of Joy
and Pain, On a High Part of the Coast of Cumberland, etc., bear com-
parison with the best religious poetry of the seventeenth century, of
Herbert, Vaughan, Crashaw, etc. In the following three poems of his
later years Wordsworth has caught something of the inspiration of
his earlier poetry.
COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF
EXTRAORDINARY SPLENDOUR
AND BEAUTY
I
HAD this effulgence disappeared
With flying haste, I might have sent,
Among the speechless clouds, a look
Of blank astonishment;
But 'tis endued with power to stay,
And sanctify one closing day,
That frail Mortality may see
What is? ah no, but what can be!
Time was when field and watery cove
With modulated echoes rang,
While choirs of fervent Angels sang
Their vespers in the grove;
Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height,
Warbled, for heaven above and earth below,
Strains suitable to both. Such holy rite,
Methinks, if audibly repeated now
From hill or valley, could not move
Sublimer transport, purer love,
Than doth this silent spectacle
The shadow and the peace supreme!
-
the gleam
LO
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15
20
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
259
II
p
No sound is uttered, but a deep
And solemn harmony pervades
The hollow vale from steep to steep,
And penetrates the glades.
Far-distant images draw nigh,
Called forth by wondrous potency
Of beamy radiance, that imbues,
Whate'er it strikes, with gem-like hues!
In vision exquisitely clear,
Herds range along the mountain side;
And glistening antlers are descried;
And gilded flocks appear.
Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve!
But long as god-like wish, or hope divine,
Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe.
That this magnificence is wholly thine!
From worlds not quickened by the sun
A portion of the gift is won;
An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread
On ground which British shepherds tread!
III
And, if there be whom broken ties
Afflict, or injuries assail,
Yon hazy ridges to their eyes
Present a glorious scale,
Climbing suffused with sunny air,
To stop
no record hath told where!
And tempting Fancy to ascend,
And with immortal Spirits blend!
Wings at my shoulders seem to play;
But, rooted here, I stand and gaze
25
30
35
40
45
50
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
On those bright steps that heavenward raise
Their practicable way.
Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad,
And see to what fair countries ye are bound!
And if some traveller, weary of his road,
Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy ground,
Ye Genii! to his covert speed;
260
And wake him with such gentle heed
As may attune his soul to meet the dower
Bestowed on this transcendent hour!
IV
Such hues from their celestial Urn
Were wont to stream before mine eye,
Where'er it wandered in the morn
Of blissful infancy.
This glimpse of glory, why renewed?
Nay, rather speak with gratitude;
For, if a vestige of those gleams
Survived, 'twas only in my dreams.
Dread Power! whom peace and calmness serve
No less than Nature's threatening voice,
If aught unworthy be my choice,
From THEE if I would swerve;
Oh, let thy grace remind me of the light
Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored;
Which, at this moment, on my waking sight
Appears to shine, by miracle restored;
My soul, though yet confined to earth,
Rejoices in a second birth!
"Tis past, the visionary splendour fades;
And night approaches with her shades.
55
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65
70
75
80
1818
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 261
ΤΟ
Written at Rydal Mount. To Mrs. W.
O DEARER far than light and life are dear,
Full oft our human foresight I deplore;
Trembling, through my unworthiness, with fear
That friends, by death disjoined, may meet no more!
Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control,
Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest;
While all the future, for thy purer soul,
With "sober certainties" of love is blest.
That sigh of thine, not meant for human ear,
Tells that these words thy humbleness offend;
Yet bear me up
else faltering in the rear
Of a steep march: support me to the end.
5
10
Peace settles where the intellect is meek,
And Love is dutiful in thought and deed;
Through Thee communion with that Love I seek: 15
The faith Heaven strengthens where he moulds the
Creed.
1824
TO A SKY-LARK
ETHEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
Those quivering wings composed, that music still!
5
262 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
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!
10
1825
With Shakespeare and Milton, Wordsworth shares the honour of
being one of three greatest sonnet writers in the English language.
His power of writing distinctive sonnets he retained into old age. Of
the three groups of sonnets selected for this book those of the first,
that is, the 1802 group, are lofty, spiritually intense, and imagina-
tively suggestive. Of the second group those that come after 1807
are powerful but lack somewhat in suggestiveness. The following
thirteen sonnets, selected from a period of thirty years, from about
1812 to 1842, are characterized by felicity, fulness, and evenness of
execution. Their wisdom and unpretentious beauty sink into one
the more one contemplates them at leisure. Their subject-matter
varies greatly. The first contrasts the Greek manner of interpreting
Nature with the poet's own. The second commemorates the death
of his daughter Catharine many years after her demise. The third
and fourth are Nature sonnets. In After-Thought, the concluding
sonnet in the series THE RIVER DUDDON, the poet again asserts the
inward transcendent faith of the heart. Against the conclusion based
on knowledge of appearances and outward facts is the conclusion of
an unerring intuition of the mind. Mutability and the three on Inside
of King's College Chapel are selected from the series ECCLESIASTICAL
SONNETS. The last three of these show Wordsworth's fine apprecia-
tion of beauty in architecture. Most Sweet it is with Unuplifted
Eyes is one of the loveliest and felicitous of all his sonnets. The last
three sonnets and the concluding poem are dedicated to the art of
poetry. The poem, sometimes printed as introductory to a volume
of Wordsworth's poetry, may well be chosen to close this series of
selections.
"BROOK! WHOSE SOCIETY THE POET
SEEKS"
BROOK! whose society the Poet seeks,
Intent his wasted spirits to renew;
And whom the curious Painter doth pursue
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
263
Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks,
And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks;
If wish were mine some type of thee to view,
Thee, and not thee thyself, I would not do
Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks,
Channels for tears; no Naiad should'st thou be,
Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints nor hairs: 10
It seems the Eternal Soul is clothed in thee
With purer robes than those of flesh and blood,
And hath bestowed on thee a safer good;
Unwearied joy, and life without its cares.
"SURPRISED BY JOY
THE WIND”
IMPATIENT AS
BEFORE 1815
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
SURPRISED by joy — impatient as the Wind
▬▬▬▬
I turned to share the transport — Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss? That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
BEFORE 1815
5
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264 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
"HAIL, TWILIGHT, SOVEREIGN OF ONE
PEACEFUL HOUR"
HAIL, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour!
Not dull art Thou as undiscerning Night;
But studious only to remove from sight.
Day's mutable distinctions. - Ancient Power!
Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lower, 5
To the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin vest
Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest
On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower
Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen
The self-same Vision which we now behold,
At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power! brought forth
These mighty barriers, and the gulf between;
The flood, the stars, a spectacle as old
As the beginning of the heavens and earth!
10
BEFORE 1815
NOVEMBER 1
How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright
The effluence from yon distant mountain's head,
Which, strewn with snow smooth as the sky can shed,
Shines like another sun on mortal sight
Uprisen, as if to check approaching Night,
And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread,
If so he might, yon mountain's glittering head
Terrestrial, but a surface, by the flight
Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing,
Unswept, unstained? Nor shall the aërial Powers 10
Dissolve that beauty, destined to endure,
White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure,
Through all vicissitudes, till genial Spring
Has filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers.
Kat
LA
5
1815
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 265
AFTER-THOUGHT
I THOUGHT of Thee, my partner and my guide,
As being past away. - Vain sympathies!
For, backward, Duddon, as I cast my eyes,
I see what was, and is, and will abide;
Still glides the Stream, and shall forever glide;
The Form remains, the Function never dies;
While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,
We Men, who in our morn of youth defied
be it so!
The elements, must vanish;
Enough, if something from our hands have power 10
To live, and act, and serve the future hour;
And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,
Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
dower,
We feel that we are greater than we know.
1820
Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear
The longest date do melt like frosty rime,
That in the morning whitened hill and plain
And is no more; drop like the tower sublime
Of yesterday, which royally did wear
His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain
Some casual shout that broke the silent air,
Or the unimaginable touch of Time.
LO
MUTABILITY
FROM low to high doth dissolution climb,
And sink from high to low, along a scale
Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail;
A musical but melancholy chime,
Which they can hear who meddle not with crime, 5
Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care.
5
10
1821
266 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL
CAMBRIDGE
TAX not the royal Saint with vain expense,
With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned
Albeit labouring for a scanty band
Of white robed Scholars only- this immense
And glorious Work of fine intelligence!
Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
Of nicely-calculated less or more;
So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense
These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, 10
Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
Lingering and wandering on as loth to die;
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
That they were born for immortality.
THE SAME
WHAT awful perspective! while from our sight
With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide
Their Portraitures, their stone-work glimmers, dyed
In the soft checkerings of a sleepy light.
Martyr, or King, or sainted Eremite,
Whoe'er ye be, that thus, yourselves unseen,
Imbue your prison-bars with solemn sheen,
Shine on, until ye fade with coming Night!-
But, from the arms of silence list! O list!
The music bursteth into second life;
―
1821
The notes luxuriate, every stone is kissed
By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife;
Heart-thrilling strains, that cast, before the eye
Of the devout, a vail of ecstasy!
LO
5
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1821
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 267
CONTINUED
THEY dreamt not of a perishable home
Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear
Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here;
Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam;
Where bubbles burst, and folly's dancing foam
Melts, if it cross the threshold; where the wreath
Of awe-struck wisdom droops: or let my path
Lead to that younger Pile, whose sky-like dome
Hath typified by reach of daring art
Infinity's embrace; whose guardian crest,
The silent Cross, among the stars shall spread
As now, when She hath also seen her breast
Filled with mementos, satiate with its part
Of grateful England's overflowing Dead.
1821
"MOST SWEET IT IS WITH UNUPLIFTED
EYES"
Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
To pace the ground, if path be there or none,
While a fair region round the traveller lies
Which he forbears again to look upon;
Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between
The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:
With Thought and Love companions of our way,
Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,
The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
Of inspirations on the humblest lay.
LO
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LO
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1833
268 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
TO B. R. HAYDON
HIGH is our calling, Friend! - Creative Art
(Whether the instrument of words she use,
Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues,)
Demands the service of a mind and heart,
Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part,
Heroically fashioned to infuse.
Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse,
While the whole world seems adverse to desert.
And, oh! when Nature sinks, as oft she may,
Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress,
Still to be strenuous for the bright reward,
And in the soul admit of no decay,
Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness
Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
1815
"SCORN NOT THE SONNET"
SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honours; with this key
Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camöens soothed an exile's grief;
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faëryland
To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul-animating strains - alas, too few!
LO
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1827
POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
269
66
A POET! — HE HATH PUT HIS HEART
TO SCHOOL"
A Poet! He hath put his heart to school,
Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff
Which Art hath lodged within his hand
By precept only, and shed tears by rule.
Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff,
And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool,
In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool
Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph.
How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold?
Because the lovely little flower is free
Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold;
And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree
Comes not by casting in a formal mould,
But from its own divine vitality.
must laugh
BEFORE 1842
"IF THOU INDEED DERIVE THY LIGHT
FROM HEAVEN"
Of some dark mountain; or than those which seem
Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter lamps,
LO
5
10
If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven,
Then, to the measure of that heaven-born light,
Shine, Poet! in thy place, and be content:-
The stars pre-eminent in magnitude,
And they that from the zenith dart their beams, 5
(Visible though they be to half the earth,
Though half a sphere be conscious of their brightness)
Are yet of no diviner origin,
No purer essence, than the one that burns,
Like an untended watch-fire on the ridge
10
270 POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Among the branches of the leafless trees.
All are the undying offspring of one Sire:
Then, to the measure of the light vouchsafed, 15
Shine, Poet! in thy place, and be content.
1832
PREFACE TO LATER ISSUES
OF "LYRICAL BALLADS"
THE following preface, in its main essentials, was first published with
the second edition of the Lyrical Ballads in 1800. This preface was
revised and enlarged when reprinted in 1802. It was added to and
variously modified in successive editions of Wordsworth's poems, re-
ceiving its final revision in 1845. Just as the Lyrical Ballads of 1793
made an epoch in the history of English poetry, so, in a lesser way,
the preface of 1800 made an epoch in the history of literary criticism.
Though it may be admitted that in his attack on the corruptions of
language in poetry Wordsworth carried the matter too far, the preface
contains a great deal that is permanent and fundamental in the na-
ture of poetic language, the character of the poet, and the ultimate
quality of poetry.
THE first Volume of these Poems has already been sub-
mitted to general perusal. It was published as an ex-
periment, which, I hoped, might be of some use to as-
certain how far, by fitting to metrical arrangement a
selection of the real language of men in a state of vivid
sensation, that sort of pleasure and that quantity of
pleasure may be imparted, which a Poet may rationally
endeavour to impart.
I had formed no very inaccurate estimate of the
probable effect of those Poems: I flattered myself that
they who should be pleased with them would read
them with more than common pleasure; and, on the
other hand, I was well aware, that by those who
should dislike them they would be read with more
than common dislike. The result has differed from
my expectation in this only, that a greater number
have been pleased than I ventured to hope I should
please.
272
PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS
Several of my Friends are anxious for the success of
these Poems, from a belief that, if the views with which
they were composed were indeed realised, a class of
poetry would be produced, well adapted to interest
mankind permanently, and not unimportant in the
quality and in the multiplicity of its moral relations:
and on this account they have advised me to prefix a
systematic defence of the theory upon which the Poems
were written. But I was unwilling to undertake the
task, knowing that on this occasion the Reader would
look coldly upon my arguments, since I might be
suspected of having been principally influenced by
the selfish and foolish hope of reasoning him into an
approbation of these particular Poems: and I was still
more unwilling to undertake the task, because ade-
quately to display the opinions, and fully to enforce
the arguments, would require a space wholly dispro-
portionate to a preface. For, to treat the subject with
the clearness and coherence of which it is susceptible,
it would be necessary to give a full account of the pres-
ent state of the public taste in this country, and to
determine how far this taste is healthy or depraved;
which, again, could not be determined without point-
ing out in what manner language and the human mind
act and re-act on each other, and without retracing the
revolutions, not of literature alone, but likewise of soci-
ety itself. I have therefore altogether declined to en-
ter regularly upon this defence; yet I am sensible that
there would be some impropriety in abruptly obtrud-
ing upon the Public, without a few words of intro-
duction, Poems so materially different from those
upon which general approbation is at present be-
stowed.
It is supposed that by the act of writing in verse an
!
PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS
273
Author makes a formal engagement that he will gratify
certain known habits of association; that he not only
thus apprises the Reader that certain classes of ideas
and expressions will be found in his book, but that oth-
ers will be carefully excluded. This exponent or sym-
bol held forth by metrical language must in different
eras of literature have excited very different expecta-
tions: for example, in the age of Catullus, Terence, and
Lucretius, and that of Statius or Claudian; and in our
own country, in the age of Shakspere and Beaumont
and Fletcher, and that of Donne and Cowley, or Dry-
den, or Pope. I will not take upon me to determine
the exact import of the promise which, by the act of
writing in verse, an Author in the present day makes
to his reader; but it will undoubtedly appear to many
persons that I have not fulfilled the terms of an engage-
ment thus voluntarily contracted. They who have
been accustomed to the gaudiness and inane phraseol-
ogy of many modern writers, if they persist in reading
this book to its conclusion, will, no doubt, frequently
have to struggle with feelings of strangeness and awk-
wardness: they will look round for poetry, and will be
induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these
attempts can be permitted to assume that title. I
hope, therefore, the reader will not censure me for at-
tempting to state what I have proposed to myself to
perform; and also (as far as the limits of a preface will
permit) to explain some of the chief reasons which
have determined me in the choice of my purpose: that
at least he may be spared any unpleasant feeling of dis-
appointment, and that I myself may be protected from
one of the most dishonourable accusations which can
be brought against an Author, namely, that of an indo-
lence which prevents him from endeavouring to ascer-
274
PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS
tain what is his duty, or, when his duty is ascertained,
prevents him from performing it.
The principal object, then, proposed in these Poems,
was to choose incidents and situations from common
life, and to relate or 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 colouring of imagination, whereby ordinary
things should be presented to the mind in an unusual
aspect, and further, and above all, to make these inci-
dents and situations interesting by tracing in them,
truly though not ostentatiously, the primary laws of
our nature: chiefly, as far as regards the manner in
which we associate ideas in a state of excitement.
Humble and rustic 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
less under restraint, and speak a plainer and more em-
phatic language; because in that condition of life our
elementary feelings co-exist in a state of greater sim-
plicity, and, consequently, may be more accurately
contemplated, and more forcibly communicated; be-
cause the manners of rural life germinate from those
elementary feelings; and from the necessary character
of rural occupations, are more easily comprehended,
and are more durable; and, lastly, because in that con-
dition the passions of men are incorporated with the
beautiful and permanent forms of nature. The lan-
guage, too, of these men is adopted (purified indeed
from what appears to be its real defects, from all lasting
and rational causes of dislike or disgust), because such
men hourly communicate with the best objects from
which the best part of language is originally derived;
and because, from their rank in society and the same-
PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS
275
ness and narrow circle of their intercourse, being less
under the influence of social vanity, they convey their
feelings and notions in simple and unelaborated ex-
pressions. Accordingly such a language, arising out of
repeated experience and regular feelings, is a more per-
manent, and a far more philosophical language, than
that which is frequently substituted for it by Poets, who
think that they are conferring honour upon themselves
and their art, in proportion as they separate themselves
from the sympathies of men, and indulge in arbitrary
and capricious habits of expression, in order to furnish
food for fickle tastes and fickle appetites of their own
creation.
I cannot, however, be insensible to the present
outcry against the triviality and meanness, both of
thought and language, which some of my contempo-
raries have occasionally introduced into their metri-
cal compositions; and I acknowledge that this defect,
where it exists, is more dishonourable to the Writer's
own character than false refinement or arbitrary inno-
vation, though I should contend at the same time that
it is far less pernicious in the sum of its consequences.
From such verses the Poems in these volumes will be
found distinguished at least by one mark of difference,
that each of them has a worthy purpose. Not that I
always began to write with a distinct purpose formally
conceived; but habits of meditation have, I trust, sɔ
prompted and regulated my feelings, as that my de-
scriptions of such objects as strongly excite those feel-
ings, will be found to carry along with them a purpose.
If this opinion be erroneous, I can have little right to the
name of a Poet. For all good poetry is the spontaneous
overflow of powerful feelings: and though this be true,
Poems to which any value can be attached were never
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produced on any variety of subjects but by a man who,
being possessed of more than usual organic sensibility,
had also thought long and deeply. For our continued
influxes of feeling are modified and directed by our
thoughts, which are indeed the representatives of all
our past feelings; and as, by contemplating the relation
of these general representatives to each other, we dis-
cover what is really important to men, so, by the repe-
tition and continuance of this act, our feelings will be
connected with important subjects, till at length, if we
be originally possessed of much sensibility, such habits
of mind will be produced that, by obeying blindly and
mechanically the impulses of those habits, we shall de-
scribe objects, and utter sentiments, of such a nature,
and in such connection with each other, that the un-
derstanding of the Reader must necessarily be in some
degree enlightened, and his affections strengthened
and purified.
It has been said that each of these Poems has a pur-
pose. Another circumstance must be mentioned which
distinguishes these Poems from the popular Poetry of
the day; it is this, that the feeling therein developed
gives importance to the action and situation, and not
the action and situation to the feeling.
A sense of false modesty shall not prevent me from
asserting that the Reader's attention is pointed to
this mark of distinction, far less for the sake of these
particular Poems than from the general importance of
the subject. The subject is indeed important! For
the human mind is capable of being excited without the
application of gross and violent stimulants; and he
must have a very faint perception of its beauty and
dignity who does not know this, and who does not
further know, that one being is elevated above an-
PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS
277
other, in proportion as he possesses this capability.
It has therefore appeared to me, that to endeavour to
produce or enlarge this capability is one of the best
services in which, at any period, a Writer can be
engaged; but this service, excellent at all times, is
especially so at the present day. For a multitude of
causes, unknown to former times, are now acting
with a combined force to blunt the discriminating
powers of the mind, and, unfitting it for all voluntary
exertion, to reduce it to a state of almost savage
torpor. The most effective of these causes are the
great national events which are daily taking place, and
the increasing accumulation of men in cities, where
the uniformity of their occupations produces a craving
for extraordinary incident which the rapid communi-
cation of intelligence hourly gratifies. To this tend-
ency of life and manners the literature and theatrical
exhibitions of the country have conformed themselves.
The invaluable works of our elder writers, I had almost
said the works of Shakspere and Milton, are driven
into neglect by frantic novels, sickly and stupid Ger-
man Tragedies, and deluges of idle and extravagant
stories in verse. When I think upon this degrad-
ing thirst after outrageous stimulation, I am almost
ashamed to have spoken of the feeble endeavour made.
in these volumes to counteract it; and, reflecting upon
the magnitude of the general evil, I should be op-
pressed with no dishonourable melancholy, had I not a
deep impression of certain inherent and indestructible
qualities of the human mind, and likewise of certain
powers in the great and permanent objects that act
upon it, which are equally inherent and indestructible;
and were there not added to this impression a belief
that the time is approaching when the evil will be sys-
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tematically opposed by men of greater powers, and
with far more distinguished success.
Having dwelt thus long on the subjects and aim of
these Poems, I shall request the Reader's permission
to apprise him of a few circumstances relating to their
style, in order, among other reasons, that he may
not censure me for not having performed what I
never attempted. The Reader will find that personi-
fications of abstract ideas rarely occur in these vol-
umes, and are utterly rejected as an ordinary device
to elevate the style and raise it above prose. My
purpose was to imitate, and, as far as is possible, to
adopt the very language of men; and assuredly such
personifications do not make any natural or regular
part of that language. They are, indeed, a figure of
speech occasionally prompted by passion, and I have
made use of them as such; but have endeavoured ut-
terly to reject them as a mechanical device of style, or
as a family language which Writers in metre seem to lay
claim to by prescription. I have wished to keep the
Reader in the company of flesh and blood, persuaded
that by so doing I shall interest him. Others who pur-
sue a different track will interest him likewise; I do not
interfere with their claim, but wish to prefer a claim
of my own. There will also be found in these vol-
umes little of what is usually called poetic diction; as
much pains has been taken to avoid it as is ordinarily
taken to produce it; this has been done for the reason
already alleged, to bring my language near to the lan-
guage of men; and further, because the pleasure which
I have proposed to myself to impart is of a kind very
different from that which is supposed by many persons
to be the proper object of poetry. Without being cul-
pably particular, I do not know how to give my Reader
PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS
279
-
a more exact notion of the style in which it was my
wish and intention to write, than by informing him that
I have at all times endeavoured to look steadily at my
subject; consequently there is, I hope, in these Poems
little falsehood of description, and my ideas are ex-
pressed in language fitted to their respective impor-
tance. Something must have been gained by this prac-
tice, as it is friendly to one property of all good poetry,
namely, good sense; but it has necessarily cut me off
from a large portion of phrases and figures of speech
which from father to son have long been regarded as
the common inheritance of Poets. I have also thought
it expedient to restrict myself still further, having ab-
stained from the use of many expressions, in themselves
proper and beautiful, but which have been foolishly re-
peated by bad Poets, till such feelings of disgust are
connected with them as it is scarcely possible by any
art of association to overpower.
If in a poem there should be found a series of lines,
or even a single line, in which the language, though
naturally arranged, and according to the strict laws of
metre, does not differ from that of prose, there is a nu-
merous class of critics who, when they stumble upon
these prosaisms, as they call them, imagine that they
have made a notable discovery, and exult over the Poet
as over a man ignorant of his own profession. Now
these men would establish a canon of criticism which
the Reader will conclude he must utterly reject, if he
wishes to be pleased with these volumes. And it would
be a most easy task to prove to him that not only the
language of a large portion of every good poem, even
of the most elevated character, must necessarily, ex-
cept with reference to the metre, in no respect differ
from that of good prose, but likewise that some of the
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most interesting parts of the best poems will be found
to be strictly the language of prose when prose is well
written. The truth of this assertion might be demon-
strated by innumerable passages from almost all the
poetical writings, even of Milton himself. To illus-
trate the subject in a general manner, I will here ad-
duce a short composition of Gray, who was at the head
of those who, by their reasonings, have attempted to
widen the space of separation betwixt Prose and Metri-
cal composition, and was more than any other man
curiously elaborate in the structure of his own poetic.
diction.
In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,
And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire:
The birds in vain their amorous descant join,
Or cheerful fields resume their green attire.
These ears, alas! for other notes repine;
A different object do these eyes require;
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire:
Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
And new-born pleasure brings to happier men;
The fields to all their wonted tribute bear;
To warm their little loves the birds complain.
I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,
And weep the more because I weep in vain.
-
It will easily be perceived, that the only part of this
Sonnet which is of any value is the lines printed in Ital-
ics; it is equally obvious that, except in the rhyme, and
in the use of the single word "fruitless" for fruitlessly,
which is so far a defect, the language of these lines does
in no respect differ from that of prose.
By the foregoing quotation it has been shown that the
language of Prose may yet be well adapted to poetry;
and it was previously asserted that a large portion of
the language of every good poem can in no respect dif-
PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS
281
fer from that of good Prose. We will go further. It
may be safely affirmed that there neither is, nor can
be, any essential difference between the language of
prose and metrical composition. We are fond of trac-
ing the resemblance between Poetry and Painting, and,
accordingly, we call them Sisters: but where shall we
find bonds of connection sufficiently strict to typify
the affinity betwixt metrical and prose composition?
They both speak by and to the same organs; the bodies
in which both of them are clothed may be said to be of
the same substance, their affections are kindred, and
almost identical, not necessarily differing in degree;
Poetry ¹ sheds no tears "such as angels weep," but nat-
ural and human tears; she can boast of no celestial
ichor that distinguishes her vital juices from those of
Prose; the same human blood circulates through the
veins of them both.
1
If it be affirmed that rhyme and metrical arrange-
ment of themselves constitute a distinction which over-
turns what has just been said on the strict affinity of
metrical language with that of Prose, and paves the way
for other artificial distinctions which the mind volunta-
rily admits, I answer that the language of such Poetry
as is here recommended is, as far as is possible, a selec-
tion of the language really spoken by men; that this se-
lection, wherever it is made with true taste and feeling,
will of itself form a distinction far greater than would at
¹ I here use the word "Poetry" (though against my own judg-
ment) as opposed to the word Prose, and synonymous with
metrical composition. But much confusion has been introduced
into criticism by this contradistinction of Poetry and Prose, in-
stead of the more philosophical one of Poetry and Matter of Fact,
or Science. The only strict antithesis to Prose is Metre; nor is
this, in truth, a strict antithesis; because lines and passages of
metre so naturally occur in writing prose, that it would be
scarcely possible to avoid them, even were it desirable..
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first be imagined, and will entirely separate the compo-
sition from the vulgarity and meanness of ordinary life;
and, if metre be superadded thereto, I believe that a
dissimilitude will be produced altogether sufficient for
the gratification of a rational mind. What other dis-
tinction would we have? Whence is it to come? And
where is it to exist? Not, surely, where the Poet speaks
through the mouths of his characters: it cannot be
necessary here, either for elevation of style, or any of
its supposed ornaments: for, if the Poet's subject be
judiciously chosen, it will naturally, and upon fit occa-
sion, lead him to passions, the language of which, if se-
lected truly and judiciously, must necessarily be digni-
fied and variegated, and alive with metaphors and fig-
ures. I forbear to speak of an incongruity which would
shock the intelligent Reader, should the Poet inter-
weave any foreign splendour of his own with that which
the passion naturally suggests: it is sufficient to say
that such addition is unnecessary. And, surely, it is
more probable that those passages, which with pro-
priety abound with metaphors and figures, will have
effect if, upon other occasions where the passions are
of a milder character, the style also be subdued and
temperate.
Ga
But, as the pleasure which I hope to give by the Po-
ems now presented to the reader must depend entirely
on just notions upon this subject, and as it is in itself of
high importance to our taste and moral feelings, I can-
not content myself with these detached remarks. And
if, in what I am about to say, it shall appear to some
that my labour is unnecessary, and that I am like a
man fighting a battle without enemies, such persons
may be reminded that, whatever may be the language
outwardly holden by men, a practical faith in the opin-
PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS
283
ions which I am wishing to establish is almost un-
known. If my conclusions are admitted, and carried
as far as they must be carried if admitted at all, our
judgments concerning the works of the greatest Poets,
both ancient and modern, will be far different from
what they are at present, both when we praise and
when we censure: and our moral feelings influencing
and influenced by these judgments will, I believe, be
corrected and purified.
Taking up the subject, then, upon general grounds,
let me ask what is meant by the word Poet? What
is a Poet? To whom does he address himself? And
what language is to be expected from him? He is a
man speaking to men: a man, it is true, endowed with
more lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and tender-
ness, who has a greater knowledge of human nature,
and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to
be common among mankind; a man pleased with his
own passions and volitions, and who rejoices more than
other men in the spirit of life that is in him; delighting
to contemplate similar volitions and passions as mani-
fested in the goings-on of the Universe, and habitually
impelled to create them where he does not find them.
To these qualities he has added a disposition to be af-
fected more than other men by absent things as if they
were present; an ability of conjuring up in himself pas-
sions, which are indeed far from being the same as
those produced by real events, yet (especially in those
parts of the general sympathy which are pleasing and
delightful) do more nearly resemble the passions pro-
duced by real events than anything which, from the
motions of their own minds merely, other men are ac-
customed to feel in themselves; whence, and from
practice, he has acquired a greater readiness and
Modulehelle
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power in expressing what he thinks and feels, and
especially those thoughts and feelings which, by his
own choice, or from the structure of his own mind,
arise in him without immediate external excitement.
But, whatever portion of this faculty we may sup-
pose even the greatest Poet to possess, there cannot be
a doubt that the language which it will suggest to
him must often, in liveliness and truth, fall short of
that which is uttered by men in real life, under the
actual pressure of those passions, certain shadows of
which the Poet thus produces, or feels to be produced,
in himself.
However exalted a notion we would wish to cherish
of the character of a Poet, it is obvious that, while he
describes and imitates passions, his employment is in
some degree mechanical, compared with the freedom
and power of real and substantial action and suffering.
So that it will be the wish of the Poet to bring his feel-
ings near to those of the persons whose feelings he de-
scribes, nay, for short spaces of time, perhaps, to let
himself slip into an entire delusion, and even confound
and identify his own feelings with theirs; modifying
only the language which is thus suggested to him by a
consideration that he describes for a particular purpose,
that of giving pleasure. Here, then, he will apply the
principle of selection which has been already insisted
upon. He will depend upon this for removing what
would otherwise be painful or disgusting in the pas-
sion; he will feel that there is no necessity to trick out
or to elevate nature: and, the more industriously he
applies this principle the deeper will be his faith that
no words, which his fancy or imagination can suggest,
will be to be compared with those which are the ema-
nations of reality and truth.
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285
But it may be said by those who do not object to
the general spirit of these remarks, that, as it is impos-
sible for the Poet to produce upon all occasions lan-
guage as exquisitely fitted for the passion as that which
the real passion itself suggests, it is proper that he
should consider himself as in the situation of a transla-
tor, who does not scruple to substitute excellencies of
another kind for those which are unattainable by him;
and endeavours occasionally to surpass his original, in
order to make some amends for the general inferiority
to which he feels that he must submit. But this would
be to encourage idleness and unmanly despair. Fur-
ther, it is the language of men who speak of what they
do not understand; who talk of Poetry as of a matter of
amusement and idle pleasure; who will converse with
us as gravely about a taste for Poetry, as they express it,
as if it were a thing as indifferent as a taste for rope-
dancing, or Frontiniac or Sherry. Aristotle, I have
been told, has said, that Poetry is the most philosophic
of all writing: it is so: its object is truth, not individual
and local, but general, and operative; not standing
upon external testimony, but carried alive into the
heart by passion; truth which is its own testimony,
which gives competence and confidence to the tribunal
to which it appeals, and receives them from the same
tribunal. Poetry is the image of man and nature.
The obstacles which stand in the way of the fidelity of
the Biographer and Historian, and of their consequent
utility, are incalculably greater than those which are
to be encountered by the Poet who comprehends the
dignity of his art. The Poet writes under one restric-
tion only, namely, that of the necessity of giving im-
mediate pleasure to a human Being possessed of that
information which may be expected from him, not as
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a lawyer, a physician, a mariner, an astronomer, or a
natural philosopher, but as a Man. Except this one
restriction, there is no object standing between the
Poet and the image of things; between this, and the
Biographer and Historian there are a thousand.
Nor let this necessity of producing immediate pleas-
ure be considered as a degradation of the Poet's art.
It is far otherwise. It is an acknowledgment of the
beauty of the universe, an acknowledgment the more
sincere because not formal, but indirect; it is a task
light and easy to him who looks at the world in the
spirit of love: further, it is a homage paid to the native
and naked dignity of man, to the grand elementary
principle of pleasure, by which he knows, and feels, and
lives, and moves. We have no sympathy but what is
propagated by pleasure: I would not be misunderstood;
but wherever we sympathise with pain, it will be found
that the sympathy is produced and carried on by sub-
tle combinations with pleasure. We have no knowl-
edge, that is, no general principles drawn from the con-
templation of particular facts, but what has been built
up by pleasure, and exists in us by pleasure alone.
The Man of science, the Chemist and Mathematician,
whatever difficulties and disgusts they may have had
to struggle with, know and feel this. However painful
may be the objects with which the Anatomist's knowl-
edge is connected, he feels that his knowledge is pleas-
ure; and where he has no pleasure he has no know!-
edge. What then does the Poet? He considers man
and the objects that surround him as acting and re-act-
ing upon each other, so as to produce an infinite com-
plexity of pain and pleasure; he considers man in his
own nature and in his ordinary life as contemplating
this with a certain quantity of immediate knowledge,
-
-
PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS
287
with certain convictions, intuitions, and deductions,
which from habit acquire the quality of intuitions; he
considers him as looking upon this complex scene of
ideas and sensations, and finding everywhere objects
that immediately excite in him sympathies which,
from the necessities of his nature, are accompanied by
an overbalance of enjoyment.
To this knowledge which all men carry about with
them, and to these sympathies in which, without any
other discipline than that of our daily life, we are fitted
to take delight, the Poet principally directs his at-
tention. He considers man and nature as essentially
adapted to each other, and the mind of man as nat-
urally the mirror of the fairest and most interesting
qualities of nature. And thus the Poet, prompted by
this feeling of pleasure which accompanies him through
the whole course of his studies, converses with general
nature, with affections akin to those which, through la-
bour and length of time, the Man of science has raised
up in himself, by conversing with those particular parts
of nature which are the objects of his studies. The
knowledge both of the Poet and the Man of science is
pleasure; but the knowledge of the one cleaves to us as
a necessary part of our existence, our natural and in-
alienable inheritance; the other is a personal and in-
dividual acquisition, slow to come to us, and by no
habitual and direct sympathy connecting us with our
fellow-beings. The Man of science seeks truth as a re-
mote and unknown benefactor; he cherishes and loves.
it in his solitude: the Poet, singing a song in which all
human beings join with him, rejoices in the presence
of truth as our visible friend and hourly companion.
Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge;
it is the impassioned expression which is in the coun-
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tenance of all Science. Emphatically may it be said of
the Poet, as Shakspere hath said of man, "that he looks
before and after." He is the rock of defence for human
nature; an upholder and preserver, carrying every-
where with him relationship and love. In spite of dif-
ference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of
laws and customs, in spite of things silently gone out
of mind, and things violently destroyed; the Poet binds
together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of
human society, as it is spread over the whole earth,
and over all time. The objects of the Poet's thoughts
are everywhere; though the eyes and senses of man
are, it is true, his favourite guides, yet he will follow
wheresoever he can find an atmosphere of sensation in
which to move his wings. Poetry is the first and last
of all knowledge — it is as immortal as the heart of
man. If the labours of Men of science should ever cre-
ate any material revolution, direct or indirect, in our
condition, and in the impressions which we habitually
receive, the Poet will sleep then no more than at pres-
ent; he will be ready to follow the steps of the Man
of science, not only in those general indirect effects, but
he will be at his side, carrying sensation into the midst
of the objects of the science itself. The remotest dis-
coveries of the Chemist, the Botanist, or Mineralogist,
will be as proper objects of the Poet's art as any upon
which it can be employed, if the time should ever come
when these things shall be familiar to us, and the rela-
tions under which they are contemplated by the fol-
lowers of these respective sciences shall be manifestly
and palpably material to us as enjoying and suffering
beings. If the time should ever come when what is
now called science, thus familiarised to men, shall be
ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood,
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PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS
289
the Poet will lend his divine spirit to aid the transfigu-
ration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as
a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man.
It is not, then, to be supposed that any one, who holds
that sublime notion of Poetry which I have attempted
to convey, will break in upon the sanctity and truth of
his pictures by transitory and accidental ornaments,
and endeavour to excite admiration of himself by arts,
the necessity of which must manifestly depend upon
the assumed meanness of his subject.
What I have thus far said applies to Poetry in gen-
eral; but especially to those parts of composition where
the Poet speaks through the mouths of his characters;
and upon this point it appears to authorise the conclu-
sion that there are few persons of good sense who
would not allow that the dramatic parts of composition
are defective in proportion as they deviate from the
real language of nature, and are coloured by a diction
of the Poet's own, either peculiar to him as an in-
dividual Poet or belonging simply to Poets in general;
to a body of men who, from the circumstance of their
compositions being in metre, it is expected will em-
ploy a particular language.
It is not, then, in the dramatic parts of compositio
that we look for this distinction of language; but still it
may be proper and necessary where the Poet speaks to
us in his own person and character. To this I answer
by referring the Reader to the description which I
have before given of a Poet. Among the qualities
there enumerated as principally conducing to form a
Poet, is implied nothing differing in kind from other
men, but only in degree. The sum of what was
said is, that the poet is chiefly distinguished from
other men by a greater promptness to think and feel
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without immediate external excitement, and a greater
power in expressing such thoughts and feelings as are
produced in him in that manner. But these passions
and thoughts and feelings are the general passions and
thoughts and feelings of men. And with what are
they connected? Undoubtedly with our moral sen-
timents and animal sensations, and with the causes
which excite these; with the operations of the elements,
and the appearances of the visible universe; with storm
and sunshine, with the revolutions of the seasons, with
cold and heat, with loss of friends and kindred, with in-
juries and resentments, gratitude and hope, with fear
and sorrow. These, and the like, are the sensations
and objects which the Poet describes, as they are the
sensations of other men, and the objects which inter-
est them. The Poet thinks and feels in the spirit of
human passions. How, then, can his language differ in
any material degree from that of all other men who feel
vividly and see clearly? It might be proved that it is
impossible. But supposing that this were not the case,
the Poet might then be allowed to use a peculiar lan-
guage when expressing his feelings for his own gratifi-
cation, or that of men like himself. But Poets do not
write for Poets alone, but for men. Unless, therefore,
we are advocates for that admiration which subsists
upon ignorance, and that pleasure which arises from
hearing what we do not understand, the Poet must de-
scend from this supposed height, and, in order to excite
rational sympathy, he must express himself as other
men express themselves. To this it may be added,
that while he is only selecting from the real language of
men, or, which amounts to the same thing, composing
accurately in the spirit of such selection, he is treading
upon safe ground, and we know what we are to expect
PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS
291
from him. Our feelings are the same with respect to
metre; for, as it may be proper to remind the Reader,
the distinction of metre is regular and uniform, and
not, like that which is produced by what is usually
called POETIC DICTION, arbitrary, and subject to infi-
nite caprices upon which no calculation whatever can
be made. In the one case, the Reader is utterly at the
mercy of the Poet respecting what imagery or diction
he may choose to connect with the passion; whereas,
in the other, the metre obeys certain laws, to which
the Poet and Reader both willingly submit because
they are certain, and because no interference is made
by them with the passion but such as the concurring
testimony of ages has shown to heighten and improve
the pleasure which co-exists with it.
It will now be proper to answer an obvious question,
namely, Why, professing these opinions, have I writ-
ten in verse? To this, in addition to such answer as is
included in what I have already said, I reply, in the
first place, Because, however I may have restricted my-
self, there is still left open to me what confessedly con-
stitutes the most valuable object of all writing, whether
in prose or verse; the great and universal passions of
men, the most general and interesting of their occupa-
tions, and the entire world of nature before me—to sup-
ply endless combinations of forms and imagery. Now,
supposing for a moment that whatever is interesting in
these objects may be as vividly described in prose, why
should I be condemned, for attempting to superadd to
such description the charm, which, by the consent of
all nations, is acknowledged to exist in metrical lan-
guage? To this, by such as are yet unconvinced, it
may be answered that a very small part of the pleasure
given by Poetry depends upon the metre, and that it is
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injudicious to write in metre, unless it be accompanied
with the other artificial distinctions of style with which
metre is usually accompanied, and that, by such de-
viation, more will be lost from the shock which will
thereby be given to the Reader's associations than will
be counterbalanced by any pleasure which he can de-
rive from the general power of numbers. In answer to
those who still contend for the necessity of accompany-
ing metre with certain appropriate colours of style in or-
der to the accomplishment of its appropriate end, and
who also, in my opinion, greatly underrate the power
of metre in itself, it might, perhaps, as far as relates to
these Volumes, have been almost sufficient to observe,
that poems are extant, written upon more humble sub-
jects, and in a more naked and simple style than I have
aimed at, which poems have continued to give pleasure
from generation to generation. Now, if nakedness
and simplicity be a defect, the fact here mentioned af-
fords a strong presumption that poems somewhat less
naked and simple are capable of affording pleasure at
the present day; and, what I wished chiefly to attempt,
at present, was to justify myself for having written
under the impression of this belief.
ܚ
But various causes might be pointed out why, when
the style is manly, and the subject of some importance,
words metrically arranged will long continue to im-
part such a pleasure to mankind as he who proves the
extent of that pleasure will be desirous to impart. The
end of poetry is to produce excitement in co-existence
with an overbalance of pleasure; but, by the suppo-
sition, excitement is an unusual and irregular state of
the mind; ideas and feelings do not, in that state, suc-
ceed each other in accustomed order. If the words,
however, by which this excitement is produced be in
PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS
293
1
themselves powerful, or the images and feelings have
an undue proportion of pain connected with them,
there is some danger that the excitement may be car-
ried beyond its proper bounds. Now the co-presence
of something regular, something to which the mind has
been accustomed in various moods and in a less ex-
cited state, cannot but have great efficacy in tempering
and restraining the passion by an intertexture of ordi-
nary feeling, and of feeling not strictly and necessarily
connected with the passion. This is unquestionably
true; and hence, though the opinion will at first appear
paradoxical, from the tendency of metre to divest lan-
guage, in a certain degree, of its reality, and thus to
throw a sort of half-consciousness of unsubstantial
existence over the whole composition, there can be little
doubt but that more pathetic situations and senti-
ments, that is, those which have a greater proportion
of pain connected with them, may be endured in met-
rical composition, especially in rhyme, than in prose.
The metre of the old ballads is very artless, yet they
contain many passages which would illustrate this
opinion; and, I hope, if the following poems be atten-
tively perused, similar instances will be found in them.
This opinion may be further illustrated by appealing
to the Reader's own experience of the reluctance with
which he comes to the reperusal of the distressful
parts of "Clarissa Harlowe," or "The Gamester ";
while Shakspere's writings, in the most pathetic scenes,
never act upon us, as pathetic, beyond the bounds of
pleasure an effect which, in a much greater degree
than might at first be imagined, is to be ascribed to
small, but continual and regular impulses of pleasur-
able surprise from the metrical arrangement. On the
other hand (what it must be allowed will much more
M
Mat
pad
294
PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS
frequently happen), if the Poet's words should be in-
commensurate with the passion, and inadequate to
raise the Reader to a height of desirable excitement,
then (unless the Poet's choice of his metre has been
grossly injudicious), in the feelings of pleasure which
the reader has been accustomed to connect with metre
in general, and in the feeling, whether cheerful or
melancholy, which he has been accustomed to connect.
with that particular movement of metre, there will be
found something which will greatly contribute to im-
part passion to the words, and to effect the complex
end which the Poet proposes to himself.
If I had undertaken a SYSTEMATIC defence of the the-
ory here maintained, it would have been my duty to
develop the various causes upon which the pleasure re-
ceived from metrical language depends. Among the
chief of these causes is to be reckoned a principle which
must be well known to those who have made any of the
Arts the object of accurate reflection; namely, the pleas-
ure which the mind derives from the perception of
similitude in dissimilitude. This principle is the great
spring of the activity of our minds, and their chief
feeder. From this principle the direction of the sexual
appetite, and all the passions connected with it, take
their origin: it is the life of our ordinary conversation;
and upon the accuracy with which similitude in dissi-
militude, and dissimilitude in similitude, are perceived,
depend our taste and our moral feelings. It would not
be a useless employment to apply this principle to the
consideration of metre, and to show that metre is hence
enabled to afford much pleasure, and to point out in
what manner that pleasure is produced. But my lim-
its will not permit me to enter upon this subject, and I
must content myself with a general summary.
PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS
295
I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow
of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion
recollected in tranquillity; the emotion is contemplated,
till, by a species of re-action, the tranquillity gradu-
ally disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which
was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually
produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind.
In this mood successful composition generally begins,
and in a mood similar to this it is carried on; but the
emotion of whatever kind, and in whatever degree,
from various causes, is qualified by various pleasures,
so that in describing any passions whatsoever, which
are voluntarily described, the mind will, upon the
whole, be in a state of enjoyment. If Nature be thus
cautious to preserve in a state of enjoyment a being so
employed, the Poet ought to profit by the lesson held
forth to him, and ought especially to take care, that,
whatever passions he communicates to his Reader,
those passions, if his Reader's mind be sound and vigor-
ous, should always be accompanied with an overbal-
ance of pleasure. Now the music of harmonious metri-
cal language, the sense of difficulty overcome, and the
blind association of pleasure which has been previously
received from works of rhyme or metre of the same or
similar construction, an indistinct perception perpet-
ually renewed of language closely resembling that of
real life, and yet, in the circumstance of metre, differ-
ing from it so widely all these imperceptibly make
up a complex feeling of delight, which is of the most
important use in tempering the painful feeling always
found intermingled with powerful descriptions of the
deeper passions. This effect is always produced in
pathetic and impassioned poetry; while, in lighter
compositions, the ease and gracefulness with which
-
Ma
A
296
PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS
the Poet manages his numbers are themselves con-
fessedly a principal source of the gratification of the
Reader. All that it is necessary to say, however, upon
this subject, may be effected by affirming, what few
persons will deny, that, of two descriptions either of
passions, manners, or characters, each of them equally
well executed, the one in prose and the other in verse,
the verse will be read a hundred times where the
prose is read once.
Having thus explained a few of my reasons for writ-
ing in verse, and why I have chosen subjects from com-
mon life, and endeavoured to bring my language near to
the real language of men, if I have been too minute in
pleading my own cause, I have at the same time been
treating a subject of general interest; and for this rea-
son a few words shall be added with reference solely to
these particular poems, and to some defects which will
probably be found in them. I am sensible that my
associations must have sometimes been particular
instead of general, and that, consequently, giving to
things a false importance, I may have sometimes writ-
ten upon unworthy subjects; but I am less apprehensive
on this account, than that my language may frequently
have suffered from those arbitrary connections of feel-
ings and ideas with particular words and phrases from
which no man can altogether protect himself. Hence I
have no doubt that, in some instances, feelings, even
of the ludicrous, may be given to my Readers by expres-
sions which appeared to me tender and pathetic. Such
faulty expressions, were I convinced they were faulty
at present, and that they must necessarily continue to
be so, I would willingly take all reasonable pains to
correct. But it is dangerous to make these alterations.
on the simple authority of a few individuals, or even of
PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS
297
certain classes of men; for where the understanding of
an author is not convinced, or his feelings altered, this
cannot be done without great injury to himself: for his
own feelings are his stay and support; and, if he set
them aside in one instance, he may be induced to re-
peat this act till his mind shall lose all confidence in it-
self, and becomes utterly debilitated. To this it may
be added, that the Reader ought never to forget that he
is himself exposed to the same errors as the Poet, and,
perhaps, in a much greater degree: for there can be
no presumption in saying of most readers, that it is
not probable they will be so well acquainted with the
various stages of meaning through which words have
passed, or with the fickleness or stability of the re-
lations of particular ideas to each other; and, above
all, since they are so much less interested in the sub-
ject, they may decide lightly and carelessly.
Long as the reader has been detained, I hope he will
permit me to caution him against a mode of false criti-
cism which has been applied to poetry, in which the
language closely resembles that of life and nature.
Such verses have been triumphed over in parodies of
which Dr. Johnson's stanza is a fair specimen:
"C
'I put my hat upon my head
And walked into the Strand,
And there I met another man
Whose hat was in his hand."
""
Immediately under these lines I will place one of the
most justly-admired stanzas of the "Babes in the
Wood."
These pretty babes with hand in hand
Went wandering up and down;
But never more they saw the Man
Approaching from the Town."
298
PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS
In both these stanzas the words, and the order of
the words, in no respect differ from the most unimpas-
sioned conversation. There are words in both, for ex-
ample, "The Strand," and "The Town," connected
with none but the most familiar ideas; yet the one
stanza we admit as admirable, and the other as a fair
example of the superlatively contemptible. Whence
arises this difference? Not from the metre, not from
the language, not from the order of the words; but the
matter expressed in Dr. Johnson's stanza is contempt-
ible. The proper method of treating trivial and sim-
ple verses, to which Dr. Johnson's stanza would be a
fair parallelism, is not to say, this is a bad kind of
poetry, or, this is not poetry; but, this wants sense; it
is neither interesting in itself, nor can lead to anything
interesting; the images neither originate in that sane
state of feeling which arises out of thought, nor can ex-
cite thought or feeling in the Reader. This is the only
sensible manner of dealing with such verses.
Why
trouble yourself about the species till you have pre-
viously decided upon the genus? Why take pains to
tɔ
prove that an ape is not a Newton, when it is self-
evident that he is not a man?
-
K
-
One request I must make of my Reader, which is,
that in judging these Poems he would decide by his own
feelings genuinely, and not by reflection upon what will
probably be the judgment of others. How common is
it to hear a person say, I myself do not object to this
style of composition, or this or that expression, but, to
such and such classes of people, it will appear mean or
ludicrous! This mode of criticism, so destructive of
all sound unadulterated judgment, is almost univer-
sal: let the Reader then abide independently by his
own feelings, and, if he finds himself affected, let
PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS
299
him not suffer such conjectures to interfere with his
pleasure.
If an Author, by any single composition, has im-
pressed us with respect for his talents, it is useful to
consider this as affording a presumption, that on other
occasions where we have been displeased he, never-
theless, may not have written ill or absurdly; and
further, to give him so much credit for this one compo-
sition as may induce us to review what has displeased
us, with more care than we should otherwise have be-
stowed upon it. This is not only an act of justice, but,
in our decisions upon poetry especially, may conduce,
in a high degree, to the improvement of our own taste:
for an accurate taste in poetry, and in all the other arts,
as Sir Joshua Reynolds has observed, is an acquired tal-
ent, which can only be produced by thought and a long-
continued intercourse with the best models of composi-
tion. This is mentioned, not with so ridiculous a pur-
pose as to prevent the most inexperienced Reader from
judging for himself (I have already said that I wish
him to judge for himself), but merely to temper the
rashness of decision, and to suggest, that, if poetry be a
subject on which much time has not been bestowed,
the judgment may be erroneous; and that, in many
cases, it necessarily will be so.
Nothing would, I know, have so effectually contrib-
uted to further the end which I have in view, as to
have shown of what kind the pleasure is, and how that
pleasure is produced, which is confessedly produced by
metrical composition essentially different from that
which I have here endeavoured to recommend: for the
Reader will say that he has been pleased by such com-
position; and what more can be done for him? The
power of any art is limited; and he will suspect that, if
PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS
it be proposed to furnish him with new friends, that
can be only upon condition of his abandoning his old
friends. Besides, as I have said, the Reader is himself
conscious of the pleasure which he has received from
such composition, composition to which he has pecul-
iarly attached the endearing name of Poetry; and all
men feel an habitual gratitude, and something of an
honourable bigotry, for the objects which have long
continued to please them; we not only wish to be
pleased, but to be pleased in that particular way in
which we have been accustomed to be pleased. There
is in these feelings enough to resist a host of argu-
ments; and I should be the less able to combat them
successfully, as I am willing to allow that, in order en-
tirely to enjoy the Poetry which I am recommending,
it would be necessary to give up much of what is or-
dinarily enjoyed. But would my limits have permit-
ted me to point out how this pleasure is produced,
many obstacles might have been removed, and the
Reader assisted in perceiving that the powers of lan-
guage are not so limited as he may suppose; and that
it is possible for poetry to give other enjoyments, of a
purer, more lasting, and more exquisite nature. This
part of the subject has not been altogether neglected,
but it has not been so much my present aim to prove,
that the interest excited by some other kinds of poetry
is less vivid, and less worthy of the nobler powers of the
mind, as to offer reasons for presuming that if my
purpose were fulfilled, a species of poetry would be
produced which is genuine poetry; in its nature well
adapted to interest mankind permanently, and like-
wise important in the multiplicity and quality of its
moral relations.
300
PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS
301
From what has been said, and from a perusal of the
Poems, the Reader will be able clearly to perceive the
object which I had in view: he will determine how far
it has been attained, and, what is a much more impor-
tant question, whether it be worth attaining; and upon
the decision of these two questions will rest my claim
to the approbation of the Public.
1800
PAGE
1 The Reverie of Poor Susan
"This arose out of my observation of the affecting music
of these birds hanging in this way in the London streets
during the freshness and stillness of the Spring morning."
Wordsworth in Fenwick Notes. It may be noted that in
the great majority of cases there is a kernel of local fact at
the basis of each of Wordsworth's poems.
Wood Street, Lothbury, and Cheapside are streets in
London.
I
NOTES
2 A Night-Piece
"Composed on the road between Nether Stowey and
Alfoxden, extempore. I distinctly recollect the very
moment when I was struck, as described, 'He looks up
the clouds are split,' etc."
Wordsworth in F. N.
3 Lines written in Early Spring
((
Actually composed while I was sitting by the side of the
brook that runs down from the Comb, in which stands the
village of Alford, through the grounds of Alfoxden. It was
a chosen resort of mine." - Wordsworth in F. N.
4 To my Sister
..
Composed in front of Alfoxden House. My little boy-
messenger on this occasion was the son of Basil Montagu."
Wordsworth in F. N.
M
Dorothy Wordsworth, the poet's sister, is an inspiring
force in this and in many other of Wordsworth's poems.
6 Expostulation and Reply and the Tables Turned
"The lines entitled Expostulation and Reply, and those
which follow, arose out of a conversation with a friend who
was somewhat unreasonably attached to books of moral
philosophy." - Wordsworth in F. N.
Mr. Thomas Hutchinson argues that this friend must
have been William Hazlitt, who paid a three weeks' visit to
Wordsworth and Coleridge during the time the Lyrical
Ballads were being composed. The prototype of Matthew
is William Taylor, one of Wordsworth's schoolmasters at
Hawkshead.
8 Lines composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey
"No poem of mine was composed under circumstances
more pleasant to remember 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
304
NOTES
PAGE
altered, and not any part of it written down till I reached
Bristol."
Wordsworth in F. N.
The following famous lines from The Tables Turned
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can,
which have been much discussed as to whether they are
"playful" or "serious," should be compared to lines 107-
111 of Tintern Abbey:
Well pleased to recognise
In nature and the language of the sense
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.
M
g
The seriousness of these lines has never been challenged, yet
they are more inclusive and comprehensive than the others;
for no one to whom Nature is the soul of all his moral being
could well look elsewhere than to Nature for his chief
teacher. In short, this group of poems emphasizes Words-
worth's thorough-going naturalism in 1798. To be sure they
imply the principle of immanence of Deity in Nature.
But it is impersonal Deity a motion and a spirit, that
impels all thinking things," etc.
""
Not the isolated expression of moral ideas, but their
fusion into a whole in one memorable personality, is that
which connects them [Lines Near Tintern Abbey] 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 contem-
plation of Nature can be made a revealing agency, like
Love or Prayer — an opening, if indeed there be an open-
ing, into the transcendent world." - Myers.
15 Strange Fits of Passion have I known
Whether the Lucy of this and the four following poems
was an actual character or a fanciful creation, or whether
Wordsworth's experience was real or feigned, is not known.
Among many speculations this may be considered: that in
his very early youth the poet loved intensely. Being natu-
rally reticent he did not speak his love before the girl died.
The deepening pathos of the poems suggests no consolation
other than "the memory of what has been, and never more
will be." It is rather striking that these poems, which deal
with the fact of death, should have in them no suggestion of
immortality.
The river Dove is in central England.
"The five so-called 'Lucy poems,' which Wordsworth
stated were written in Germany, fill one of the most en-
NOTES
305
PAGE
Je
trancing pages in our literature. . . . Taken together, they
are unsurpassed for poignancy of passion. The love of
woman never inspired utterance more tenderly reverent."
Harper.
19 The Two April Mornings and the Fountain
"This [Matthew] and other poems connected with Mat-
thew would not gain by a literal detail of facts. Like the
Wanderer in 'The Excursion,' this Schoolmaster was
made up of several, both of his class and of other occupa-
tions." Wordsworth in F. N.
―
24 Lucy Gray
"It was founded on a circumstance told me by my Sister,
of a little girl who, not far from Halifax in Yorkshire, was
bewildered in a snow-storm. Her footsteps were traced by
her parents to the middle of a canal. The way in which the
incident was treated and the spiritualising of the character
might furnish hints for contrasting the imaginative influence
which I have endeavoured to throw over common life with
Crabbe's matter of fact style of treating subjects of the
- Wordsworth in F. N.
same kind."
26 Ruth
"Suggested by an account I had of a wanderer in Somer-
setshire."
Wordsworth in F. N.
De Quincey also states: "Wordsworth himself told me,
in general terms, that the case which suggested the poem
was that of an American lady, whose husband forsook her at
the very place of embarkation from England, under cir-
cumstances and under expectations, upon her part, very
much the same as those of Ruth."
The river Tone and the Quantock Hills are in Somerset-
shire. The English scenery in this poem as also that of
Lines Composed a few Miles above Tintern Abbey is in
southwestern England.
35 The Brothers
"The poem arose out of the fact, mentioned to me at
Ennerdale, that a shepherd had fallen asleep upon the top
of the rock called The Pillar, and perished as here described,
his staff being left midway on the rock." Wordsworth in
F.N.
Ennerdale is a beautiful vale, enclosed by steep and lofty
mountains, in the western part of the Lake Region. The
Great Gavel, mentioned in line 310, is a mountain standing
at the head of the vale. The Leza is a stream that flows
westerly into the vale of Ennerdale, while the Enna flows
out of the lake into the Irish sea. Egremont is a country
town farther down the vale near the seaside.
"He [Wordsworth] loves his native hills, not in the
Byronic fashion, as a savage wilderness, but as the appro-
priate framework in which a healthy social order can per-
manently maintain itself. That, for example, is, as he tells
306
NOTES
PAGE
us, the thought which inspired The Brothers, a poem which
excels all modern idylls in weight of meaning and depth of
feeling, by virtue of the idea thus embodied." -Leslie
Stephen.
49 Michael
"Written at Town-end, Grasmere, about the same time
as 'The Brothers.' The sheepfold, on which so much of
the poem turns, remains, or rather the ruins of it. The
character and circumstances of Luke were taken from a
family to whom had belonged, many years before, the house
we lived in at Town-end, along with some fields and wood-
lands on the eastern shore of Grasmere." Wordsworth
in F. N.
"In the two poems, The Brothers, and Michael, I have
attempted to draw a picture of the domestic affections, as I
know they exist among a class of men who are now almost
confined to the north of England. They are small independ-
ent proprietors of land, here called statesmen, men of re-
spectable education, who daily labour on their own proper-
ties. . . . The two poems, which I have mentioned, were
written with a view to show that men who do not wear fine
clothes can feel deeply. . . . The poems are faithful copies
from Nature; and I hope they . . . may in some small degree
enlarge our feeling of reverence for our species, and our
knowledge of human nature." Wordsworth, in a letter to
Charles James Fox.
"It is wrong, indeed, to call these two works (Michael
and the tale of Margaret in The Excursion) stories; they are
the very stuff of firsthand experience, and their reader lives
through many more hours than they take in the telling.
Raleigh.
""
C
64 The Sparrow's Nest
"At the end of the garden of my father's house at Cock-
ermouth was a high terrace that commanded a fine view of
the river Derwent and Cockermouth Castle. This was our
favourite play-ground. The terrace-wall, a low one, was
covered with closely-clipt privet and roses, which gave an
almost impervious shelter to birds that built their nests
there. The latter of these stanzas alludes to one of those
nests." Wordsworth in F. N.
64 To a Butterfly
About this poem Dorothy Wordsworth wrote in her
Journal: "The thought first came upon him as we were
talking about the pleasure we both always felt at the sight of
a butterfly. I told him that I used to chase them a little,
but that I was afraid of brushing the dust off their wings,
and did not catch them.”
68 Resolution and Independence
"This old Man I met a few hundred yards from my
cottage; and the account of him is taken from his own
NOTES
307
PAGE
mouth. I was in the state of feeling described in the be-
ginning of the poem, 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 in F. N.
"I cannot conceive 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, carrying with him his own fortitude and the
necessities which an unjust state of society has laid upon
him."
Wordsworth in a letter to some friends.
74 Composed by the Sea-Side, near Calais, August, 1802
Dorothy's Journal: "We arrived at Calais at 4 o'clock on
Sunday morning.... We had delightful walks after the
heat of the day was passed, seeing far off in the west the
coast of England like a cloud, crested with Dover Castle
which was but like the summit of a cloud, the evening star
and the glory of the sky."
76 To Toussaint L'Ouverture
Toussaint, a negro leader of remarkable powers in Hayti,
espoused in about 1800 the cause of independence, and
when in 1802 Napoleon attempted to reestablish slavery
in Hayti he openly resisted. He was treacherously arrested
and brought a prisoner to France. He died in a French
prison in April, 1803.
The close of this sonnet and the whole of the following
possess an extraordinary lofty tone.
76 Near Dover, September, 1802
The antecedents of themselves in line 12 and them in line 13
are winds and waters in line 10.
77 Written in London, 1802
"This was written immediately after my return from
France to London, when I could not but be struck, as here
described, with the vanity and parade of our own country,
especially in great towns and cities, as contrasted with the
quiet, and I may say the desolation, that the revolution had
produced in France. This must be borne in mind, or else
the reader may think that in this and succeeding Sonnets
I have exaggerated the mischief engendered and fostered
Wordsworth in F. N.
among us by undisturbed wealth.”
79 Composed upon Westminster Bridge
w
Dorothy's Journal: "It was a beautiful morning. The
city, St. Paul's, with the river, and a multitude of little
boats made a most beautiful sight as we crossed West-
minster Bridge. The houses were not overhung by their
cloud of smoke, and they spread out endlessly, yet the sun
shone so brightly, with such a fierce light, that there was
something like the purity of one of Nature's own grand
spectacles."
Bagehot says of this sonnet: "Instances of barer style
308
NOTES
PAGE
than this may easily be found, instances of colder style; few
instances of purer style. . . . Wordsworth has been vouch-
safed the last grace of the self-denying artist.”
79 It is a Beauteous Evening, Calm and Free
"This was composed on the beach near Calais, in the
autumn of 1801." Wordsworth in F. N.
Dorothy's Journal: "We walked by the seashore almost
every evening with Annette and Caroline, or William and I
alone." Caroline is the "dear child" of the sonnet, Words-
worth's natural daughter; Annette Vallon is her mother.
87 To the Cuckoo
Wordsworth made frequent revisions of the text of his
poems. An excellent example of his method of revising is
the second stanza of this poem. In the earliest edition the
stanza read:
While I am lying on the grass,
I hear thy restless shout:
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
About, and all about.
Some twenty years later the stanza read:
While I am lying on the grass,
Thy twofold shout I hear,
That seems to fill the whole air's space,
As loud far off as near.
Finally some forty years after the poem was written it was
changed to read as it stands in the text. This indicates that
it is possible to gain perfect simplicity and spontaneity by
careful thought and revision.
88 I wandered lonely as a Cloud
"The Daffodils grew and still grow on the margin of
Ullswater, and probably may be seen to this day as beauti-
ful in the month of March, nodding their golden heads be-
side the dancing and foaming waves.' Wordsworth in
F. N.
Dorothy's Journal: "When we were in the woods beyond
Gowbarrow Park we saw a few daffodils close to the water-
side. We fancied that the sea had floated the seeds ashore,
and that the little colony had so sprung up. But as we went
along there were more, and yet more; and at last under the
boughs of the trees we saw that there was a long belt of
them along the shore, about the width of a country turn-
pike road. I never saw daffodils so beautiful. They grew
among the mossy stones, about and above them; some
rested their heads upon these stones, as on a pillow for
weariness; and the rest tossed and reeled and danced, and
seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind that blew
directly over the lake to them. They looked so gay, ever
glancing, ever changing." This passage of exquisite
prose may well be compared with the poem, to determine
the characteristic differences of prose and poetry.
NOTES
309
PAGE
Lines 21 and 22 were suggested by Mrs. Wordsworth.
96 To a Highland Girl
Dorothy's Journal: "When beginning to descend the hill
toward Loch Lomond we overtook 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 only being un-
covered, excited our attention before we spoke to them."
98 The Solitary Reaper
Of the scenery around Loch Voil in Scotland Dorothy's
Journal says: "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 em-
ployed."
99 She was a Phantom of Delight
This poem refers to Mrs. Wordsworth.
105 The Prelude
The Prelude was finished in 1805 but was not published
until after the poet's death in 1850. It thus remained in
manuscript for more than forty years. There is evidence
that the poet revised the poem but there is no evidence that
the revision was either thorough or complete.
The following passages from Coleridge's To William
Wordsworth (1807) express the theme and the spirit of the
poem. Lines 11 to 26 refer to the early books of The
Prelude; lines 27 to 43 refer to the books in which Words-
worth treats of his experience with the French Revolution.
The poem was written after Coleridge had read The
Prelude in manuscript:
Friend of the wise! and Teacher of the Good!
Into my heart have I received that Lay
More than historic, that prophetic Lay
Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright)
Of the foundations and the building up
Of a Human Spirit thou hast dared to tell
What may be told, to the understanding mind
Revealable; and what within the mind
By vital breathings secret as the soul
Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart
Thoughts all too deep for words! -
Theme hard as high!
Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears
(The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth),
Of tides obedient to external force,
And currents self-determined, as might seem,
Or by some inner Power; of moments awful,
Now in thy inner life, and now abroad,
When power streamed from thee, and thy soul received
The light reflected, as a light bestowed;
Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth,
Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought
Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens
5
10
15
20
310
NOTES
PAGE
105
105
106
107
Native or outland, lakes and famous hills!
Or on the lonely high-road, when the stars
Were rising; or by secret mountain-streams,
The guides and the companions of thy way!
Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense
Distending wide, and man beloved as man,
Where France in all her towns lay vibrating
Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst
Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud
Is visible, or shadow on the main.
For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded,
Amid the tremour of a realm aglow,
Amid a mighty nation jubilant,
When from the general heart of human kind
Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity!
- Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down,
So summoned homeward, thenceforth calm and sure
From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute self,
With light unwaning on her eyes, to look
lar on herself a glory to behold,
The Angel of the vision! Then (last strain)
Of Duty, chosen Laws controlling choice,
Action and joy: An orphic song indeed,
A song divine of high and passionate thoughts
To their own music chaunted!
O great Bard!
Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air,
With stedfast eye I viewed thee in the choir
Of ever-enduring men. The truly great
Have all one age, and from one visible space
Shed influence! They, both in power and act,
Are permanent, and Time is not with them,
Save as it worketh for them, they in it.
Nor less a sacred Roll, than those of old,
And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame
Among the archives of mankind, thy work
Makes audible a linked lay of Truth,
Of Truth profound a sweet continuous lay,
Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes!
And when - O Friend! my comforter and guide!
Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength!
Thy long sustained Song finally closed,
And thy deep voice had ceased yet thou thyself
Wert still before my eyes, and round us both
That happy vision of beloved faces -
Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close
I sate, my being blended in one thought
(Thought was it? or aspiration? or resolve?)
Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound
And when I rose, I found myself in prayer.
304.
357 ff.
M
25
30
35
40
45
50
55
60
120
125
Book I
The first 268 lines of the first book are an introduction to
the poem as a whole. The this in line 269 refers to his seek-
ing repose from vain perplexity, of which he speaks in the
preceding lines.
283. towers. Cockersmouth Castle, in the sight of
which Wordsworth was born.
Hawkshead Vale.
The boating here described and the skating a
NOTES
311
PAGE
127
128
128
130
134
134
113 Book II
114 56. Windermere is not far from Hawkshead. It is the
largest lake in the Lake Region.
115 101. Furness Abbey.
116 140.
117
168.
120 333.
mere.
124 Book III
124
46. Wordsworth entered St. John's College, Cambridge,
in October, 1789.
137
142
little farther on took place on Esthwaite Lake in Hawks-
head Vale.
White Lion Inn at Bowness.
Robert Greenwood.
The Reverend John Fleming, of Rayrigg, Winder-
Book IV
21.
Hawkshead Church, built in the Norman period,
1160.
28-39. Ann Tyson, in whose house the boy had lived
nine years.
76. His Academic attire.
319-338. This is the third of three great spiritual
moments of his youth that Wordsworth records: the first
Book II, lines 394-418- tells of his becoming conscious
of Deity in Nature; the second - Book IV, lines 137-171
relates how he became conscious of the worth of his own
human soul. The third, which logically follows the first
two, describes how he became conscious of his mission in
life and how he became dedicated to it. These experiences
occurred to him between the ages of seventeen and nine-
teen.
―
Book V.
In lines 223-363- here omitted - Wordsworth severely
criticises artificial methods of education. Books "that lay
their sure foundation in the heart of man" and Nature, are
the two great means of true education. Besides, a gracious
spirit presides over the earth which aids a child to find the
deeper truths of life; such a spirit, for instance, as comes to
him as he meditates at the grave of one of his play-fellows
(lines 364-397).
406-425. Note with what realistic touches Wordsworth
describes real children.
Books VI and VII.
In Book VI Wordsworth tells of his third year's residence
at Cambridge and how in the summer of that year (1790)
he and his friend Robert Jones made a walking trip through
central Europe. The selection here given contains the
famous description of the Simplon Pass, a sublime passage
of poetry. In Book VII Wordsworth finally dismisses
rather lightly his residence at Cambridge and tells of his
sojourn for a period in London, relating many detailed ex-
periences, one of which is here selected.
312
NOTES
PAGE
145
Book VIII.
This book traces the origin and growth of Wordsworth's
love of Man, preparatory to the great adventure in France
as related in Books IX to XI inclusive.
147
Book IX.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
After spending some time in London and Wales Words-
worth, in the late summer of 1791 — he was then twenty-
one and just graduated from college went to France.
He passed through Paris and went to Orleans the city
referred to in the opening of the first selection.
148 139. Beaupuis, an aristocrat by birth, was a military
officer who gave himself to the cause of the French Repub-
lic. See Wordsworth's characterisation of him, page 150,
lines 288 ff.
150
153
156
160
160
162
165
156 48. Wordsworth went to Paris in the autumn of 1792.
159 225. He returned to England in December, 1792. The
"harsh_necessity" was the fact that his guardians refused
to send him means to subsist. Had he remained much
longer he likely would have perished with the Brissonites.
264. England joined Holland and Spain against France.
269. An important crisis in Wordsworth's experience.
356 ff. The Reign of Terror began in July, 1793.
Book XI.
176
290. Beaupuis was rejected because he did not ally
himself with the military officers on their way to the border
to join the defenders of the old régime.
431. Loire. Orleans is on the banks of the Loire.
Book X.
171 333. He rejoined his sister in the winter of 1794, not
having seen her since 1790.
171
360. In 1804 the Pope was summoned to crown Napo-
leon Emperor of France.
172
375. Coleridge was in Sicily for his health at the time
this was being written.
Book XII.
173
174 208 ff. There are brief but supreme moments in our ex-
perience which we value more than long stretches of time;
because in them we are made conscious of our spiritual
being and the mind's immortal power. The elucidation of
these wonderful moments of our experience is really the
foundation purpose of The Prelude.
178
288 ff. The treatment of this incident may be considered
separately as a complete and magnificent poem. It never-
theless fits into the context and illustrates what Wordsworth
means by real education.
Book XIII.
M
The selections from this book, written in 1805, should be
read with the famous preface of 1800 as giving further and
deeper reasons why Wordsworth turned to the highways of
common life for the language and the inspiration of his
NOTES
313
PAGE
poetry. They refer, of course, to the time between 1795
and the publication of the Lyrical Ballads in 1798.
Book XIV.
182
182 3. The youthful friend is Robert Jones, with whom he
ascended Snowdon in 1793. The passage which describes
the ascent of Snowdon is one of the most sublime in modern
literature.
232 ff. One of the many warm tributes of the poet to his
sister.
186
187 266.
Mrs. Wordsworth.
188
275 ff. One of the most spirited tributes a poet ever gave
to a fellow-poet.
189
393 ff. A graceful allusion to the time of composing the
Lyrical Ballads.
191 The Recluse
This selection from The Recluse Wordsworth first printed
in his preface to The Excursion in 1814.
195 Ode to Duty
The Ode underwent a number of revisions. The first
stanza, which originally stood last, read as follows:
O Power of DUTY! sent from God
To enforce on earth his high behest
And keep us faithful to the road
Which Conscience hath pronounc'd the best:
Thou, who art Victory and Law
When empty terrors overawe;
From vain temptations dost set free,
From Strife, and from Despair, a glorious Ministry!
How the changes made transform a good but commonplace
passage into something supreme in its kind can be seen in a
comparison of these two versions.
An aid to the study of the poem is to note that the first
stanza is introduction; the next two make an assertion
about a certain class of people; the fourth and fifth in-
troduce a contrast between the speaker and the class men-
tioned previously; the next to the last stanza is the climax
and the last the conclusion.
197 Elegiac Stanzas suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle
During a college vacation Wordsworth paid a visit to a
cousin who lived in a village not far from Peele Castle. The
picture which he fancies of the Castle must be contrasted
with the one Beaumont painted in order to grasp the rela-
tion of this contrast to the death of the poet's brother.
John Wordsworth was captain of the Abergavenny, and
was starting on a voyage when the ship struck the reefs of
the Bill of Portland, and was lost. In a letter to Sir George
Beaumont the poet writes of his dead brother: "He would
work for me (that was his language) for me and his
sister; and I was to endeavour to do something for the
world. . . . I shall never forget him, never lose sight of him.
314
NOTES
PAGE
There is a bond between us yet, the same as if he were living,
nay far more sacred, calling upon me to do my ut-
most, as he to the last did his utmost, to live in honour and
worthiness."
da
200 Character of the Happy Warrior
Wordsworth explains in a note that Lord Nelson sug-
gested some of the traits of the hero in this poem, but also
"that many of the elements of the character here portrayed
were found in my brother John, who perished by shipwreck
as mentioned elsewhere." Thus the hero is a sort of com-
posite ideal character, drawn from several sources of actual
observation.
202 Yes, it was the Mountain Echo
This poem proceeds by parallelism - the voice of the
bird suggests another voice. In the earlier poems the spirit-
ual power resided in Nature herself and there was strictly
speaking no parallelism. It is interesting to trace the
growth of this tendency in Wordsworth's later poetry.
203 Lines composed at Grasmere
The word Comforter in line 11 does not suggest the entity
Nature as one might expect from Wordsworth; it seems
rather to connote the Comforter of the New Testament.
In line 18 note the adjectives in the phrase, "breathless
Nature's dark abyss." They do not suggest quite the same
Nature that "is the soul of all my moral being" of Tintern
Abbey of 1798. Note also the similarity of the phrase
line 21 "Man, who is from God sent forth" to "Trailing
clouds of glory do we come from God, who is our home"
from the Intimations of Immortality. Yet no one has
thought of this passage as being Platonic. Yes, It was the
Mountain Echo and Lines Composed at Grasmere reveal a
marked tendency in Wordsworth away from the Natural-
ism of his earlier years.
204 Intimations of Immortality
"Nothing was more difficult for me in childhood than to
admit the notion of death as a state applicable to my own
being.... It was not so much from feelings of animal vivac-
ity that my difficulty came as from a sense of the indomita-
bleness of the Spirit within me. . . . It (belief in a prior
state of existence) is far too shadowy a notion to be recom-
mended to faith, as more than an element in our instinct of
immortality. . . . Having to wield some of its (the mind's)
elements when I was impelled to write this poem on the
"Immortality of the Soul," I took hold of the notion of pre-
existence as having sufficient foundation in humanity for
authorising me to make for my purpose the best use of it I
could as a poet.' Wordsworth in F. N.
"}
An excellent aid to grasp the underlying thought of this
poem is to state in a single sentence the gist of the first four
stanzas, in another the gist of the next three, and in a third
NOTES
315
PAGE
the gist of the last three; and then put the thought of these
three sentences into a single statement. It will be found
that the thought is that in the midst of one's forgetting
radiant things from childhood and in the midst of the vicis-
situdes of life there remains "a primal sympathy" at the
centre of our being which "having been must ever be."
Emerson wrote: "Alone in his time Wordsworth treated
the human mind well, and with an absolute trust. His ad-
herence to his poetic creed rested on real inspirations. The
Ode on Immortality is the high-water mark which the intel-
lect has reached in this age.
""
211 Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle
The event of the story is at the close of the War of the
Roses.
(6
Henry, the subject of the Poem, was deprived of his es-
tate and honours during the space of twenty-four years; all
which time he lived as a shepherd in Yorkshire, or in Cum-
berland, where the estate of his Father-in-law (Sir Lancelot
Threlkeld) lay. He was restored to his estate and honours
in the first year of Henry the Seventh.' Wordsworth
in F. N.
"}
Skipton, Pendragon, and Brough, are castles belonging to
the Clifford estate.
217 Personal Talk
The last six lines of this series are carved on the pedestal
of the poet's statue in Westminster Abbey.
is the poet's function to give two things
"pure delight."
Note that it
"truth" and
220 Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland
The liberties of Switzerland had been destroyed by
Napoleon and at the time of this sonnet (1807) he was pre-
paring to attack England.
221 And is it among Rude Untutored Dales
Palafox was a Spanish patriot. (1780-1847.)
233 The Excursion
Book IV.
The selections here express the central theme of The
Excursion. They assert more explicitly the ideas implicit
in the Ode to Duty and the Intimations of Immortality.
253 Dion
Wordsworth has the following note: "This poem began
with the following stanza, which has been displaced on ac-
count of its detaining the reader too long from the subject,
and as rather precluding, than preparing for, the due effect
of the allusion to the genius of Plato":
Fair is the Swan, whose majesty, prevailing
O'er breezeless water, on Locarno's lake,
Bears him on while proudly sailing
He leaves behind a mcon-illumined wake:
Behold: the mantling spirit of reserve
316
NOTES
PAGE
Fashions his neck into a goodly curve;
An arch thrown back between luxuriant wings
Of whitest garmiture, like fir-tree boughs
To which, on some unruffled morning, clings
A flaky weight of winter's purest snows!
Behold! —as with a gushing impulse heaves
That downy prow, and softly cleaves
The mirror of the crystal flood,
Vanish inverted hill, and shadowy wood,
And pendent rocks, where'er, in gliding state,
Winds the mute Creature without visible Mate
J
Or Rival, save the Queen of night
Showering down a silver light,
From heaven, upon her chosen Favourite!
Charles Lamb wrote: "The story of Dion is divine - the
genius of Plato falling on him like moonlight, the finest
thing ever expressed."
258 Composed upon an Evening of Extraordinary Splendour
and Beauty
Wordsworth's footnote: "The multiplication of moun-
tain-ridges, described at the commencement of the third
Stanza of this Ode, as a kind of Jacob's Ladder, leading to
Heaven, is produced either by watery vapours, or sunny
haze; in the present instance by the latter cause. Allu-
sions to the Ode, entitled 'Intimations of Immortality,'
pervade the last stanza of the foregoing Poem."
261 To a Sky-Lark
The last two lines of this poem epitomise Wordsworth's
"wiser mind."
263 Surprised by Joy - Impatient as the Wind
"This was in fact suggested by my daughter Catharine
long after her death." Wordsworth in F. N. Catharine
died in 1812 at the age of three.
264 November 1
"Suggested on the banks of the Brathay by the sight of
Langdale Pikes." Wordsworth in F. N.
M
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by, 220.
A Poet! He hath put his heart to school, 269.
A slumber did my spirit seal, 18.
And is it among rude untutored Dales, 221.
And is this Yarrow? This the Stream, 225.
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, 1.
―――
Q
Behold her, single in the field, 98.
Behold, within the leafy shade, 64.
Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed, 85.
Brook! whose society the Poet seeks, 262.
Earth has not anything to show more fair, 79.
Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky, 261.
Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west, 74.
Five years have past; five summers, with the length, &.
From low to high doth dissolution climb, 265.
From Stirling castle we had seen, 223.
Had this effulgence disappeared, 258.
Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour, 264.
Here pause: the poet claims at least this praise, 222.
High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate, 211.
High is our calling, Friend! - Creative Art, 268.
How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright, 264.
I am not One who much or oft delight, 217.
I grieved for Buonaparté, with a vain, 74.
I heard a thousand blended notes, 3.
I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold, 90.
I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide, 265.
I travelled among unknown men, 16.
I've watched you now a full half-hour, 65.
I wandered lonely as a cloud, 88.
I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile, 197.
If from the public way you turn your steps, 49.
If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven, 269.
Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood, 76.
318
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
In youth from rock to rock I went, 80.
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 79:
It is not to be thought of that the Flood, 78.
It is the first mild day of March, 4.
Loud is the Vale! the Voice is up, 203.
Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour, 77.
Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes, 267.
My heart leaps up when I behold, 66.
Now for the tale with which you threatened us, 233.
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room, 217.
O blithe New-comer! I have heard, 87.
O dearer far than light and life are dear, 261.
O Friend! I know not which way I must look, 77.
O thou! whose fancies from afar are brought, 66.
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray, 24.
On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, 191.
Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee, 75.
Scorn not the Sonnet: Critic, you have frowned, 268.
Serene, and fitted to embrace, 253.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways, 16.
She was a Phantom of delight, 99.
Stay near me do not take thy flight, 64.
Stern Daughter of the Voice of God, 195.
Strange fits of passion have I known, 15.
Surprised by joy - impatient as the Wind, 263.
Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower, 96.
M
Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, 266.
The gallant Youth, who may have gained, 228.
The power of Armies is a visible thing, 221.
The Sky is overcast, 2.
The world is too much with us: late and soon, 219.
There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine, 89.
There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, 86.
There was a roaring in the wind all night, 68.
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 204
These Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live, 35
Three years she grew in sun and shower, 17.
They dreamt not of a perishable home, 267.
Too frail to keep the lofty vow, 93.
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men, 76.
Two Voices are there; one is of the sea, 220.
Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books, 7.
Was it for this, 105.
We talked with open heart, and tongue, 21.
We walked along, while bright and red, 19.
What awful perspective! while from our sight, 266.
When I have borne in memory what has tamed, 78.
When Ruth was left half desolate, 26.
Where art thou, my beloved Son, 101.
Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he, 200.
Why, William, on that old grey stone, 6.
With little here to do or see, 83.
With sacrifice before the rising morn, 247.
Yes, it was the mountain Echo, 202.
319
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