Selections from Wordsworth. 
 
 raitlj Notes 
 
 BY 
 
 A. J. GEORGE, LiTT. D., 
 
 INSTRUCTOR IN ENGLISH LITERATURE AND HISTORY IN 
 NEWTON (MASS.) HIGH SCHOOL. 
 
 Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, 
 Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares — 
 The Poets, who on earth have made us hei-s 
 Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays. 
 
 D. C. HEATH & CO., PUBLISHERS 
 BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 
 
Copyright, 1889, 
 By a. J. George. 
 
 I FO 
 

 Co a, W. ©. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF HOURS WITH WORDSWORTH 
 AT THE ENGLISH LAKES. 
 
 449826 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 IF it be true that ancient literature concerned itself largely 
 with Natur e, and mediaeval with ideas of God, surely 
 the literature of the modern world has neglected neither of 
 these great subjects, but has united them with a third, — the 
 character of man, his origin, his present condition, and his 
 future destiny. Again, while in the earlier periods man was 
 a creature of the present and lived in the senses, and in the 
 Middle Ages he was oblivious of the present and looked only 
 to the securing of a peaceful future, now he considers the 
 present in its relation to the future, and views life as one and 
 continuous, having no abrupt changes or limitations. 
 
 Views of the place of man in the Divine plan, which pre- 
 vail now among the most thoughtful, are more consistent 
 with the spirit of Christianity than those which were held 
 heretofore. To what is this due ? I believe that it is quite 
 as much the result of the transparent Christian character, the 
 beautiful sympathy, and the catholic fraternity of those who 
 have influenced literary taste, as to the founding of systems 
 of philosophy or theology. While modern science has often 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 assumed the truth of conclusions which have seemed atheistic, 
 it has been confronted, not with theoretical commonplace, 
 but with moral life ; and when it has attempted to account for 
 this, and it has failed to find in its laboratory apparatus suffi- 
 ciently delicate to test spirit, motive, hfe, men have concluded 
 that its philosophy was not final after alL 
 
 The struggle of this centxuy has been between the advo- 
 cates of blind force — worshippers at the altar of an eternal 
 It — and the disciples of Intelligent Free Causation, with re- 
 sults by no means discouraging to the latter. It is in aid of 
 faith that literature has contributed its best efforts, and in it 
 we find that trinity of God, Man, and Nature which appeals 
 to the imagination, the heart, and the conscience ; its motive 
 has been to firee, arouse, dilate. 
 
 A companionship with those who have been foremost in 
 the application of ideas to life will assist us in dispelling those 
 illusions which tend to refine away the personality of man, 
 and attempt to account for consciousness in terms of physics, 
 destroying the unity both of the world and of the mind. 
 
 The connection between Hterature and life is \dtal; and 
 what we need is not acquisition and information, so much 
 as inspiration and illumination — a consciousness of mental 
 and moral power which can see clearly and feel deeply. By 
 living in vital relation to such writers as have furnished the 
 literature of power, and feeling the force of their clear and 
 pure spirituality, we attain that attitude of mind in which we 
 are able to receive faithful impressions, and to make true 
 observations. When the heart of the reader beats in sym- 
 pathy with the heart of the writer, both the sense and beauty 
 
/ PREFACE. Vii 
 
 of the wc^k become apparent. But this mental attitude is 
 one of t/ie rarest in the history of criticism; it requires 
 patience and fortitude, a willingness to use all the faculties 
 of our nature, and then abide the result without exercising 
 a prurient curiosity, or becoming anxious lest we be not able 
 to formulate the method. 
 
 In the matter of literary criticism we need to guard against 
 those scientific methods which assume that culture is mainly a 
 thing of the head, and that the interpretation of literature is 
 a thing to be acquired by the same methods as the ability to 
 demonstrate Euclid. An age of speculation is not an age of 
 faith, nor is an age of criticism an age of creation. A system 
 has prevailed by which the critic is constituted a supreme 
 judge, who, sitting apart, without sympathy or reverence, is to 
 pronounce sentence upon the culprit who has dared to violate 
 the judicial standard. In his charge he uses those maxims 
 and doctrines which have become the commonest furniture 
 of the commonest minds j he pronounces the style obscure, 
 affected, or classical, the method involved, and the matter 
 puerile or unintelligible, but does not explain what he means 
 by these terms ; * if he would only give us the law by which 
 we might be prevented from writing or speaking anything 
 that is not simple, natural, and manly ' what a blessing he 
 would confer ! Our disciples of this inner temple of formal- 
 ism ply their trade and insist upon a microscopical analysis, 
 a fine sifting of word and phrase, a delicate classification of 
 figure, and a comparative anatomy of form ; while the stu- 
 dent, who may not taste a flower till it have yielded up its 
 sweets a prelibation to this pedant's idol, seeing that his 
 
J 
 
 <^Hi PREFACE. 
 
 knowledge is purchased by the loss of power, votes the au- 
 thor dull and the study of literature a bore ; — 
 
 ' " For this unnatural growth the trainer blame, 
 
 sj Pity the tree." 
 
 It was at the bar of such criticism that Wordsworth, Cole- 
 ridge, Scott, Tennyson, and Browning were condemned. 
 Now if the history of art has decided anything, it is that an 
 attitude of mental receptivity is what enables one to sympa- 
 thize, to grasp a work as an organic whole, and to understand 
 the law governing the combination of phenomena which pro- 
 duced the supreme total effect. 
 
 Maurice, one of the most sympathetic and catholic men of 
 this century, says : " Let us try to know what an author says 
 before we proceed to classify or to pass sentence upon him. 
 It is wonderful how much our faculties of discernment will 
 grow and unfold themselves if we begin by throwing all our 
 notions about style overboard, and simply come to be taught 
 why this author spoke in this way, and that in another ; why 
 this was significant of him and of the time in which he lived, 
 and another belonged to a person who lived in a different 
 time and who had another work." 
 
 It is by vital energy of soul projected into their works that 
 the poets have moved men. 
 
 Wordsworth, "a severe but genial critic," was the first to 
 insist that each new genius, each new personality, should be 
 judged by new canons applicable to him alone, and that 
 every artist must create the taste by which he is to be appre- 
 ciated. For this he was roundly abused ; his prefaces were 
 
PREFACE. IX 
 
 called " stuff and nonsense ; " but the truth he uttered has, 
 nevertheless, become one of the estabhshed canons of 
 criticism. 
 
 It is not worth while for us to spend our time with those 
 authors who have made literature a trade or a profession ; 
 life is too short for us to stand Kstening to those who do not 
 recognize that "the life is more than meat," and that the rise 
 and fall of books obey the same law now as thousands of 
 years ago, — the degree in which they bear witness to the 
 grand truth of the priceless value of every human soul, rather 
 than to what is distinctive of a particular class. 
 
 A distinguished living poet and critic,^ after asking whether 
 literature, under the present ideas of life and education, will 
 on the whole be an enemy to luxury and an inspirer of virtue, 
 or an ally of materialism and a pander to vice, says : " There 
 is not a rural village, nor a mighty city, the peace of which 
 will not one day depend upon the answer time must make to 
 this question." 
 
 In these times of " storm and stress," as the Germans say, 
 of handicrafts and trades and mechanical marvels, of rapid 
 reading of newspapers, reviews, and periodicals, it may seem 
 presumption to insist upon any degree of literary culture for 
 the majority ; they must be left to their newspapers and re- 
 views, which are so much better than those their fathers had. 
 Now the objection to this laissez faire theory is that they 
 are thus left entirely ignorant of that personal element in 
 literature which constitutes its very life ; they are in inter- 
 course with an infinite We^ for which it is impossible to form 
 1 Aubrey de Vere. 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 an intimate friendship. Now the power of personality, of 
 exalted manhood, has everywhere stamped its impress upon 
 the masterpieces of literature ; and a true appreciation of 
 these indicates a moral earnestness, a disposition to seek "the 
 best that has been thought and said in the world," and this 
 is what we mean by culture. 
 
 This work has been a labor of love, for as I have come 
 under the power of Wordsworth's strong and pure personality 
 — whether in the sacred associations of the class-room, in the 
 solitude of the study, or in the inspiring and recreating atmos- 
 phere of his beloved Lake-land — he has spoken as a friend 
 and companion, not as from some lofty and far-off sphere of 
 perfected manhood, but from the common highway of duty 
 and responsibility, cheering with the God-speed of one who 
 has faced the same trials and wrestled with the same problems 
 that beset our common humanity ; and best of all, he encour- 
 ages with the faith which comes to one who lives ever in the 
 light of high endeavor. 
 
 It is encouraging to notice the position that English studies 
 are occupying in our best schools and colleges : it is one in- 
 dication of the return to that ideal and spiritual philosophy 
 taught by Wordsworth, Coleridge, Tennyson, and Browning, 
 Newman, Robertson, Kingsley, and Maurice, — a philosophy 
 in which the facts of human experience were interpreted and 
 referred to an order and a world beyond that which the 
 senses can reveal. They have looked at life steadily and as 
 a whole, and have given to the world ideas which are broader, 
 deeper, and more consistent than those of a materialistic phi- 
 losophy; representing no system of education or school of 
 
PREFACE. XI 
 
 morals, they have taught that all education is a failure which 
 does not develop an eye to see and a heart to feel moral, 
 artistic, and intellectual excellence. While the professional 
 moralists and the doctrinaires have been formulating what 
 the world should think and believe, these earnest men, by the 
 simplicity and sincerity of their lives, have brought the truths 
 of God and the beauties of heaven to the deeper heart of the 
 young men of this generation. 
 
 The clear, pure voice of these poets and prophets continues 
 to be heard above the incessant din of our modern Babylon, 
 calling upon men to live the life of the spirit ; to leave the 
 dispute of words for the discernment of things, and declaring 
 that not a syllable of God's infinite language can be under- 
 stood without a deed. 
 
 " All that is, at all, 
 
 Lasts ever, past recall ; 
 
 Earth changes, but thy s oul and God stand sure ; 
 
 What entered into thee, ~-— — ■ 
 
 That was, is, and shall be ; 
 
 Time's wheel runs back or stops ; Potter and clay endure." 
 
 These Selections have been chosen after some experience 
 in their use with classes, and are, it is hoped, the best repre- 
 sentative of the poet's work. If they had been limited to 
 those poems which represent his best work, the plan of ex- 
 hibiting the growth of Wordsworth's mind and art could not 
 have been realized. Wordsworth more than most poets needs 
 careful, and even reverential, study ; he wrote so much, and 
 his work extends over so many years, that one needs to be 
 familiar with the best product of each period of his work — 
 dawn, mid-day, and sunset — in order to appreciate the beauty 
 
Xii PREFACE. 
 
 and the variety, the breadth and the intensity, of his contri- 
 butions to literature. 
 
 Professor Shairp has said that a thorough and appreciative 
 commentary, which should open avenues to the study of 
 Wordsworth, and render accessible his imaginative heights 
 and his meditative depths, would be a boon to the younger 
 part of this generation. With the hope of contributing 
 something to the accomplishment of such a result the 
 Prelude was published; a familiarity with that great poem 
 is essential to a proper understanding of the influences 
 which did so much to shape Wordsworth's career. The 
 reception that was accorded that work has encouraged 
 me to fulfil the promise then made, that it would be fol- 
 lowed by other of his works. Most of the work was done 
 in the delightful surroundings of the Lake country, and noth- 
 ing has been omitted which it was thought would add to the 
 understanding or the appreciation of the poems. Words- 
 worth's interpreters have been for the most part wise and 
 prudent, and the homage which they have paid him has been 
 worthy both of them and of him. 
 
 I am greatly indebted to Mr. Aubrey de Vere, who, with Pro- 
 fessor Shairp and Matthew Arnold, has merited the gratitude 
 of all lovers of poetry in general and of Wordsworth's poetry in 
 particular. His kindness in reviewing the hst of poems selected, 
 his thoughtful suggestions, and his sympathy and encourage- 
 ment have added not a little to the pleasure of my work. 
 
 The chronological order has been followed as the only 
 suitable one. The Sonnets have been grouped by themselves, 
 as it is often desirable to make a study of sonnet literature. 
 
PREFACE, xui 
 
 and Wordsworth's Sonnets illustrate a special and distinct 
 phase of this work, and are extensive enough to be considered 
 separately. 
 
 The text adopted is in every case the poet's last revision. 
 
 As regards annotation, an attempt has been made to sug- 
 gest and stimulate rather than to complete. Wordsworth's 
 own notes dictated to Miss Fenwick are especially helpful ; 
 these are given for the most part in full. Whenever it has 
 seemed that a description of the scene connected with a 
 given poem would shed light upon it, I have not hesitated 
 to introduce it. 
 
 In regard to the use to be made of the notes in class, I 
 would say that with the exception of the poet's own, which 
 are in the main historical, they should be supplementary, 
 never introductory. The pupil should in every case by care- 
 ful reading and afterthought form his own ideas first ; for it 
 would be better that he should disagree with every interpre- 
 tation in the notes, than that he should substitute one of them 
 in place of his own thought. Burke says that the method of 
 teaching which approaches most nearly to the method of 
 investigation is incomparably the best. 
 
 This work is based upon the idea that we should keep 
 close to those writers who have enriched the tone and 
 expanded the compass of our literature. Is it any wonder 
 that there is an escape from the dry class drudgery in " Ele- 
 gant Extracts " and " Gems of Poetry " to the forbidden fruit 
 of sentimental novel writers, after the mind has been con- 
 ducted through the thousand and one writers with no time to 
 rest with any ? Professor Dowden says : " To submit our- 
 
xiv PREFACE. 
 
 selves to as many masters as may be counted on the fingers 
 of one hand is as much as can really be accomplished in a 
 lifetime." 
 
 From the Memoirs of the Poet, and the critical notes in 
 the third volume of his Prose Works, I have taken much of 
 the material herein contained. To the excellent edition of the 
 poems of Wordsworth by Professor Knight, I am indebted 
 for the notes from hitherto unpublished Journals. 
 
 To the late Mrs. William Wordsworth, of the Stepping 
 Stones, Ambleside, whose sickness and death saddened my 
 last visit to the Lakes, I am indebted for both information 
 and encouragement. 
 
 Of the dates at the head of each poem, the first refers 
 to the year of composition, the second to the year of 
 publication. 
 
 This work will be followed by The Excursion and The 
 White Doe of Rylstone, 
 
 A. J. G. 
 
 Brookline, Mass., 
 August, 1889. 
 
 NOTE TO SECOND EDITION. 
 
 The "Reverie of Poor Susan," which was by mistake 
 omitted from the first edition, will be found upon page 296, 
 
 A. J. G, 
 
CONTENTS. xvu 
 
 The Solitary Reang^ 156 
 
 T arruw Unvli^r ted 158 
 
 - The Matron of Jedborough and her Husband .... 160 
 
 ■• On Approaching Home 163 
 
 * 1804. To the Cuckoo 164 
 
 * .IS he was a P hantom of delight *' 166 
 
 ♦ ^The Daffodils / 167 
 
 %TTrerz*rfaiction of Margaret —j— 168 
 
 Address to my Infant Daughter Dora 171 
 
 The Small Celandine (third /poem) 174 
 
 •^* ISOsVode to Duty L 175 
 
 • To a Skylark 1 177 
 
 Fidelity \ 178 
 
 ■" Incident Characteristic of a Favorite Dog 181 
 
 - Tribute to the Memory of the Same Dog 182 
 
 " When, to the attractions of a busy world " 184 
 
 \/ Elegiac Stanzas Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle 
 
 in a Storm, Painted by Sir George Beaumont . . . 188 
 
 -To the Daisy (fourth poem) 190 
 
 To a Young Lady 193 
 
 1806. Character of the Happy Warrior 194 
 
 Stray Pleasures 197 
 
 "Yes, it was the mountain echo" 198 
 
 Lines Written on the Expected Death of Mr. Fox . . . 199 
 
 . Power of Music . . 201 
 
 • V ^de on Int imations of Immortali"^ 203 . 
 
 1807. " O nigiitingale ! thou surely art " 210 
 
 Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle 211 
 
 The Force of Prayer; or, The Founding of Bolton 
 
 Priory 217 
 
 1814.V'Laodamia 220 
 
 Dion 226 
 
 "^ Composed at Cora Linn, in Sight of Wallace's Tower . 231 
 
 • Yarrow Visited 233 
 
 1816. - To , On her First Ascent to the Summit of Helvellyn 236 
 
 1817. Ode to Lycoris 238 
 
 The Pass of Kirkstone 240 
 
 Sequel to the *' Beggars " . 243 
 
xviii CONTENTS. 
 
 1818. Composed upon an Evening of Extraordinary Splendor ' 
 and Beauty 245 
 
 ^ Near the Spring of the Hermitage 248 
 
 1819. September, 1819 249 
 
 1820. The River Duddon. To the Rev. Dr. Wordsworth . . 251 . 
 
 1823. •" Memory 254 . 
 
 To the Lady Fleming 256 
 
 1824. " O dearer far than light and life are dear " 260 
 
 Written in a Blank Leaf of Macpherson's Ossian . . . 261 
 
 1825. To a Skylark 264 
 
 To May 264 
 
 The Pillar of Trajan 268 ! 
 
 The Wishing-Gate 270 
 
 The Wishing-Gate Destroyed 273 
 
 1830. " In these fair vales hath many a tree " 276 
 
 1831. The Primrose of the Rock 276 
 
 4 Yarrow Revisited 278 
 
 -'*^6n the Departure of Sir Walter Scott 282 
 
 1832. Devotional Incitements 283 
 
 - " If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven "... 286 
 
 1833. "If this great world of joy and pain" 286 
 
 1834. " Not in the lucid intervals of life " . . 287 
 
 To a Child. Written in her Album 288 
 
 1835. Written after the Death of Charles Lamb 288 
 
 Extempore Effusion upon the Death of James Hogg . 293 
 
 1845." *' So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive " 295 
 
 1797. The Reverie of Poor Susan S 296 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 IS^^^^^^^I^^-gcie YPd for Bnon^^parte "_ . ._ 299 
 
 * ^yf^ ^JCoQiB^ed upon Westminster BridgeXSeptember 3, 1802 299 y / 
 
 '~' ' Composied by the Seaside, iiekl lialilis, August, 1802 . . 300 
 
 Calais, August, 1802 30^ 
 
 Composed near Calais, on the Road Leading to Andres, 
 
 August 7, 1802 301 
 
 Calais, August 15, 1802 301 
 
 Composed on the Beach near Calais 302 
 
 On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic 302 
 
COKTTENTS, XIX 
 
 To Toussaint L'Ouverture . . r 303 
 
 September, 1802, near Dover 303 
 
 Written ii^ T '^^^"i September, 1802 304 
 
 London, 1802 \ 304 
 
 Tlien have been among us " 305 
 
 " It is not to be thought of that the flood " 305 
 
 " When I have borne in memory what has tamed " . . 306 
 
 1803. Composed at Castle 306 
 
 " There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear "... 307 
 
 October, 1803 307 
 
 " England ! the time is come when thou shouldst wean " 308 
 
 To the Men of Kent, October, 1803 308 
 
 In the Pass of Killicranky 309 
 
 1806. " Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room "... 309 
 ^l9"iP'Tft P'^ by the Side of Grasme re Lake 310 
 
 JThe wo rld is too much with usj* 310 
 
 Personal laiic \ T": — : — T^ 311 
 
 Continued 311 
 
 Continued 312 
 
 Concluded , 312 
 
 To Sleep 313 
 
 Continued 313 
 
 Concluded 314 
 
 To the Memory of Raisley Calvert 314. 
 
 November, 1806 315 
 
 Adm^nitinn ..... r . . . -. -i-~:«_^_>^^— * " 3^5 
 
 1807. thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland . 316 . 
 
 T crTliuiiuj Glaiksmi uu Uil Fi i ml Pihii n g iii f -tJlT^ill 
 
 for the Abolition of the Slave Trade 316 
 
 1811. " Here pause; the poet claims at least this praise" . . 317 
 
 1815. To B. R. Haydon 317 
 
 To Catherine Wordsworth 318 
 
 1820. Oxford, May 30, 1820 318 
 
 '* Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze thet played " . . 319 
 
 Seathwaite Chapel . 319 
 
 " Return, Content ! for fondly I pursued " 320 
 
 " Who swerves from innocence, who makes divorce " . 320 
 
 Afterthought 321 
 
XX . CONTENTS. 
 
 1821. Introduction to Ecclesiastical Sonnets ....... 321 
 
 Seclusion 322 
 
 Mutability o 322 
 
 Inside of King's College Chapel, Cambridge .... 323 
 
 Continued 323 
 
 Concluded " . . . . 324 
 
 1823. " Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell "... 324 
 
 1827. To Rotha Q 325 
 
 To , in her Seventieth Year 325 
 
 "Scorn not. the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned'* . . 326 
 
 1830. To the Author's Portrait 326 
 
 1831. On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott 282 
 
 The Trossachs 327 
 
 The Pibroch's Note 327 
 
 Highland Hut 328 
 
 To the River Derwent 328 
 
 1833. In Sight of the Town^of Cockermouth 329 
 
 Address from the Spirit of Cockermouth Castle . . . 329 
 
 Mary Queen of Scots 330 
 
 " * There ! ' said the Stripling, pointing with meet pride " 330 
 
 " Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes " 331 
 
 1837. The Pine of Monte Mario, at Rome 331 
 
 1838. Composed on a May Morning, 1838 332 
 
 " Blest statesman he, whose mind's unselfish will " . . 332 
 
 1841. To a Painter 333 
 
 On the Same Subject 333 
 
 1842. " A Poet I — He hath put his heart to school " .... 334 
 
 Notes 337 
 
 Index to First Lines - 429 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 EXTRACT 
 
 FROM THE CONCLUSION OF A POEM, COMPOSED IN 
 ANTICIPATION OF LEAVING SCHOOL. 
 
 J 1786. — l8l 5. 
 
 Dear native regions, I foretell, 
 From what I feel at this farewell. 
 That wheresoe'er my steps may tend, 
 And whensoe'er my course shall end, 
 If in that hour a single tie 
 Survive of local sympathy. 
 My soul will cast the backward view, 
 The longing look, alone on you. 
 
 Thus, while the sun sinks down to rest 
 Far in the regions of the west, 
 Though to the vale no parting beam 
 Be given, not one memorial gleam, 
 A lingering light he fondly throws 
 On the dear hills where first he rose. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 LINES 
 
 LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE WHICH STANDS NEAR 
 
 THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE 
 
 SHORE, COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT. 
 
 I795- — 1798. 
 
 Nay, Traveller ! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands 
 Far from all human dwelling : what if here 
 No sparkHng rivulet spread the verdant herb ? 
 What if the bee love not these barren boughs ? 
 Yet if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves 
 That break against the shore shall lull thy mind 
 By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. 
 
 Who he was 
 
 That piled these stones and with the mossy sod 
 
 First covered, and here taught this aged Tree 10 
 
 With its dark arms to form a circling bower, 
 
 I well remember. — He was one who owned 
 
 No common soul. In youth by science nursed, 
 
 And led by nature into a wild scene 
 
 Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth 
 
 A favored Being, knowing no desire 
 
 Which genius did not hallow ; 'gainst the taint 
 
 Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate. 
 
 And scorn, — against all enemies prepared, 
 
 All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, 20 
 
 Owed him no service ; wherefore he at once 
 
 With indignation turned himself away, 
 
 And with the food of pride sustained his soul 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 3 
 
 In solitude. — Stranger ! these gloomy boughs 
 
 Had charms for him ; and here he loved to sit, 
 
 His only visitants a straggling sheep, 
 
 The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper : 
 
 And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath, 
 
 And juniper and thistle sprinkled o'er. 
 
 Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour 30 
 
 A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here 
 
 An emblem of his own unfruitful life : 
 
 And lifting up his head, he then would gaze 
 
 On the more distant scene, — how lovely 't is 
 
 Thou seest, — and lie would gaze till it became 
 
 Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain 
 
 The beauty, still more beauteous ! Nor that time, 
 
 When Nature had subdued him to herself. 
 
 Would he forget those beings to whose minds. 
 
 Warm from the labors of benevolence, 40 
 
 The world and human life appeared a scene 
 
 Of kindred loveHness : then he would sigh, 
 
 Inly disturbed, to think that others felt 
 
 What he must never feel : and so, lost Man ! 
 
 On visionary views would fancy feed, 
 
 Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale 
 
 He died, — this seat his only monument. 
 
 If thou be one whose heart the holy forms 
 
 Of young imagination have kept pure. 
 
 Stranger ! henceforth be warned ; and know that pride, 50 
 
 Howe'er disguised in its own majesty. 
 
 Is littleness ; that he who feels contempt 
 
 For any living thing, hath faculties 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Which he has never used ; that thought with him 
 
 Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 
 
 Is ever on himself doth look on one, 
 
 The least of Nature's works, one who might move 
 
 The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds 
 
 Unlawful ever. Oh, be wiser, thou ! 
 
 Instructed that true knowledge leads to love ; 60 
 
 True dignity abides with him alone 
 
 Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, 
 
 Can still suspect, and still revere himself, 
 
 In lowliness of heart. 
 
 WE ARE SEVEN. 
 
 1798.-1798. 
 A simple child, 
 
 That lightly draws its breath, 
 And feels its life in every limb. 
 What should it know of death ? 
 
 I met a little cottage Girl : 
 She was eight years old, she said ; 
 Her hair was thick with many a curl 
 That clustered round her head. 
 
 She had a nistic, woodland air, 
 And she was wildly clad : 
 Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; 
 — Her beauty made me glad. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 5 
 
 " Sisters and brothers, little Maid, 
 How many may you be? " 
 " How many? Seven in all," she said, 
 And wondering looked at me. 
 
 " And where are they ? I pray you tell." 
 
 She answered, " Seven are we ; 
 
 And two of us at Conway dwell, 
 
 And two are gone to sea. 20 
 
 *' Two of us in the church-yard lie, 
 My sister and my brother ; 
 And in the church-yard cottage, I 
 Dwell near them with my mother." 
 
 " You say that two at Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea, 
 Yet ye are seven ! — I pray you tell. 
 Sweet Maid, how this may be." 
 
 Then did the little Maid reply, 
 
 " Seven boys and girls are we ; 3° 
 
 Two of us in the church-yard lie, 
 
 Beneath the church-yard tree." 
 
 " You run about, my little M^id, 
 Your limbs they are alive ; 
 If two are in the church-yard laid. 
 Then ye are only five." 
 
 " Their graves are green, they may be seen," 
 The little Maid replied, 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, 
 And they are side by side. 40 
 
 " My stockings there I often knit, 
 My kerchief there I hem ; 
 And there upon the ground I sit, — 
 And sing a song to them. 
 
 " And often after sunset. Sir, 
 When it is hght and fair, 
 I take my little porringer, 
 And eat my supper there. 
 
 " The first that died was sister Jane ; 
 
 In bed she moaning lay, 5° 
 
 Till God released her of her pain j 
 
 And then she went away. 
 
 " So in the church-yard she was laid ; 
 And when the grass was dry, 
 Together round her grave we played, 
 My brother John and I. 
 
 " And when the ground was white with snow, 
 
 And I could run and slide, 
 
 My brother John was forced to go, 
 
 And he Hes by her side." 60 
 
 " How many are you, then," said I, 
 " If they two are in heaven ? " 
 Quick was the little Maid's reply, 
 " O master ! we are seven." 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 
 Their spirits are in Heaven ! " 
 'T was throwing words away ; for still 
 The little Maid would have her will, 
 And said, " Nay, we are seven ! " 
 
 SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN; 
 
 WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED. 
 1798. — 1798. 
 
 In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
 Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, 
 An old Man dwells, a little man, — 
 'Tis said he once was tall. 
 Full five-and-thirty years he lived 
 A running huntsman merry ; 
 And still the centre of his cheek 
 Is red as a ripe cherry. 
 
 No man like him the horn could sound. 
 
 And hill and valley rang with glee 
 
 When Echo bandied round and round 
 
 The halloo of Simon Lee. 
 
 In those proud days, he little cared 
 
 For husbandry or tillage ; 
 
 To blither tasks did Simon rouse 
 
 The sleepers of the village. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 He all the country could outrun, 
 
 Could leave both man and horse behind ; 
 
 And often, ere the chase was done, 
 
 He reeled, and was stone-blind. 20 
 
 And still there 's something in the world 
 
 At which his heart rejoices ; 
 
 For when the chiming hounds are out, 
 
 He dearly loves their voices ! 
 
 But, oh the heavy change ! — bereft 
 
 Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see ! 
 
 Old Simon to the world is left 
 
 In liveried poverty. 
 
 His Master 's dead, — and no one now 
 
 Dwells in the Hall of Ivor ; 30 
 
 Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead ; 
 
 He is the sole survivor. 
 
 And he is lean and he is sick ; 
 
 His body, dwindled and awry. 
 
 Rests upon ankles swollen and thick ; 
 
 His legs are thin and dry. 
 
 One prop he has, and only one : 
 
 His wife, an aged woman. 
 
 Lives with him, near the waterfall, 
 
 Upon the village Common. 40' 
 
 Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, 
 Not twenty paces from the door, 
 A scrap of land they have, but they 
 Are poorest of the poor. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 9 
 
 This scrap of land he from the heath 
 Enclosed when he was stronger ; 
 But what to them avails the land 
 Which he can till no longer? 
 
 Oft, working by her husband's side, 
 
 Ruth does what Simon cannot do ; 5° 
 
 For she, with scanty cause for pride, 
 
 Is stouter of the two. 
 
 And though you with your utmost skill 
 
 From labor could not wean them, 
 
 'T is little, very little — all 
 
 That they can do between them. 
 
 Few months of life has he in store. 
 
 As he to you will tell, 
 
 For still, the more he works, the more 
 
 Do his weak ankles swell. 60 
 
 My gentle Reader, I perceive 
 
 How patiently you 've waited. 
 
 And now I fear that you expect 
 
 Some tale will be related. 
 
 O Reader ! had you in your mind 
 
 Such stores as silent thought can bring, 
 
 O gentle Reader ! you would find 
 
 A tale in everything. 
 
 What more I have to say is short, 
 
 And you must kindly take it : 70 
 
 It is no tale ; but, should you think^ 
 
 Perhaps a tale you '11 make it. 
 
10 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 One summer day I chanced to see 
 
 This old Man doing all he could 
 
 To unearth the root of an old tree, 
 
 A stump of rotten wood. 
 
 The mattock tottered in his hand ; 
 
 So vain was his endeavor, 
 
 That at the root of the old tree 
 
 He might have worked forever. 80 
 
 " You 're overtasked, good Simon Lee, 
 Give me your tool," to him I said ; 
 And at the word right gladly he 
 . Received my proffered aid. 
 I struck, and with a single blow 
 The tangled root I severed. 
 At which the poor old Man so long 
 And vainly had endeavored. 
 
 The tears into his eyes were brought, 
 
 And thanks and praises seemed to run 90 
 
 So fast out of his heart, I thought 
 
 They never would have done. 
 
 — I 've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds 
 
 With coldness still returning ; 
 
 Alas ! the gratitude of men 
 
 Hath oftener left me mourning. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. ii 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. 
 
 1798. — 1798. 
 
 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. 
 
 Through primrose tufts, in that green bower. 
 
 The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; i* 
 
 And 't is 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. 20 
 
12 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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. 
 1798. — 1798. 
 
 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 ! ('t is a wish of mine) 
 Now that our morning meal is done, 
 Make haste, your morning task resign ; 
 Come forth and feel the sun. 
 
 Edward will come with you — and, pray. 
 Put on with speed your woodland dress ; 
 And bring no book : for this one day 
 We '11 give to idleness. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 13 
 
 No joyless forms shall regulate 
 
 Our living calendar : 
 
 We from to-day, my Friend, will date 
 
 The opening of the year. 20 
 
 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 : 2P 
 
 We for the year to come may take 
 
 Our temper from to-day. 
 
 And from the blessed power that rolls 
 About, below, above, 
 We '11 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 ; 
 
 — And bring no book : for this one day 
 
 We '11 give to idleness. 4o 
 
14 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. 
 
 1798.-1798. 
 
 *' Why, William, on that old gray stone, 
 Thus for the length of half a day. 
 Why, William, sit you thus alone, 
 And dream your time away ? 
 
 " Where are your books? — that light bequeathed 
 
 To beings else forlorn and blind ! 
 
 Up ! up ! and drink the spirit breathed 
 
 From dead men to their kind. 
 
 " You look round on your Mother Earth, 
 
 As if she for no purpose bore you ; 10 
 
 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. 20 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 15 
 
 " Nor less I deem that there are Powers 
 Which of themselves our minds impress ; 
 That we can feed this mind of ours 
 In a wise passiveness. 
 
 " Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 
 Of things forever speaking, 
 That nothing of itself will come, 
 But we must still be seeking? 
 
 " — Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 
 Conversing as I may, 30 
 
 I sit upon this old gray stone. 
 And dream my time away." 
 
 THE TABLES TURNED: 
 
 AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT. 
 1798. — 1798. 
 
 Up ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books ; 
 Or surely you '11 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. 
 
l6 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Books ! 't is a dull and endless strife : 
 
 Come, hear the woodland linnet, lo 
 
 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. 
 
 She has a world of ready wealth, 
 
 Our minds and hearts to bless — 
 
 Spontaneous wisdom" breathest by health, 
 
 Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 20 
 
 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 ; 3^ 
 
 Come forth, and bring with you a heart 
 
 That watches and receives. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 17 
 
 LINES, 
 
 COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISIT- 
 ING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR, JuLY I3, 1 798. 
 
 1798. — 1798. 
 
 Five years have passed ; five summers, with the length 
 
 Of five long winters ! and agam I hear 
 
 These waters, rolling ft-om their mountain-springs 
 
 With a soft inland murmur. — Once again 
 
 ■■^_— • — ^t—-"" — ■ • 
 
 Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 
 
 That on a wild secluded scene impress 
 
 Thoughts of moic^ deep seclusion ; and connect 
 
 The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
 
 The day is come when^_a^ain repose 
 
 Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 10 
 
 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^^^gaiii I see 
 
 These hedge-rows, — hardly hedge-rows, httle lines 
 
 Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral farms, 
 
 Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke 
 
 Sent up, in silence, from among the trees. 
 
 With some uncertain notice, as might seem 
 
 Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 20 
 
 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 
 
1 8 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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 30 
 
 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 blesse d moo d. 
 In which the burthen of the mystery. 
 In which the heavy and the weary weight 
 Of all this unint elligibl eworld 40 
 
 Is lightened, — that serene and blessed mood 
 In which the affections gently lead us on, — 
 Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 
 And even the motion of our human blood 
 Almost suspended, we are laid asle ep 
 In body, an d _beco me a living soul ; 
 While_with^n_eye^jnade gnvet by the power 
 O f harmony, a nd the deep power of joy. 
 We see int o the l ife of things^ "^ 
 
 If this 
 Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft — 5° 
 
 In darkness and amid the many shapes 
 Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 19 
 
 Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
 
 Have hung upon the beatings of my heart — 
 
 Hov^^ft^Jn^pirit,^ haye^ 
 
 Osylv airWye ! thou wanderer through the woods, 
 
 How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 
 
 And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, 
 With many recognitions dim and faint, 
 And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 60 
 
 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 ther e 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 70 
 
 Flying from something that he dreads, than one 
 Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature then 
 (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, 
 And their glad animal movements all gone by) j^ 
 To me was all in all. — (I cannot paint 
 What then I was. The sounding cataract 
 Haunted me like a passion ; the tall rock, 
 The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
 Their colors and their forms, were then to me 
 An appetite ; a feeling and a love, 80 
 
 That had no need of a remoter charm. 
 By thought supplied, nor any interest 
 Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past, 
 
20 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And all its aching joys are now no more, 
 
 And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
 
 Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts 
 
 Have followed ; for such loss, I would believe, 
 
 Abundant recompense. Fo r I have learne d 
 
 To look on_nature^_not as in the hour 
 
 Of thoughtless youthj^_bu]Ji£armg _oftenti mes 9c» 
 
 The stil pa h l niusiT of humanityj 
 
 Nor harsh noj^rati^pg, thou gh of ample power 
 
 "o cha sten a nd subdue/^ And I have felt 
 A presence that distHros 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 loo 
 
 All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 
 
 Lnd rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 
 lover of the meadows and the woods 
 And mountains, and of all that we behold 
 From this green earth ; of all the mighty world 
 Of eye and ear, — both what they half create, 
 And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize 
 In Nature and the language of the sense. 
 The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse. 
 The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul no 
 
 Of all my moral being. 
 
 Nor perchance, 
 If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
 Suffer my genial spirits to decay ; 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 21 
 
 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, 120 
 
 My dear, dear Sister ! and this prayer I make 
 
 Knowing that Nature never did betray 
 
 The heart that loved her ; 't is her privilege 
 
 Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
 
 From joy to joy : for she can so inform 
 
 The mind that is within us, so impress 
 
 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 130 
 
 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, 140 
 
 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 
 
22 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 
 
 And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance — 
 
 If I should be where I no more can hear 
 
 Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams 
 
 Of past existence — wilt thou then forget 
 
 That on the banks of this delightful stream 1 5° 
 
 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 ! 
 
 THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. 
 
 The Class of Beggars to which the Old Man here described belongs 
 will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and mostly old 
 and infirm persons, who confined themselves to a stated round in 
 their neighborhood, and had certain fixed days on which, at different 
 houses, they regularly received alms, sometimes in money, but 
 mostly in provisions. 
 
 1 798. -1 798. 
 
 I SAW an aged Beggar in my walk ; 
 And he was seated by the highway side, 
 On a low structure of rude masonry 
 Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 23 
 
 Who lead their horses down the steep rough road 
 
 May thence remount at ease. The aged man 
 
 Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone 
 
 That overlays the pile ; and, from a bag 
 
 All white with flour, the dole of village dames, 
 
 He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one, 10 
 
 And scanned them with a fixed and serious look 
 
 Of idle computation. In the sun. 
 
 Upon the second step of that small pile. 
 
 Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills. 
 
 He sat, and ate his food in solitude : 
 
 And ever, scattered from his palsied hand. 
 
 That, still attempting to prevent the waste, 
 
 Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers 
 
 Fell on the ground ; and the small mountain birds, 
 
 Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, 20 
 
 Approached within the length of half his staff. 
 
 Him from my childhood have I known ; and then 
 He was so old, he seems not older now. 
 He travels on, a solitary man, 
 So helpless in appearance, that for him 
 The sauntering horseman throws not with a slack 
 And careless hand his alms upon the ground. 
 But stops, — that he may safely lodge the coin 
 Within the old man's hat ; nor quits him so. 
 But still, when he has given his horse the rein, 3° 
 
 Watches the aged Beggar with a look 
 Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends 
 The toll-gate, when in summer at her door 
 She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees 
 
24 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 The aged Beggar coming, quits her work, 
 
 And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. 
 
 The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake 
 
 The aged Beggar in the woody lane, 
 
 Shouts to him from behind ; and, if thus warned, 
 
 The old man does not change his course, the boy 40 
 
 Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside, 
 
 And passes gently by, without a curse 
 
 Upon his lips, or anger at his heart. 
 
 He travels on, a solitary man ; 
 His age has no companion. On the ground 
 His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along, 
 They move along the ground ; and, evermore, 
 Instead of common and habitual sight 
 Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale 
 And the blue sky, one little span of earth 50 
 
 Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, 
 Bow-bent, his eyes forever on the ground. 
 He plies his weary journey ; seeing still. 
 And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw, 
 Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track. 
 The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left 
 Impressed on the white road, — in the same line. 
 At distance still the same. Poor traveller ! 
 His staff trails with him ; scarcely do his feet 
 Disturb the summer dust ; he is so still 60 
 
 In look and motion that the cottage curs. 
 Ere he has passed the door, will turn away. 
 Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls. 
 The vacant and the busy, maids and youths, 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 25 
 
 And urchins newly breeched — all pass him by ; 
 Him even the slow-paced wagon leaves behind. 
 
 But deem not this man useless. — Statesmen ! ye 
 Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye 
 Who have a broom still ready in your hands 
 To rid the world of nuisances ; ye proud, 7o 
 
 Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate 
 Your talents, power, or wisdom, deem him not 
 A burden of the earth ! 'T is Nature's law 
 That none, the meanest of created things, 
 Of forms created the most vile and brute, 
 The dullest or most noxious, should exist 
 Divorced from good, — a spirit and pulse of good, 
 A life and soul, to every mode of being 
 Inseparably linked. Then be assured 
 That least of all can aught, that ever owned 80 
 
 The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime 
 Which man is bom to, sink, howe'er depressed. 
 So low as to be scorned without a sin ; 
 Without offence to God cast out of view, 
 Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower 
 Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement 
 Worn out and worthless. While from door to door 
 This old man creeps, the villagers in him 
 Behold a record which together binds 
 Past deeds and offices of charity, 9° 
 
 Else unremembered, and so keeps alive 
 The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years, 
 And that half-wisdom half-experience gives, 
 Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign 
 
26 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 
 
 To selfishness and cold oblivious cares. 
 
 Among the farms and solitary huts, 
 
 Hamlets and thinly scattered villages, 
 
 Where'er the aged Beggar takes his round, 
 
 The mild necessity of use compels 
 
 To acts of love, and habit does the work loo 
 
 Of reason, yet prepares that after-joy 
 
 Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, 
 
 By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued, 
 
 Doth find herself insensibly disposed 
 
 To virtue and true goodness. 
 
 Some there are, 
 By their good works exalted, lofty minds 
 And meditative, authors of delight 
 And happiness, which to the end of time 
 Will live, and spread, and kindle : even such minds 
 In childhood, from this solitary being, no 
 
 Or from like wanderer, haply have received 
 (A thing more precious far than all that books 
 Or the solicitudes of love can do !) 
 That first mild touch of sympathy^and thought, 
 In which they found their kindred with a world 
 Where want and sorrow were. The easy man 
 Who sits at his own door, and, like the pear 
 That overhangs his head from the green wall. 
 Feeds in the sunshine ; the robust and young, 
 The prosperous and unthinking, they who live 120 
 
 Sheltered, and flourish in a litde grove 
 Of their own kindred, — all behold in him 
 A silent monitor, which on their minds 
 Must needs impress a transitory thought 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 27 
 
 Of self-congratulation, to the heart 
 
 Of each recalling his peculiar boons, 
 
 His charters and exemptions ; and, perchance, 
 
 Though he to no one give the fortitude 
 
 And circumspection needful to preserve 
 
 His present blessings, and to husband up 130 
 
 The respite of the season, he, at least, 
 
 And 't is no vulgar service, makes them felt. 
 
 Yet further. — Many, I believe, there are 
 Who live a life of virtuous decency, 
 Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel 
 No self-reproach ; who of the moral law 
 Established in the land where they abide 
 Are strict observers ; and not negligent 
 In acts of love to those with whom they dwell, 
 Their kindred, and the children of their blood. 140 
 
 Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace ! 
 
 — But of the poor man ask, the abject poor ; 
 Go, and demand of him, if there be here. 
 
 In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, 
 
 And these inevitable charities. 
 
 Wherewith to satisfy the human soul ? 
 
 No, man is dear to man ; the poorest poor 
 
 Long for some moments in a weary life 
 
 When they can know and feel that they have been, 
 
 Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out 150 
 
 Of some small blessings ; have been kind to such 
 
 As needed kindness, for this single cause. 
 
 That we have all of us one human heart. 
 
 — Such pleasure is to one kind being known, 
 
28 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 My neighbor, when with punctual care each week, 
 
 Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself 
 
 By her own wants, she from her store of meal 
 
 Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip 
 
 Of this old mendicant, and from her door 
 
 Returning with exhilarated heart, i6o 
 
 Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven. 
 
 Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! 
 And while, in that vast solitude to which 
 The tide of things has borne him, he appears 
 To breathe and live but for himself alone, 
 Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about 
 The good which the benignant law of Heaven 
 Has hung around him ; and while life is his. 
 Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers 
 To tender offices and pensive thoughts. 170 
 
 — Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! 
 And long as he can wander, let him breathe 
 The freshness of the valleys ; let his blood 
 Struggle with frosty air and winter snows ; 
 And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath 
 Beat his gray locks against his withered face. 
 Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness 
 Gives the last human interest to his heart. 
 May never House, misnamed of Industry, 
 Make him a captive ! — for that pent-up din, 180 
 
 Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air. 
 Be his the natural silence of old age ! 
 Let him be free of mountain solitudes. 
 And hg.ve around him, whether heard or not, 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 29 
 
 The pleasant melody of woodland birds. 
 
 Few are his pleasures : if his eyes have now 
 
 Been doomed so long to settle upon earth 
 
 That not without some effort they behold 
 
 The countenance of the horizontal sun, 
 
 Rising or setting, let the light at least 190 
 
 Find a free entrance to their languid orbs. 
 
 And let him, where and when he will, sit down 
 
 Beneath the trees, or on a grassy bank 
 
 Of highway side, and with the little birds 
 
 Share his chance-gathered meal ; and, finally, 
 
 As in the eye of Nature he has lived, 
 
 So in the eye of Nature let him die ! 
 
 ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY. 
 
 1798. — 1798. 
 
 The little hedge -row birds. 
 That peck along the road, regard him not. 
 He travels on, and in his face, his step, 
 His gait, his one expression, — every limb, 
 His look and bending figure, all bespeak 
 A man who does not move with pain, but moves 
 With thought. He is insensibly subdued 
 To settled quiet ; he is one by whom 
 All effort seems forgotten ; one to whom 
 Long patience hath such mild composure given 
 That patience now doth seem a thing of which 
 He hath no need. He is by Nature led 
 To peace so perfect that the young behold 
 With envy what the old man hardly feels. 
 
30 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 NUTTING. 
 
 1799. — iSoo. 
 It seems a day 
 
 (I speak of one from many singled out), 
 
 One of those heavenly days that cannot die ; 
 
 When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, 
 
 I left our cottage threshold, sallying forth 
 
 With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, 
 
 A nutting-crook in hand, and turned my step 
 
 Toward some far-distant wood, a figure quaint. 
 
 Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds, 
 
 Which for that service had been husbanded, 10 
 
 By exhortation of my frugal dame, — 
 
 Motley accoutrement, of power to smile 
 
 At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, and, in truth. 
 
 More ragged than need was ! O'er pathless rocks. 
 
 Through beds of matted fern and tangled thickets, 
 
 Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook 
 
 Unvisited, where not a broken bough 
 
 Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign 
 
 Of devastation ; but the hazels rose 
 
 Tall and erect, w ith tempti ng clusters hung, 20 
 
 A virgin scene ! \K littlewKile I stood, 
 
 BreatKmf^Si such suppression of the heart 
 
 As joy delights in ; and with wise restraint. 
 
 Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed 
 
 The banquet ; or beneath the trees I sate 
 
 Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played, — 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 31 
 
 A temper known to those who, after long 
 
 And weary expectation, have been blest 
 
 With sudden happiness beyond all hope. — — 
 
 Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves 30 
 
 The violets of five seasons reappear 
 
 And fade, unseen by any human eye ; 
 
 Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on 
 
 Forever ; and I saw the sparkling foam. 
 
 And, with my cheek on one of those green stones 
 
 That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees, 
 
 Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep, 
 
 I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, 
 
 In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay 
 
 Tribute to ease ; and of its joy secure, 40 
 
 The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, 
 
 Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, 
 
 And on the vacant air. Then up I rose. 
 
 And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash 
 
 And merciless ravage ; and the shady nook 
 
 Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower. 
 
 Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up 
 
 Their quiet being : and unless I now 
 
 Confound my present feelings with the past, 
 
 Ere from the mutilated bower I turned 50 
 
 Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, 
 
 I felt a sense of pain when I beheld 
 
 The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky. 
 
 Then, dearest maiden, move along these shades 
 
 In gentleness of heart ; with gentle hand 
 
 Touch, — for there is a spirit in the woods. 
 
32 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 ''STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I KNOWN." 
 
 1799. — 1800. 
 
 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 oay 
 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 ; 10 
 
 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. 20 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 33 
 
 My horse moved on ; hoof after hoof 
 He raised, and never stopped : 
 When down behind the cottage-roof, 
 At once, the bright moon dropped. 
 
 What fond and wayward thoughts will slide 
 
 Into a lover's head ! 
 
 " O mercy ! " to myself I cried, 
 
 " If Lucy should be dead ! " 
 
 "SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN 
 WAYS." 
 
 1799. — 1800. 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
 
 Beside the springs of Dove, 
 A Maid whom there were none to praise 
 
 And very few to love : 
 
 A violet by a mossy stone 
 
 Half hidden from the eye ! 
 — Fair as a star, when only one 
 
 Is shining in the sky. 
 
 She lived unknown, and few could know 
 
 When Lucy ceased to be ; 
 But she is in her grave, and, oh, 
 
 The difference to me ! 
 3 
 
34 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 "I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN." 
 1799. — iSoo- 
 I TRAVELLED among unknown men, 
 
 In lands beyond the sea ; 
 Nor, England ! did I know till then 
 What love I bore to thee. 
 
 *T is past, that melancholy dream ! 
 
 Nor will I quit thy shore 
 A second time ; for still I seem 
 
 To love thee more and more. 
 
 Among thy mountains did I feel 
 
 The joy of my desire ; 
 And she I cherished turned her wheel 
 
 Beside an English fire. 
 
 Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed, 
 The bowers where Lucy played ; 
 
 And thine too is the last green field 
 That Lucy's eyes surveyed. 
 
 "THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND 
 SHOWER." 
 
 1799. — 1800. 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower, 
 Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower 
 On earth was never sown ; 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 35 
 
 This Child I to myself will take ; 
 She shall be mine, and I will make 
 A Lady of my own. 
 
 " Myself will to my darling be 
 
 Both law and impulse ; and with me 
 
 The Girl, in rock and plain. 
 
 In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, lo 
 
 Shall feel an overseeing power 
 
 To kindle or restrain. 
 
 " She shall be sportive as the fawn 
 That wild with glee across the lawn 
 Or up the mountain springs ; 
 And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
 And hers the silence and the calm, 
 Of mute insensate things. 
 
 ** The floating clouds their state shall lend 
 
 To her ; for her the willow bend j 20 
 
 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. 30 
 
36 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " And vital feelings of delight 
 Shall rear her form to stately height, 
 Her virgin bosom swell ; 
 Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
 While she and I together live 
 Here in this happy dell." 
 
 Thus Nature spake — The work was done — 
 
 How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 
 
 She died, and left to me 
 
 This heath, this calm and quiet scene ; 4o 
 
 The memory of what has been, 
 
 And never more will be. 
 
 *«A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL." 
 
 1799. — 1800. 
 
 A SLUMBER did my spirit seal ; 
 
 I had no human fears : 
 She seemed a thing that could not feel 
 
 The touch of earthly years. - 
 
 No motion has she now, no force ; 
 
 She neither hears nor sees ; 
 Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, 
 
 With rocks and stones and trees. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 37 
 
 A POET'S EPITAPH. 
 
 1799. — 1800. 
 
 Art thou a Statist, in the van 
 Of public conflicts trained and bred ? 
 — First learn to love one living man ; 
 Theit may'st thou think upon the dead. 
 
 A Lawyer art thou ? — draw not nigh ! 
 Go, carry to some fitter place 
 The keenness of that practised eye, 
 The hardness of that sallow face. 
 
 Art thou a Man of purple cheer? 
 
 A rosy Man, right plump to see ? 10 
 
 Approach ; yet. Doctor, not too near, 
 
 This grave no cushion is for thee. 
 
 Or art thou one of gallant pride, 
 A Soldier and no man of chaff ? 
 Welcome ! — but lay thy sword aside, 
 And lean upon a peasant's staff. 
 
 Physician art thou ? one all eyes, 
 
 Philosopher ! a fingering slave. 
 
 One that would peep and botanize 
 
 Upon his mother's grave ? 20 
 
 Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece. 
 Oh turn aside, and take, I pray. 
 
38 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 That he below may rest in peace, 
 Thy ever-dwindling soul away ! 
 
 A Moralist perchance appears ; 
 Led, Heaven knows how ! to this poor sod : 
 And he has neither eyes nor ears ; 
 Himself his world, and his own God ; 
 
 One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling 
 Nor form, nor feeling, great or small ; 3° 
 
 A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, 
 An intellectual All-in-all ! 
 
 Shut close the door ; press down the latch ; 
 
 Sleep in thy intellectual crust ; 
 Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch 
 Near this unprofitable dust. 
 
 But who is He, with modest looks, 
 
 And clad in homely russet brown ? 
 
 He murmurs near the running brooks 
 
 A music sweeter than their own. 4°. 
 
 He is retired as noontide dew. 
 Or fountain in a noon- day grove ; 
 And you must love him, ere to you 
 He will seem worthy of your love. 
 
 The outward shows of sky and earth, 
 Of hill and valley, he has viewed ; 
 And impulses of deeper birth 
 Have come to him in solitude. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 39 
 
 In common things that round us lie 
 
 Some random truths he can impart, — 5° 
 
 The harvest of a quiet eye 
 
 That broods and sleeps on his own heart. 
 
 But he is weak ; both man and boy, 
 Hath been an idler in the land ; 
 Contented if he might enjoy 
 The things which others understand. 
 
 — Come hither in thy hour of strength ; 
 
 Come, weak as is a breaking wave ! 
 
 Here stretch thy body at full length ; 
 
 Or build thy house upon this grave ! 60 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE SCHOLARS OF THE VILLAGE 
 SCHOOL OF . 
 
 1799. — 1845. 
 
 I COME, ye little noisy crew, 
 
 Not long your pastime to prevent : 
 
 I heard the blessing which to you 
 
 Our common Friend and Father sent. 
 
 I kissed his cheek before he died ; 
 
 And when his breath was fled, 
 
 I raised, while kneeling by his side, 
 
 His hand — it dropped like lead. 
 
 Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all 
 
40 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 That can be done, will never fall lo 
 
 Like his till they are dead. 
 
 By niglit or day, blow foul or fair. 
 
 Ne'er will the best of all your train 
 
 Play with the locks of his white hair 
 
 Or stand between his knees again. 
 
 Here did he sit confined for hours ; 
 But he could see the woods and plains, 
 Could hear the wind and mark the showers 
 Come streaming down the streaming panes. 
 Now stretched beneath his grass-green mound 20 
 He rests a prisoner of the ground. 
 He loved the breathing air, 
 He loved the sun, but if it rise 
 Or set, to him where now he lies, 
 Brings not a moment's care. 
 Alas ! what idle words; but take 
 The Dirge which for our Master's sake 
 And yours, love prompted me to make. 
 The rhymes so homely in attire 
 With learned ears may ill agree, 30 
 
 But chanted by your Orphan Quire 
 Will make a touching melody. 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 Mourn, shepherd, near thy old gray stone ; 
 Thou angler, by the silent flood ; 
 And mourn when thou art all alone. 
 Thou woodman, in the distant wood ! 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 41 
 
 Thou one blind sailor, rich in joy 
 
 Though blind, thy tunes in sadness hum ; 
 
 And mourn, thou poor half-witted boy ! 
 
 Born deaf, and living deaf and dumb. 4° 
 
 Thou drooping sick man, bless the Guide 
 Who checked or turned thy headstrong youth, 
 As he before had sanctified 
 Thy infancy with heavenly truth. 
 
 Ye striplings, light of heart and gay. 
 
 Bold settlers on some foreign shore. 
 
 Give, when your thoughts are turned this way, 
 
 A sigh to him whom we deplore. 
 
 For us who here in funeral strain 
 
 With one accord our voices raise, lo 
 
 Let sorrow overcharged with pain 
 
 Be lost in thankfulness and praise. 
 
 And when our hearts shall feel a sting 
 From ill we meet or good we miss, 
 May touches of his memory bring 
 Fond healing, like a mother's kiss. 
 
 BY THE SIDE OF THE GRAVE SOME YEARS AFTER. 
 
 Long time his pulse hath ceased to beat ; 
 
 But benefits, his gift, we trace — 
 
 Expressed in every eye we meet 
 
 Round this dear Vale, his native place. 60 
 
42 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 To stately hall and cottage rude 
 Flowed from his life what still they hold, — 
 Light pleasures, every day renewed, 
 And blessings half a century old. 
 
 O true of heart, of spirit gay. 
 Thy faults, where not already gone 
 From memory, prolong their stay 
 For charity's sweet sake alone. 
 
 Such solace find we for our loss ; 
 
 And what beyond this thought we crave 7o 
 
 Comes in the promise from the Cross, 
 
 Shining upon thy happy grave. 
 
 MATTHEW. 
 
 1799. — 1800. 
 
 If Nature, for a favorite child. 
 In thee hath tempered so her clay, 
 That every hour thy heart runs wild, 
 Yet never once doth go astray, 
 
 Read o'er these lines ; and then review 
 This tablet, that thus humbly rears 
 In such diversity of hue 
 Its history of two hundred years. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 43 
 
 — When through this little wreck of fame, 
 Cipher and syllable ! thine eye 10 
 Has travelled down to Matthew's name, 
 
 Pause with no common sympathy. 
 
 And if a sleeping tear should wake, 
 Then be it neither checked nor stayed : 
 For Matthew a request I make 
 Which for himself he had not made. 
 
 Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, 
 
 Is silent as a standing pool ; 
 
 Far from the chimney's merry roar. 
 
 And murmur of the village school. 20 
 
 The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs 
 Of one tired out with fun and madness ; 
 The tears which came to Matthew's eyes 
 Were tears of light, the dew of gladness. 
 
 Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup 
 Of still and serious thought went round, 
 It seemed as if he drank it up — 
 He felt with spirit so profound. 
 
 — Thou soul of God's best earthly mould ! 
 
 Thou happy soul ! and can it be 30 
 
 That these two words of glittering gold 
 Are all that must remain of thee ? 
 
44 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. 
 
 1799. — 1800. 
 
 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 gray ; 
 As blithe a man as you could see 
 On a spring holiday. 
 
 And on that morning, through the grass, 
 
 And by the steaming rills, • 10 
 
 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 was brought ? " 
 
 A second time did Matthew stop, 
 
 And fixing still his eye 
 
 Upon the eastern mountain-top, 
 
 To me he made reply : 20 
 
 " Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
 Brings fresh into my mind 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 45 
 
 A day like this which I have left 
 Full thirty years behind. 
 
 " And just above yon slope of corn 
 Such colors, and no other, 
 Were in the sky that April morn, 
 Of this the very brother. 
 
 " With rod and line I sued the sport 
 Which that, sweet season gave, 30 
 
 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, — she would have been 
 A very nightingale. 
 
 " 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. 40 
 
 ** 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 ! 
 
46 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " No fountain from its rocky cave 
 
 E'er tripped with foot so free ; So 
 
 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. 60 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 A CONVERSATION. 
 1799. — 1800. 
 
 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. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 47 
 
 " Now, Matthew ! " said I, " let us match 
 
 This water's pleasant tune lo 
 
 With some old border-song, or catch 
 
 That suits a summer's noon ; 
 
 " Or of the church-clock and the chimes 
 Sing here beneath the shade, 
 That half-mad thing of witty rhymes 
 Which you last April made ! " 
 
 In silence Matthew lay, and eyed 
 
 The spring beneath the tree ; 
 
 And thus the dear old man replied, 
 
 The gray-haired man of glee : 20 
 
 " No check, no stay, this streamlet fears ; 
 How merrily it goes ! 
 'T will 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, 30 
 
 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 
 
48 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Mourns less for what age takes away 
 Than what it leaves behind. 
 
 " The blackbird amid leafy trees, 
 
 The lark above the hill, 
 
 Let loose their carols when they please, 
 
 Are quiet when they will. 40 
 
 " With Nature never do they wage 
 A foolish strife ; they see 
 A happy youth, and their old age 
 Is beautiful and free ; 
 
 *' But we are pressed by heavy laws ; 
 And often, glad no more, 
 We wear a face of joy, because 
 We have been glad of yore. 
 
 " If there be one who need bemoan 
 
 His kindred laid in earth, 50 
 
 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 ; 60 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 49 
 
 " And, Matthew, for thy children dead 
 I '11 be a son to thee ! " 
 At this he grasped my hand, and said, 
 " Alas ! that cannot be." 
 
 We rose up from the fountain-side, 
 And down the 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 70 
 
 About the crazy old church-clock, 
 
 And the bewildered chimes. 
 
 LUCY GRAY; 
 
 OR, SOLITUDE. 
 1799, — 1800. 
 
 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 ! 
 4 
 
50 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
 
 The hare upon the green ; lo 
 
 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 : 
 
 'T is scarcely afternoon — 
 
 The minster-clock has just struck two. 
 
 And yonder is the moon ! " 20 
 
 At this the father raised his hook, 
 And snapped a faggot-band ; 
 He plied his work ; and Lucy took 
 The lantern in her hand. 
 
 Not blither is the mountain roe : 
 With many a wanton stroke 
 Her feet disperse the powdery snow. 
 That rises up like smoke. 
 
 The storm came on before its time : 
 
 She wandered up and down ; 30 
 
 And many a hill did Lucy climb, 
 
 But never reached the town. 
 
 The wretched parents all that night 
 Went shouting far and wide ; 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 51 
 
 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. 40 
 
 They wept, and turning homeward, cried, 
 " In heaven we all shall meet ; " 
 
 — When in the snow the mother spied 
 The print of Lucy's feet. 
 
 Then downwards from the steep hill's edge 
 They tracked the footmarks small ; 
 And through the broken hawthorn hedge, 
 And by the long stone-wall. 
 
 And then an open field they crossed : 
 
 The marks were still the same ; 5^ 
 
 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. 60 
 
52 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
 And never looks behind ; 
 And sings a solitary song 
 That whistles in the wind. 
 
 ON NATURE'S INVITATION DO I COME." 
 
 1800. — 1850. 
 
 On Nature's invitation do I come, 
 
 By Reason sanctioned. Can the choice mislead. 
 
 That made the calmest, fairest spot on earth. 
 
 With all its unappropriated good, 
 
 My own ; and not mine only, for with me 
 
 Entrenched — say rather peacefully embowered — 
 
 Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot, 
 
 A younger orphan of a name extinct. 
 
 The only daughter of my parents, dwells : 
 
 Aye, think on that, my heart, and cease to stir ; 10 
 
 Pause upon that, and let the breathing frame 
 
 No longer breathe, but all be satisfied. 
 
 Oh, if such silence be not thanks to God 
 
 For what hath been bestowed, then where, where then 
 
 Shall gratitude find rest ? Mine eyes did ne'er 
 
 Fix on a lovely object, nor my mind 
 
 Take pleasure in the midst of happy thought. 
 
 But either she, whom now I have, who now 
 
 Divides with me that loved abode, was there, 
 
 Or not far off. Where'er my footsteps turned, 20 
 
 Her voice was like a hidden bird that sang ; 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 53 
 
 The thought of her was like a flash of light, 
 
 Or an unseen companionship ; a breath 
 
 Or fragrance independent of the wind. 
 
 In all my goings, in the new and old 
 
 Of all my meditations, and in this 
 
 Favorite of all, in this the most of all. . . . 
 
 Embrace me then, ye hills, and close me in. , 
 
 Now in the clear and open day I feel '' 
 
 Your guardianship : I take it to my heart ; 30 
 
 'T is like the solemn shelter of the night. 
 
 But I would call thee beautiful ; for mild 
 
 And soft, and gay, and beautiful thou art. 
 
 Dear valley, having in thy face a smile. 
 
 Though peaceful, full of gladness. Thou art pleased, 
 
 Pleased with thy crags, and woody steeps, thy lake, 
 
 Its one green island, and its winding shores, 
 
 The multitude of little rocky hills. 
 
 Thy church, and cottages of mountain stone 
 
 Clustered like stars some few, but single most, 40 
 
 And lurking dimly in their shy retreats, 
 
 Or glancing at each other cheerful looks 
 
 Like separated stars with clouds between. 
 
 "BLEAK SEASON WAS IT, TURBULENT AND 
 WILD." 
 
 i8oo(?). — 1850. 
 
 Bleak season was it, turbulent and wild. 
 When hitherward we journeyed, side by side, 
 Through bursts of sunshine and through flying showers, 
 
y 
 
 54 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Paced the long vales, — how long they were, and yet 
 
 How fast that length of way was left behind ! — 
 
 Wensley's rich dale, and Sedberge's naked heights. 
 
 The frosty wind, as if to make amends 
 
 For its keen breath, was aiding to our steps, 
 
 And drove us onward as two ships at sea ; 
 
 Or like two birds, companions in mid-air, lo 
 
 Parted and reunited by the blast. 
 
 Stern was the face of Nature ; we rejoiced 
 
 In that stem countenance ; for our souls thence drew 
 
 A feeling of their strength. 
 
 The naked trees, 
 The icy brooks, as on we passed, appeared 
 To question us, "Whence come ye, to what end?" 
 
 HART-LEAP WELL. 
 
 Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles from 
 Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road that leads 
 from Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkal:)]e 
 Chase, the memory of which is preserved by the monuments spoken 
 of in the second part of the following Poem, which monuments do 
 now exist as I have there described them. 
 
 1800. — 1800. 
 
 The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor 
 With the slow motion of a summer's cloud, 
 And now, as he approached a vassal's door, 
 " Bring forth another horse ! " he cried aloud. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 5$ 
 
 " Another horse ! '* — That shout the vassal heard, 
 And saddled his best steed, a comely gray ; 
 Sir Walter mounted him : he was the third 
 Which he had mounted on that glorious day. 
 
 Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes ; 
 
 The horse and horseman are a happy pair ; lo 
 
 But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies. 
 
 There is a doleful silence in the air. 
 
 A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall, 
 That as they galloped made the echoes roar ; 
 But horse and man are vanished, one and all ; 
 Such race, I think, was never seen before. 
 
 Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind. 
 Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain : 
 Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind. 
 Follow, and up the weary mountain strain. 20 
 
 The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them on 
 With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stem : 
 But breath and eyesight fail ; and, one by one, 
 The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern. 
 
 Where is the throng, the tumult of the race. 
 The bugles that so joyfully were blown ? 
 — This chase it looks not like an earthly chase ; 
 Sir Walter and the hart are left alone. 
 
 The poor hart toils along the mountain-side ; 
 
 I will not stop to teU how far he fled, 30 
 
40 
 
 56 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Nor will I mention by what death he died ; 
 But now the knight beholds him lying dead. 
 
 Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn ; 
 He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy ; 
 He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his horn, 
 But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. 
 
 Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned, 
 Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat. 
 Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned, 
 / And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet. ^ 
 
 Upon his side the hart was lying^etched : 
 
 His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill, 
 
 And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched 
 
 The waters of the spring were trembling stiU. 
 
 And now, too happy for repose or rest, 
 
 (Never had living man such joyful lot !) 
 
 Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west, 
 
 And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot. 
 
 And climbing up the hill — (it was at least 
 Four roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found 50 
 
 Three several hoof-marks which the hunted beast 
 Had left imprinted on the grassy ground. 
 
 Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, " Till now 
 Such sight was never seen by human eyes : 
 Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow 
 Down to the very fountain where he lies. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 57 
 
 " I '11 build a pleasure-house upon this spot, 
 
 And a small arbor made for rural joy ; 
 
 'T will be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot, 
 
 A place of love for damsels that are coy. 60 
 
 " A cunning artist will I have to frame 
 
 A basin for that fountain in the dell ! 
 
 And they who do make mention of the same. 
 
 From this day forth shall call it Hart-Leap Well. 
 
 " And, gallant stag ! to make thy praises known, 
 Another monument shall here be raised ; 
 Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone. 
 And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed. 
 
 " And in the summer-time when days are long, 
 
 I will come hither with my paramour ; 70 
 
 And with the dancers and the minstrel's song 
 
 We will make merry in that pleasant bower. 
 
 " Till the foundations of the mountains fail 
 My mansion with its arbor shall endure, — 
 The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, 
 And them who dwell among the woods of Ure ! " 
 
 Then home he went, and left the hart stone-dead. 
 With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring. 
 — Soon did the Knight perform what he had said ; 
 And far and wide the fame thereof did ring. 80 
 
 Ere thrice the moon into her port had steered, 
 A cup of stone received the living well \ 
 
58 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared. 
 And built a house of pleasure in the dell. 
 
 And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall 
 With trailing plants and trees were intertwined, 
 Which soon composed a little sylvan hall, 
 A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. 
 
 And thither, when the summer days were long, 
 
 Sir Walter led his wondering paramour ; 90 
 
 And with the dancers and the minstrel's song 
 
 Made merriment within that pleasant bower. 
 
 The knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time, 
 And his bones lie in his paternal vale. — 
 And there is matter for a second rhyme, 
 And I to this would add another tale. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 The moving accident is not my trade ; 
 
 To freeze the blood I have no ready arts : 
 
 'T is my delight, alone in summer shade, 
 
 To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. icx) 
 
 As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair. 
 It chanced that I saw standing in a dell 
 Three aspens at three corners of a square ; 
 And one, not four yards distant, near a well. 
 
 What this imported I could ill divine : 
 And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop, 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 59 
 
 I saw three pillars standing in a line, — 
 The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top. 
 
 The trees were gray, with neither arms nor head ; 
 
 Half wasted the square mound of tawny green ; i lo 
 
 So that you just might say, as then I said, 
 
 " Here in old time the hand of man hath been." 
 
 I looked upon the hill both far and near, 
 More doleful place did never eye survey ; 
 It seemed as if the spring-time came not here, 
 And Nature here were willing to decay. 
 
 I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost. 
 
 When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired, 
 
 Came up the hollow : him did I accost, 
 
 And what this place might be I then inquired. 120 
 
 The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told 
 Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed ; 
 " A jolly place," said he, " in time of old ! 
 But something ails it now : the spot is curst. 
 
 " You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood — 
 Some say that they are beeches, others elms — 
 These were the bower ; and here a mansion stood. 
 The finest palace of a hundred realms ! 
 
 " The arbor does its own condition tell ; 
 
 You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream : 130 
 
 But as to the great Lodge ! you might as well 
 
 Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. 
 
6o SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " There 's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep, 
 Will wet his lips within that cup of stone ; 
 And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, 
 This water doth send forth a dolorous groan. 
 
 " Some say that here a murder has been done, 
 
 And blood cries out for blood ; but, for my part, 
 
 I 've guessed, when I 've been sitting in the sun, 
 
 That it was all for that unhappy hart. 140 
 
 *^ What thoughts must through the creature's brain have past ! 
 
 Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep. 
 
 Are but three bounds — and look, Sir, at this last — 
 
 O Master ! it has been a cruel leap. 
 
 " For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race ; 
 And in my simple mind we cannot tell 
 What cause the hart might have to love this place. 
 And come and make his death-bed near the well. 
 
 " Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, 
 
 Lulled by the fountain in the summer-tide ; 15° 
 
 This water was perhaps the first he drank 
 
 When he had wandered from his mother's side. 
 
 " In April here beneath the flowering thorn 
 He heard the birds their morning carols sing ; 
 And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born 
 Not half a furlong from that self-same spring. 
 
 " Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade ; 
 The sun on drearier hollow never shone ; 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 6 1 
 
 So will it be, as I have often said, 
 
 Till trees and stones and fountain, all are gone." i6o 
 
 " Gray-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well ; 
 Small difference lies between thy creed and mine : 
 This beast not unobserved by Nature fell ; 
 His death was mourned by sympathy divine. 
 
 " The Being that is in the clouds and air, 
 That is in the green leaves among the groves, 
 Maintains a deep and reverential care 
 For the unoffending creatures whom he loves. ' 
 
 " The pleasure-house is dust : — behind, before. 
 This is no common waste, no common gloom ; 170 
 
 But Nature, in due course of time, once more 
 Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. 
 
 ^' She leaves these objects to a slow decay. 
 That what we are, and have been, may be known ; 
 But at the coming of the milder day. 
 These monuments shall all be overgrown. 
 
 " One lesson. Shepherd, let us two divide, 
 
 Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals ; 
 
 Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 
 
 With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." 180 
 
62 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 1800. — 1800. 
 
 " 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 com. 10 
 
 But, for that moping son of idleness. 
 
 Why can he tarry yonder ? In our church-yard 
 
 Is neither epitaph nor monument, 
 
 Tombstone nor name, — only the turf we tread 
 
 And a few natural graves." 
 
 To Jane, his wife, 
 Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. 
 It 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 20 
 
 His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool, 
 While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire, 
 He fed the spindle of his youngest child, 
 Who, in the open air, with due accord 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 63 
 
 Of busy hands and back-and- forward steps, 
 
 Her large round wheel was turning. Towards the field 
 
 In which the parish chapel stood alone, 
 
 Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, 
 
 While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent 
 
 Many a long look of wonder ; and at last, 30 
 
 Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge 
 
 Of carded wool which the old man had piled, 
 
 He laid his implements with gentle care. 
 
 Each in the other locked ; and down the path 
 
 That from his cottage to the church-yard led. 
 
 He took his way, impatient to accost 
 
 The stranger, whom he saw still lingering there. . 
 
 'T was one well known to him in former days, — 
 A shepherd-lad, who ere his sixteenth year 
 Had left that calling, tempted to intrust 40 
 
 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, 50 
 
 And blew with the same breath through days and weeks, 
 Lengthening invisibly its weary line 
 Along the cloudless main, he, in those hours 
 Of tiresome indolence, would often hang 
 
64 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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, 60 
 
 Below him, in the bosom of the deep, 
 
 Saw mountains ; saw the forms of sheep that grazed 
 
 On verdant hills, with dwellings among trees, 
 
 And shepherds clad in the same country gray 
 
 Which he himself had worn. 
 
 And now, at last. 
 From perils manifold, with some small wealth 
 Acquired by 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 7© 
 
 Of many darling pleasures, and the love 
 Which to an only brother he has borne 
 In all his hardships, since that happy time 
 When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two 
 Were brother-shepherds on their native hills. 
 — They were the last of all their race : and now. 
 When Leonard had approached his home, his heart 
 Failed in him ; and, not venturing to inquire 
 Tidings of one so long and dearly loved, 
 He to the solitary church-yard turned ; 80 
 
 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 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 65 
 
 Another grave, near which a full half-hour 
 
 He had remained ; but, as he gazed, there grew 
 
 Such a confusion in his memory, 
 
 That he began to doubt, and even to hope 
 
 That he had seen this heap of turf before, — 
 
 That it was not another grave, but one 90 
 
 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. 
 
 By this the Priest, who down the field had come, 100 
 Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate 
 Stopped short, and thence, at leisure, limb by limb 
 Perused him with a gay complacency. 
 Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, 
 'T is one of those who needs must leave the path 
 Of 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 no 
 
 Into his face, until the setting sun 
 Write fool upon his forehead. — Planted thus 
 Beneath a shed that overarched the gate 
 Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared 
 
 5 
 
66 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 The good Man might have communed with himself, 
 
 But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, 
 
 Approached ; he recognized the Priest at once, 
 
 And after greetings interchanged, and given 
 
 By Leonard to the Vicar as to one 
 
 Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. 120 
 
 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 welcbme gone, they are so hke each other, 
 They cannot be remembered ? Scarce a funeral 
 Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months ; 
 And yet some changes must take place among you : 
 And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks. 
 Can trace the finger of mortality, 
 
 And see, that with our threescore years and ten 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, — 't is gone ! — and that dark cleft ! 
 To me it does not seem to wear the face 
 Which then it had ! 
 
 Priest. Nay, Sir, for aught I know. 
 
 That chasm is much the same — 
 
 Leonard. But, surely, yonder — 
 
 Priest. Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend 
 That does not play you false. On that tall pike 
 (It is the loneliest place of all these hills) 140 
 
 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 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 67 
 
 Was rent with lightning, — one hath disappeared ; 
 
 The other, left behind, is flowing still. 
 
 For accidents and changes such as these 
 
 We want not store of them : — a water-spout 
 
 Will bring down half a mountain ; what a feast 
 
 For folks that wander up and down like you, 
 
 To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff 150 
 
 One roaring cataract ! A sharp May-storm 
 
 Will come with loads of January snow, 
 
 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 — 
 
 Yours was a stranger's judgment : for historians. 
 
 Commend me to these valleys ! 
 
 Leoftard. Yet your Church-yard 
 
 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, 170 
 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. 
 
68 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Priest. Why, there, Sir, is a thought that 's new to me ! 
 The stone-cutters, 't is true, might beg their bread 
 If every Enghsh church-yard were like ours ; 
 Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth : 
 We have no need of names and epitaphs ; 
 We talk about the dead by our firesides. 
 And then, for our immortal part ! we want i8o 
 
 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 
 Possess a kind of second Hfe : no doubt 
 You, Sir, could help me to the history 
 Of half these graves ? 
 
 Priest. For eightscore winters past, 
 
 With what I 've witnessed, and with what I 've heard, 
 Perhaps I might ; and on a winter-evening. 
 If you were seated at my chimney's nook, 190 
 
 By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, 
 We two could travel. Sir, through a strange round ; 
 Yet all in the broad highway of the world. 
 Now there 's a grave, — your foot is half upon it, — 
 It looks just like the rest ; and yet that man 
 Died broken-hearted. 
 
 Leonard. 'T is a common case. 
 
 We '11 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 church-yard wall. 
 
 Priest. That 's Walter Ewbank. 200 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 69 
 
 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, 210 
 
 They left to him the family heart, and land 
 
 With other burdens than the crop it bore. 
 
 Year after year the old man still kept up 
 
 A cheerful mind, and buffeted with bond. 
 
 Interest, and mortgages ; at last he sank, 
 
 And went into his grave before his time. 
 
 Poor Walter ! whether it was care that spurred him 
 
 God only knows, but to the very last 
 
 He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale : 
 
 His pace was never that of an old man : 220 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Priest. Orphans ! Such they were — ■ 
 
 Yet not while Walter lived ; for, though their parents 
 Lay buried side by side as now they lie, 
 The old man was a father to the boys, — 
 Two fathers in one father ; and if tears, 230 
 
70 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Shed when he talked of them where they were not, 
 
 And hauntings from the infirmity of love, 
 
 Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart. 
 
 This old Man, in the day of his old age, 
 
 Was half a mother to them. If you weep. Sir, 
 
 To hear a stranger talking about strangers, 
 
 Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred ! 
 
 Ay, you may turn that way, — it is a grave 
 
 Which will bear looking at. 
 
 Leonard. These boys — I hope 
 
 They loved this good old Man ? — 
 
 Priest. They did, and truly ; 240 
 
 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 ; 
 They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare. 
 And it all went into each other's hearts. 
 Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months. 
 Was two years taller : 't was a joy to see, 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 water-course 
 And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed 
 Crossing our roads at every hundred steps. 
 Was swoln into a noisy rivulet. 
 Would Leonard then, when elder boys remained 
 At home, go staggering through the slippery fords, 
 Bearing his brother on his back. I have seen him. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 7^ 
 
 On windy days, in one of those stray brooks, 260 
 
 Ay, more than once I have seen him, mid-leg deep, 
 Their two books lying both on a dry stone. 
 Upon the hither side ; and once I said. 
 As I remember, looking round these rocks 
 And hills on which we all of us were born, 
 That God who made the great book of the world 
 Would bless such piety — 
 
 Leonard. It may be then — 
 
 Priest. Never did worthier lads break English bread ; 
 The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw, 
 With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts, 270 
 
 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 
 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 : 
 Then they could write, ay, and speak too, as well 
 As many of their betters — and for Leonard ! 280 
 
 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 
 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. 
 
72 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And what, for my part, I have often prayed : 
 
 But Leonard — 
 
 Leonard. Then James still is left among you ! 290 
 
 Priest. 'T is of the elder brother I am speaking : 
 
 They had an uncle ; he was at that time 
 
 A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas ; 
 
 And, but for that same uncle, to this hour 
 
 Leonard had never handled rope or shroud ; 
 
 For the boy loved the life which we lead here ; 
 
 And though of unripe years, a stripling only, 
 
 His soul was knit to this his native soil. 
 
 But, as I said, old Walter was too weak 
 
 To strive with such a torrent ; when he died, 300 
 
 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, 
 
 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 ! 
 
 1 The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resemblance to 
 the gable end of a house, is one of the highest of the Cumberland 
 mountains. The Leeza is a river which flows into the Lake of Enner- 
 dale. — W. W. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 73 
 
 This is sad talk ; they '11 never sound for him — 
 
 Living or dead. When last we heard of him, 
 
 He was in slavery among the Moors 
 
 Upon the Barbary coast. 'T was not a little 
 
 That would bring down his spirit ; and no doubt, 
 
 Before it endeth in his death, the Youth 320 
 
 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, 't would needs be a glad day for him ; 
 He would himself, no doubt, be happy then 
 As any that should meet him — 
 
 Priest. Happy ! Sir — 
 
 Leonard. You said his kindred all were in their graves, 
 And that he had one Brother — 
 
 Priest. That is but ZZo 
 
 A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youth 
 James, though not sickly, yet was delicate j 
 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 
 In him was somewhat checked ; and when his Brother 
 Was gone to sea, and he was left alone. 
 The little color that he had was soon 
 
 Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and 
 pined — 340 
 
 Leonard. But these are all the graves of full-grown men ! 
 
74 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Priest. Ay, Sir, that passed away : we took him to us ; 
 He was the child of all the dale, — he lived 
 Three months with one, and six months with another, 
 And wanted neither food nor clothes nor love ; 
 And many, many happy days were his. 
 But, whether blithe or sad, 't is my belief 
 His absent Brother still was at his heart. 
 And when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found 
 (A practice till this time unknown to him) 35° 
 
 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. 
 ^^i? Leonard. But this Youth, 
 
 How did he die at last? 
 
 Priest. One sweet May morning 
 
 (It will be twelve years since when Spring returns) 
 He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs, 
 With two or three companions, whom their course 
 Of occupation led from height to height 360 
 
 Under a cloudless sun — till he, at length, 
 Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge 
 The humor of the moment, lagged behind. 
 You see yon precipice : it wears the shape 
 Of a vast building made of many crags ; 
 And in the midst is one particular rock 
 That rises like a column from the vale, 
 Whence by our shepherds it is called The Pillar. 
 Upon its aery summit crowned with heath. 
 The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades, Zl^ 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 75 
 
 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 neighbors 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 380 
 
 Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after 
 
 I buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies ! 
 
 Leonard. And that then is his grave ! Before his death 
 You say that he saw many happy years ? 
 
 Priest. Ay, that he did — 
 
 Leonard. And all went well with him ? — 
 
 Priest, If he had one, the youth had twenty homes. 
 
 Leonard. And you believe, then, that his mind was 
 easy ? — 
 
 Priest. Yes, long before he died, he found that time 
 Is a true friend to sorrow ; and unless 
 
 His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless fortune, 39° 
 He talked about him with a cheerful love. 
 
 Leonard. He could not come to an unhallowed end ! 
 
 Priest. Nay, God forbid ! You recollect I mentioned 
 A habit which disquietude and grief 
 Had brought upon him ; and we all conjectured 
 That, as the day was warm, he had lain down 
 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 
 
76 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong ; 400 
 
 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 midway ; and there for years 
 
 It hung ; — and mouldered there. 
 
 The Priest here ended. 
 The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt 
 A gushing from his heart, that took away 
 The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence ; 
 And Leonard, when they reached the church-yard gate, 
 As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round, 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, 
 \nd sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed 420 
 
 Ml 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 
 A place in which he could not bear to live ; 
 So he relinquished all his purposes. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 77 
 
 He travelled back to Egremont ; and thence, 
 
 That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, 
 
 Reminding him of what had passed between them ; 43° 
 
 And adding, with a hope to be forgiven. 
 
 That it was from the weakness of his heart 
 
 He had not dared to tell him who he was. 
 
 This done, he went on shipboard, and is now 
 
 A Seaman, a gray-headed Mariner. 
 
 IT WAS AN APRIL MORNING: FRESH AND 
 CLEAR." 
 
 1800. — 1800. 
 
 It was an April morning : fresh and clear, 
 
 The Rivulet, delighting in its strength, 
 
 Ran with a young man's speed ; and yet the voice 
 
 Of waters which the winter had supplied 
 
 Was softened down into a vernal tone. 
 
 The spirit of enjoyment and desire, 
 
 And hopes and wishes, from all living things 
 
 Went circling, like a multitude of sounds. 
 
 The budding groves seemed eager to urge on 
 
 The steps of June ; as if their various hues 10 
 
 Were only hindrances that stood between 
 
 Them and their object ; but, meanwhile, prevailed 
 
 Such an entire contentment in the air 
 
 That every naked ash, and tardy tree 
 
 Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance 
 
 With which it looked on this delightful day 
 
78 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Were native to the summer. Up the brook 
 
 I roamed in the confusion of my heart, 
 
 Ahve to all things and forgetting all. 
 
 At length I to a sudden turning came 20 
 
 In this continuous glen, where down a rock 
 
 The stream, so ardent in its course before, 
 
 Sent forth such sallies of glad sound that all 
 
 Which I till then had heard appeared the voice 
 
 Of common pleasure : beast and bird, the lamb, 
 
 The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush 
 
 Vied with this waterfall, and made a song 
 
 Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth 
 
 Or like some natural produce of the air. 
 
 That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here ; 3° 
 
 But 't was the foliage of the rocks, — the birch, 
 
 The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, 
 
 With hanging islands of resplendent furze ; 
 
 And on a summit distant a short space. 
 
 By any who should look beyond the dell, 
 
 A single mountain- cottage might be seen. 
 
 I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said, 
 
 " Our thoughts at least are ours ; and this wild nook, 
 
 My Emma, I will dedicate to thee." 
 
 — Soon did the spot become my other home, 4° 
 
 My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. 
 
 And of the shepherds who have seen me there, 
 
 To whom I sometimes in our idle talk 
 
 Have told this fancy, two or three perhaps. 
 
 Years after we are gone and in our graves. 
 
 When they have cause to speak of this wild place, 
 
 May call it by the name of Emma's Dell. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 79 
 
 TO JOANNA. 
 
 1800. — 1800. 
 
 Amid the smoke of cities did you pass 
 The time of early youth ; and there you learned, 
 From years of quiet industry, to love 
 The living Beings by your own fireside, 
 With such a strong devotion that your heart 
 • Is slow to meet the sympathies of them 
 Who look upon the hills with tenderness. 
 And make dear friendships with the streams and groves. 
 Yet we who are transgressors in this kind. 
 Dwelling retired in our simplicity 10 
 
 Among the woods and fields, we love you well, 
 Joanna ! and I guess, since you have been 
 So distant from us now for two long years, 
 That you will gladly listen to discourse, 
 However trivial, if you thence be taught 
 That they with whom you once were happy, talk 
 Familiarly of you and of old times. 
 
 While I was seated, now some ten days past. 
 Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop 
 Their ancient neighbor, the old steeple-tower, 20 
 
 The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by 
 Came forth to greet me ; and when he had asked, 
 " How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid ! 
 And when will she return to us ? " he paused ; 
 And after short exchange of village news. 
 
80 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 He with grave looks demanded for what cause, 
 
 Reviving obsolete idolatry, 
 
 I, like a Runic Priest, in characters 
 
 Of formidable size had chiselled out 
 
 Some uncouth name upon the native rock, 3° 
 
 Above the Rotha, by the forest-side. 
 
 — Now, by those dear immunities of heart 
 
 Engendered between malice and true love, 
 
 I was not loath to be so catechised, 
 
 And this was my reply : — "As it befell, 
 
 One summer morning we had walked abroad 
 
 At break of day, Joanna and myself. 
 
 — 'T was that delightful season when the broom. 
 Full-flowered, and visible in every steep, 
 
 Along the copses runs in veins of gold. 40 
 
 Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks ; 
 
 And when we came in front of that tall rock 
 
 That eastward looks, I there stopped short, and stood 
 
 Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye 
 
 From base to summit : such delight I found 
 
 To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower. 
 
 That intermixture of delicious hues. 
 
 Along so vast a surface, all at once, 
 
 In one iuipression, by connecting force 
 
 Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. 5° 
 
 — When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space, 
 Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld 
 
 That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. 
 The Rock, like something starting from a sleep, 
 Took up the Lady's voice and laughed again ; 
 That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag, 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. Zl 
 
 Was ready with her cavern ; Hammar-scar 
 
 And the tall Steep of Silver-how sent forth 
 
 A noise of laughter ; southern Loughrigg heard, 
 
 And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone ; 60 
 
 Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky 
 
 Carried the Lady's voice ; old Skiddaw blew 
 
 His speaking trumpet ; back out of the clouds 
 
 Of Glaramara southward come the voice ; 
 
 And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head. 
 
 — Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend, 
 Who in the hey-day of astonishment 
 Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth 
 
 A work accomplished by the brotherhood 
 
 Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched 70 
 
 With dreams and visionary impulses 
 
 To me alone imparted, sure I am 
 
 That there was a loud uproar in the hills. 
 
 And while we both were listening, to my side 
 
 The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished 
 
 To shelter from some object of her fear. 
 
 — And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons 
 Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone 
 
 Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm 
 
 And silent morning, I sat down, and -there, 80 
 
 In memory of affections old and true, 
 
 I chiselled out in those rude characters 
 
 Joanna's name deep in the living stone ; 
 
 And I, and all who dwell by my fireside. 
 
 Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock." 
 
82 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 "THERE IS AN EMINENCE." 
 
 1800. — 1800. 
 
 There is an Eminence, — of these our hills 
 
 The last that parleys with the setting sun ; 
 
 We can behold it from our orchard- seat ; 
 
 And, when at evening we pursue our walk 
 
 Along the public way, this Peak, so high 
 
 Above us, and so distant in its height, 
 
 Is visible ; and often seems to send 
 
 Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts. 
 
 The meteors make of it a favorite haunt : 
 
 The star of Jove, so beautiful and large to 
 
 In the mid-heavens, is never half so fair 
 
 As when he shines above it. 'T is in truth 
 
 The loneliest place we have among the clouds. 
 
 And She who dwells with me, whom I have loved 
 
 With such communion that no place on earth 
 
 Can ever be a soHtude to me. 
 
 Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name. 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 A PASTORAL POEM. 
 1800. — 1800. 
 
 If from me public way you turn your step 
 Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, 
 You will suppose that with an upright path 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 83 
 
 Your feet must struggle, in such bold ascent 
 
 The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. 
 
 But, courage ! for around that boisterous brook 
 
 The mountains have all opened out themselves, 
 
 And made a hidden valley of their own. 
 
 No habitation can be seen ; but they 
 
 Who journey thither find themselves alone 10 
 
 With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites 
 
 That overhead are sailing in the sky. 
 
 It is in truth an utter solitude ; 
 
 Nor should I have made mention of this Dell 
 
 But for one object which you might pass by, 
 
 Might see and notice not. Beside the brook 
 
 Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones, 
 
 And to that simple object appertains 
 
 A story, — unenriched with strange events, 
 
 Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 20 
 
 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 
 
 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 3° 
 
 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 
 
84 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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. 
 
 Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale 4c 
 
 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, 
 " 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. 60 
 
 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. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 85 
 
 Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed 
 
 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 70 
 
 Of the dumb animals whom he had saved. 
 
 Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts 
 
 The certainty of honorable gain ; 
 
 Those fields, those hills — what could they less ? — had laid 
 
 Strong hold on his affections, were to him 
 
 A pleasurable feeling of blind love. 
 
 The pleasure which there is in life itself. 
 
 His days had not been passed in singleness. 
 His Helpmate was a comely matron, old. 
 Though younger than himself full twenty years. 80 
 
 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 
 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, 9° 
 
 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 
 
86 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 For endless industry. When day was gone, 
 
 And from their occupations out of doors 
 
 The Son and Father were come home, even then 
 
 Their labor did not cease ; unless when all 
 
 Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there, 
 
 Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, loo 
 
 Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes. 
 
 And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal 
 
 Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) 
 
 And his old Father both betook themselves 
 
 To such convenient work as might employ 
 
 Their hands by the fireside ; perhaps to card 
 
 Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair 
 
 Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, 
 
 Or other implement of house or field. 
 
 Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge, no 
 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 120 
 
 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, 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 87 
 
 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 Hght was famous in its neighborhood. 
 
 And was a public symbol of the life 130 
 
 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, tlie 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 
 Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all — 
 Than that a child, more than all other gifts 
 That earth can offer to decHning man, 
 Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, 
 And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
 By tendency of nature needs must fail. 150 
 
 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 
 
88 SELECTIONS FROM 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, i6o 
 
 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 
 Sat 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 i^O 
 
 With his own hand a sapUng, which he hooped 
 With iron, making it throughout in all 
 Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff, 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 89 
 
 And gave it to the Boy ; wherewith equipped, 
 
 He as a watchman oftentimes was placed 
 
 At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock ; 
 
 And, to his office prematurely called, 
 
 There stood the urchin, as you will divine, 
 
 Something between a hindrance and a help ; 
 
 And for this cause not always, I believe, 190 
 
 Receiving from his Father hire of praise ; 
 
 Though naught was left undone which staff, or voice, 
 
 Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform. 
 
 But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand 
 Against the mountain blasts, and to the heights. 
 Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, 
 He with his Father daily went, and they 
 Were as companions, why should I relate 
 That objects which the Shepherd loved before 
 Were dearer now ; that from the Boy there came 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. 
 
 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 vShepherd had been bound 210 
 
QO SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 
 
 In surety for his brother's son, a man 
 
 Of an industrious hfe, and ample means ; 
 
 But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 
 
 Had pressed 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. 220 
 
 As soon as he had armed himself with strength 
 
 To look his trouble in the face, it seemed 
 
 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 230 
 
 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 240 
 
 'T were better to be dumb than to talk thus. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 91 
 
 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. We have, thou know'st, 
 Another kinsman ; he will be our friend 
 In this distress. He is a prosperous man, 
 Thriving in trade ; and Luke to him shall go, 250 
 
 And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift 
 He quickly will repair this loss, and then 
 He may return to us. If here he stay, 
 What can be done ? Where every one is poor, 
 What can be gained? " 
 
 At this the old Man paused, 
 And Isabel sat silent, for her mind 
 Was busy, looking back into past times. 
 There 's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself. 
 He was a parish-boy, — at the church-door 
 They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence, 260 
 And half-pennies, wherewith the neighbors bought 
 A basket, which they filled with pedler's wares ; 
 And, with his basket on his arm, the lad 
 Went up to London, found a master there. 
 Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy 
 To go and overlook his merchandise 
 Beyond the seas ; where he grew wondrous rich, 
 And left estates and moneys to the poor. 
 And at his birthplace built a chapel, floored 
 With marble, which he sent from foreign lands. 270 
 
 These thoughts, and many others of like sort, 
 
9^ SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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. 
 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 280 
 
 To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night : 
 
 — If he could go, the Boy should go to-night." 
 
 Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth 
 With a light heart. The Housewife for five days 
 Was restless morn and night, and all day long 
 Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare 
 Things needful for the journey of her son. 
 But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 
 To stop her in her work : for, when she lay 
 By Michael's side, she through the 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, 300 
 
 Recovered heart. That evening her best fare 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. ^Z 
 
 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 310 
 
 He might be sent to him. Ten times or more 
 The letter was read over ; Isabel 
 Went forth to show it to the neighbors 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 320 
 
 She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. 
 
 Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, 
 In that deep valley, Michael had designed 
 To build a Sheep-fold ; and, before he heard 
 The tidings of his melancholy loss. 
 For this same purpose he had gathered up 
 A heap of stones, 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 
 
94 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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 litde part 
 
 Of our two histories ; 't will 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 34° 
 
 The 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 35^ 
 
 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 
 
 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 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 95 
 
 A kind and a good Father ; and herein 
 
 I but repay a gift which I myself 
 
 Received at other's hands ; for though now old 
 
 Beyond the common life of man, I still 
 
 Remember them who loved me in my youth. 
 
 Both of them sleep together : here they lived, 
 
 As all their Forefathers had done ; and when 
 
 At length their time was come, they were not loath 
 
 To give their bodies to the family mould. zi^ 
 
 I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived ; 
 
 But 't is a long time to look back, my Son, 
 
 And see so little gain from threescore years. 
 
 These fields were burdened 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, 380 
 
 If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good 
 
 That thou shouldst go." 
 
 At this the old man paused ; 
 Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood, 
 Thus, after a short silence, he resumed : 
 " This was a work for us ; and now, my Son, 
 It is a work for me. But lay one stone, — 
 Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. 
 Nay, Boy, be of good hope ; we both may live 
 To see a better day. At eighty-four 
 I still am strong and hale j do thou thy part ; 390 
 
 I will do mine. I will begin again 
 With many tasks that were resig^ned to thee : 
 
96 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Up to the heights, and in among the storms. 
 
 Will I without thee go again, and do 
 
 All works which I was wont to do alone. 
 
 Before I knew thy face. Heaven bless thee. Boy ! 
 
 Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast 
 
 With many hopes ; it should be so — yes, yes, — 
 
 I knew that thou couldst never have a wish 
 
 To leave me, Luke : thou hast been bound to me 4oa 
 
 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 j hither turn thy thoughts, 
 
 And God will strengthen thee. Amid all fear 
 
 And all temptations, Luke, I pray that thou 
 
 May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, 4io 
 
 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 
 
 'T will be between us ; but, whatever fate 
 
 Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, 
 
 And bear thy memory Avith me to the grave." 
 
 The Shepherd ended here ; and Luke stooped down. 
 And, as his Father had requested, laid 
 The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight 420 
 
 The old Man's grief broke from him ; to his heart 
 He pressed his son, he kissed him and wept ; 
 And to the house together they returned. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 97 
 
 — Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace, 
 
 Ere the night fell : with morrow's dawn the Boy 
 
 Began his journey, and when he had reached 
 
 The public way, he put on a bold face ; 
 
 And all the neighbors, as he passed their doors. 
 
 Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, 
 
 That followed him till he was out of sight. 43° 
 
 A good report did from their Kinsman come, 
 Of Luke and his well-doing ; and the Boy 
 Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, 
 Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout 
 " The prettiest letters that were ever seen." 
 Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. 
 So many months passed on ; and once again 
 The Shepherd went about his daily work 
 With confident and cheerful thoughts ; and now 
 Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour 44o 
 
 He to that valley took his way, and there 
 Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began 
 To slacken in his duty ; and at length 
 He in the dissolute city gave himself 
 To evil courses : ignominy and shame 
 Fell on him, so that he was driven at last 
 To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. 
 
 There is a comfort in the strength of love ; 
 'T will make a thing endurable, which else 
 Would overset the brain, or break the heart : 45° 
 
 I have conversed with more than one who well 
 Remember the old Man, and what he was 
 7 
 
98 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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, 
 
 And listened to the wind, and, as before, 
 
 Performed all kinds of labor for his sheep, 
 
 And for the land, his small inheritance. 
 
 And to that hollow dell from time to time 460 
 
 Did he repair, to build the Fold of which 
 
 His flock had need. 'T is not forgotten yet, -*i--^ 
 
 The pity which was then in every heart 
 
 For the old Man ; and 't is believed by all 
 
 That many and many a day he thither went. 
 
 And never lifted up a single stone. 
 
 There by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen 
 Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, 
 Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 
 The length of full seven years, from time to time, 47° 
 He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought, 
 And left the work unfinished when he died. 
 Three years, or little more, did Isabel 
 Survive her Husband : at her death the estate 
 Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. 
 The Cottage which was named the Evening Star 
 \ Is gone, — the ploughshare has been through the ground 
 On which it stood. Great changes have been wrought 
 In all the neighborhood ; yet the oak is left 
 That grew beside their door; and the remains 480 
 
 Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen 
 Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 99 
 
 THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE. 
 
 1800. — 1800. 
 
 " Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf," 
 
 Exclaimed an angry Voice, 
 
 " Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self 
 
 Between me and my choice ! " 
 
 A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows 
 
 Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose, 
 
 That all bespattered with his foam. 
 
 And dancing high and dancing low, 
 
 Was living, as a child might know, 
 
 In an unhappy home. 10 
 
 " Dost thou presume my course to block ? 
 
 Off, off ! or, puny Thing ! 
 
 I '11 hurl thee headlong with the rock 
 
 To which thy fibres cling." 
 
 The Flood was tyrannous and strong ; 
 
 The patient Briar suffered long. 
 
 Nor did he utter groan or sigh. 
 
 Hoping the danger would be past ; 
 
 But seeing no relief, at last 
 
 He ventured to reply. 20 
 
 " Ah ! " said the Briar, " blame me not ; 
 Why should we dwell in strife ? 
 We who in this sequestered spot 
 Once lived a happy life ! 
 
lOO SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 
 
 You stirred me on my rocky bed, — 
 
 What pleasure through my veins you spread ! 
 
 The summer long, from day to day, 
 
 My leaves you freshened and bedewed ; 
 
 Nor was it common gratitude 
 
 That did your cares repay. 30 
 
 *' When spring came on with bud and bell. 
 
 Among these rocks did I 
 
 Before you hang my wreaths, to tell 
 
 That gentle days were nigh ! 
 
 And in the sultry summer hours 
 
 I sheltered you with leaves and flowers ; 
 
 And in my leaves — now shed and gone — 
 
 The linnet lodged, and for us two 
 
 Chanted his pretty songs, when you 
 
 Had little voice or none. 4c 
 
 " But now proud thoughts are in your breast — 
 
 What grief is mine you see, 
 
 Ah ! would you think, even yet how blest 
 
 Together we might be ! 
 
 Though of both leaf and flower bereft, 
 
 Some ornaments to me are left — 
 
 Rich store of scarlet hips is mine. 
 
 With which I, in my humble way. 
 
 Would deck you many a winter day, 
 
 A happy Eglantine ! " 50 
 
 What more he said I cannot tell. 
 The Torrent down the rocky dell 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. loi 
 
 Came thundering loud and fast ; 
 I listened, nor aught else could hear ; 
 The Briar quaked — and much I fear 
 Those accents were his last. 
 
 THE OAK AND THE BROOM. 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 1800. — 1800. 
 
 His simple truths did Andrew glean 
 
 Beside the babbling rills ; 
 
 A careful student he had been 
 
 Among the woods and hills. 
 
 One winter's night, when through the trees 
 
 The wind was roaring, on his knees 
 
 His youngest born did Andrew hold : 
 
 And while the rest, a ruddy quire. 
 
 Were seated round their blazing fire, 
 
 This Tale the Shepherd told : — 10 
 
 " I saw a crag, a lofty stone 
 
 As ever tempest beat ! 
 
 Out of its head an Oak had grown, 
 
 A Broom out of its feet. 
 
 The time was March, a cheerful noon — 
 
 The thaw-wind, with the breath of June, 
 
 Breathed gently from the warm south-west : 
 
 When, in a voice sedate with age, 
 
102 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 This Oak, a giant and a sage, 
 
 His neighbor thus addressed : — 20 
 
 ' Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay, 
 
 Along this mountain's edge. 
 
 The Frost hath wrought both night and day, 
 
 Wedge driving after wedge. 
 
 Look up ! and think, above your head 
 
 What trouble, surely, will be bred ; 
 
 Last night I heard a crash — 't is true. 
 
 The splinters took another road, — 
 
 I see them yonder, — what a load 
 
 For such a Thing as you ! 30 
 
 You are preparing as before 
 
 To deck your slender shape ; 
 
 And yet, just three years back — no more — 
 
 You had a strange escape : 
 
 Down from yon cliff a fragment broke ; 
 
 It thundered down with fire and smoke. 
 
 And hitherward pursued its way ; 
 
 This ponderous block was caught by me. 
 
 And o'er your head, as you may see, 
 
 'T is hanging to this day ! 40 
 
 If breeze or bird to this rough steep 
 Your kind's first seed did bear. 
 The breeze had better been asleep, 
 The bird caught in a snare ; 
 For you and your green twigs decoy 
 The little witless shepherd-boy 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 103 
 
 To come and slumber in your bower ; 
 
 And, trust me, on some sultry noon 
 
 Both you and he. Heaven knows how soon ! 
 
 Will perish in one hour. 5° 
 
 From me this friendly warning take.* 
 
 The Broom began to doze, 
 
 And thus to keep herself awake, 
 
 Did gently interpose : 
 
 ' My thanks for your discourse are due ; 
 
 That more than what you say is true, 
 
 I know, and I have known it long ; 
 
 Frail is the bond by which we hold 
 
 Our being, whether young or old, 
 
 Wise, foolish, weak, or strong. 60 
 
 Disasters, do the best we can, 
 
 Will reach both great and small ; 
 
 And he is oft the wisest man 
 
 Who is not wise at all. 
 
 For me, why should I wish to roam? 
 
 This spot is my paternal home, 
 
 It is my pleasant heritage ; 
 
 My father many a happy year 
 
 Spread here his careless blossoms, here 
 
 Attained a good old age. 70 
 
 Even such as his may be my lot. 
 What cause have I to haunt 
 My heart with terrors ? Am I not 
 In truth a favored plant ! 
 
104 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 
 
 On me such bounty Summer pours, 
 
 That I am covered o'er with flowers ; 
 
 And, when the Frost is in the sky, 
 
 My branches are so fresh and gay 
 
 That you might look at me and say, 
 
 This Plant can never die. 80 
 
 The butterfly, all green and gold, 
 
 To me hath often flown. 
 
 Here in my blossoms to behold 
 
 Wings lovely as his own. 
 
 When grass is chill with rain or dew, 
 
 Beneath my shade the mother-ewe 
 
 Lies with her infant lamb ; I see 
 
 The love they to each other make. 
 
 And the sweet joy which they partake ; 
 
 It is a joy to me.' 90 
 
 Her voice was blithe, her heart was light ; 
 
 The Broom might have pursued 
 
 Her speech, until the stars of night 
 
 Their journey had renewed ; 
 
 But in the branches of the oak 
 
 Two ravens now began to croak 
 
 Their nuptial song, a gladsome air ; 
 
 And to her own green bower the breeze 
 
 That instant brought two stripling bees 
 
 To rest, or murmur there. 100 
 
 One night, my Children ! from the north 
 There came a furious blast ; 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 1 05 
 
 At break of day I ventured forth, 
 
 And near the cliff I passed. 
 
 The storm had fallen upon the Oak, 
 
 And struck him with a mighty stroke, 
 
 And whirled, and whirled him far away 
 
 And, in one hospitable cleft. 
 
 The little careless Broom was left 
 
 To live for many a day." no 
 
 THE SPARROW'S NEST. 
 
 1801. — 1807. 
 
 Behold, within the leafy shade. 
 Those bright blue eggs together laid ! 
 On me the chance-discovered sight 
 Gleamed like a vision of dehght. 
 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 Emmehne and I 
 
 Together visited. 10 
 
 She looked at it and seemed to fear it ; 
 Dreading, though wishing, to be near it : 
 Such heart was in her, being then 
 A little Prattler among men. 
 The Blessing of my later years 
 
I06 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 And love, and thought, and joy. 20 
 
 ALICE FELL; 
 
 OR, POVERTY. 
 1802. — 1807. 
 
 The post-boy drove with fierce career. 
 
 For threatening clouds the moon had drowned ; 
 
 When, as we hurried on, my ear 
 
 Was smitten with a startling sound. 
 
 As if the wind blew many ways, 
 I heard the sound — and more and more ; 
 It seemed to follow with the chaise, 
 And still I heard it as before. 
 
 At length I to the boy called out ; 
 He stopped his horses at the word. 
 But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout, 
 Nor aught else like it, could be heard. 
 
 The boy then smacked his whip, and fast 
 The horses scampered through the rain ; 
 But hearing soon upon the blast 
 The cry, I bade him halt again. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 107 
 
 Forthwith ahghting on the ground, 
 
 " Whence comes," said I, " this piteous moan ? " 
 
 And there a little Girl I found. 
 
 Sitting behind the chaise, alone. 20 
 
 " My cloak ! " No other word she spake, 
 But loud and bitterly she wept. 
 As if her innocent heart would break ; 
 And down from off her seat she leapt. 
 
 " What ails you, child? " — She sobbed, " Look here ! " 
 
 I saw it in the wheel entangled, 
 
 A weather-beaten rag as e'er 
 
 From any garden scarecrow dangled. ' 
 
 There, twisted between nave and spoke, 
 
 It hung, nor could at once be freed ; 3° 
 
 But our joint pains unloosed the cloak, 
 
 A miserable rag indeed ! 
 
 ^' And whither are you going, child, 
 To-night, along these lonesome ways ? " 
 " To Durham," answered she, half wild. 
 " Then come with me into the chaise." 
 
 Insensible to all relief 
 
 Sat the poor girl, and forth did send 
 
 Sob after sob, as if her grief 
 
 Could never, never have an end. 40 
 
 ** My child, in Durham do you dwell ? " 
 She checked herself in her distress, 
 
I08 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And said, " My name is Alice Fell ; 
 I 'm fatherless and motherless. 
 
 And I to Durham, Sir, belong.'' 
 Again, as if the thought would choke 
 Her very heart, her grief grew strong ; 
 And all was for her tattered cloak ! 
 
 The chaise drove on ; our journey's end 
 
 Was nigh ; and sitting by my side, 5° 
 
 As if she had lost her only friend 
 
 She wept, nor would be pacified. 
 
 Up to the tavern-door we post ; 
 Of Alice and her grief I told ; 
 And I gave money to the host, 
 To buy a new cloak for the old. 
 
 " And let it be of duffil gray, 
 
 As warm a cloak as man can sell ! " 
 
 Proud creature was she the next day, 
 
 The little orphan, Alice Fell ! 60 
 
 BEGGARS. 
 
 1802. — 1807. 
 
 She had a tall man's height or more ; 
 
 Her face from summer's noontide heat 
 
 No bonnet shaded, but she wore 
 
 A mantle, to her very feet 
 
 Descending with a graceful flow. 
 
 And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 109 
 
 Her skin was of Egyptian brown : 
 
 Haughty, as if her eye had seen 
 
 Its own light to a distance thrown, 
 
 She towered, fit person for a Queen 10 
 
 To lead those ancient Amazonian files ; 
 
 Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian isles. 
 
 Advancing, forth she stretched her hand 
 
 And begged an alms with doleful plea 
 
 That ceased not ; on our English land 
 
 Such woes, I knew, could never be ; 
 
 And yet a boon I gave her, for the creature 
 
 Was beautiful to see — a weed of glorious feature. 
 
 I left her, and pursued my way ; 
 
 And soon before me did espy 20 
 
 A pair of little Boys at play, 
 
 Chasing a crimson butterfly ; 
 
 The taller followed with his hat in hand, 
 
 Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land. 
 
 The other wore a rimless crown 
 
 With leaves of laurel stuck about ; 
 
 And while both followed up and down, 
 
 Each whooping with a merry shout, 
 
 In their fraternal features I could trace 
 
 Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant's face. 30 
 
 Yet they, so blithe of heart, seemed fit 
 
 For finest tasks of earth or air : 
 
 Wings let them have, and they might flit 
 
no SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Precursors to Aurora's car, 
 
 Scattering fresh flowers ; though happier far, I ween, 
 
 To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level green. 
 
 They dart across my path, — but lo, 
 
 Each ready with a plaintive whine ! 
 
 Said I, " Not half an hour ago 
 
 Your Mother has had alms of mine." 40 
 
 " That cannot be," one answered, — " she is dead ; " 
 
 I looked reproof; they saw, but neither hung his head. 
 
 " She has been dead, Sir, many a day." 
 
 " Hush, boys ! you 're telling me a lie ; 
 
 It was your Mother, as I say ! " 
 
 And in the twinkling of an eye, 
 
 *' Come ! come ! " cried one, and without more ado, 
 
 Ofl" to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew ! 
 
 WRITTEN IN MARCH, 
 
 WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHER'S 
 WATER. 
 
 1802. — 1807. 
 
 The cock is crowing, 
 The stream is flowing, 
 The small birds twitter, 
 The lake doth glitter. 
 The green field sleeps in the sun ; 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. m 
 
 The oldest and youngest 
 Are at work with the strongest ; 
 The cattle are grazing, 
 Their heads never raising ; 
 There are forty feeding like one ! lo 
 
 Like an army defeated 
 
 The snow hath retreated, 
 
 And now doth fare ill 
 
 On the top of the bare hill ; 
 The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon : 
 
 There 's joy in the mountains ; 
 
 There 's life in the fountains ; 
 
 Small clouds are sailing, 
 
 Blue sky prevailing ; 
 The rain is over and gone ! 20 
 
 / 
 
 "MY HEART LEAPS UP." 
 
 1802. — 1807. 
 
 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. 
 
112 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 THE REDBREAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 1802. — 1807. 
 
 Art thou the bird whom Man loves best, 
 The pious bird with the scarlet breast, 
 
 Our little English Robin ; 
 The bird that comes about our doors 
 When Autumn winds are sobbing? 
 Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors ? 
 
 Their Thomas in Finland, 
 
 And Russia far inland ? 
 The bird that by some name or other 
 All men who know thee call their brother, 10 
 
 The darling of children and men ? 
 Could Father Adam open his eyes 
 And see this sight beneath the skies. 
 He 'd wish to close them again. 
 — If the Butterfly knew but his friend. 
 Hither his flight he would bend ; 
 And find his way to me, 
 Under the branches of the tree : 
 In and out he darts about ; 
 
 Can this be the bird, to man so good, 20 
 
 That after their bewildering, 
 Covered with leaves the little children, 
 
 So painfully in the wood? 
 
 What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue 
 
 A beautiful creature, 
 That is gentle by nature ? 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, I13 
 
 Beneath the summer sky 
 
 From flower to flower let him fly ; 
 
 'T is all that he wishes to do. 
 
 The cheerer Thou of our indoor sadness, 3° 
 
 He is the friend of our summer gladness ; 
 
 What hinders, then, that ye should be 
 
 Playmates in the sunny weather, 
 
 And fly about in the air together ? 
 
 His beautiful wings in crimson are drest, 
 
 A crimson as bright as thine own ; 
 
 Would'st thou be happy in thy nest, 
 
 O pious Bird ! whom man loves best, 
 
 Love him, or leave him alone ! 
 
 TO A BUTTERFLY. 
 
 1802. — 1807. 
 
 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 ; 10 
 
 My trees they are, my Sister's flowers. 
 Here rest your wings when they are weary ; 
 8 
 
114 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Here lodge as in a sanctuary ! 
 
 Come often to us, fear no wrong ; 
 
 Sit near us on the bough ! 
 
 We '11 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. 
 
 TO A BUTTERFLY. 
 
 1802. — 1807. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 115 
 
 TO THE SMALL CELANDINE. 
 
 1802. — 1807. 
 
 Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, 
 Let them live upon their praises ; 
 Long as there 's a sun that sets, 
 Primroses will have their glory ; 
 Long as there are violets, 
 They will have a place in story : 
 There 's a flower that shall be mine, 
 'T is the little Celandine. 
 
 Eyes of some men travel far 
 
 For the finding of a star ; 10 
 
 Up and down the heavens they go, 
 
 Men that keep a mighty rout ! 
 
 I 'm as great as they, I trow, 
 
 Since the day I found thee out, 
 
 Litde Flower ! — I '11 make a stir, 
 
 Like a sage astronomer. 
 
 Modest, yet withal an Elf 
 
 Bold, and lavish of thyself; 
 
 Since we needs must first have met, 
 
 I have seen thee, high and low, 20 
 
 Thirty years or more, and yet 
 
 'T was a face I did not know ; 
 
 Thou hast now, go where I may, 
 
 Fifty greetings in a day. 
 
Il6 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Ere a leaf is on a bush, 
 
 In the time before the thrush 
 
 Has a thought about her nest, 
 
 Thou wilt come with half a call, 
 
 Spreading out thy glossy breast 
 
 Like a careless Prodigal ; 30!) 
 
 Telling tales about the sun, 
 
 When we Ve little warmth or none 
 
 Poets — vain men in their mood ! — 
 
 Travel with the multitude : 
 
 Never heed them ; I aver 
 
 That they all are wanton wooers ; 
 
 But the thrifty cottager, 
 
 Who stirs little out of doors, 
 
 Joys to spy thee near her home : 
 
 Spring is coming. Thou art come 4^ 
 
 Comfort have thou of thy merit, 
 Kindly, unassuming Spirit ! 
 Careless of thy neighborhood. 
 Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
 On the moor, and in the wood, 
 In the lane ; — there 's not a place, 
 Howsoever mean it be. 
 But 't is good enough for thee. 
 
 Ill befall the yellow Flowers, 
 
 Children of the flaring hours ! 5° 
 
 Buttercups, that will be seen. 
 
 Whether we will see or no ; 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 117 
 
 Others, too, of lofty mien ; 
 They have done as worldlings do, 
 Taken praise that should be thine, 
 Little, humble Celandine ! 
 
 Prophet of delight and mirth, 
 
 Ill-requited upon earth ; 
 
 Herald of a mighty band. 
 
 Of a joyous train ensuing, 60 
 
 Serving at my heart's command, 
 
 Tasks that are no tasks renewing, 
 
 I will sing, as doth behove. 
 
 Hymns in praise of what I love ! 
 
 TO THE SAME FLOWER. 
 
 1802.— 1807. 
 
 Pleasures newly found are sweet 
 
 When they lie about our feet : 
 
 February last, my heart 
 
 First at sight of thee was glad ; 
 
 All unheard of as thou art. 
 
 Thou must needs, I think, have had, 
 
 Celandine ! and long ago. 
 
 Praise of which I nothing know. 
 
 I have not a doubt but he, 
 
 Whosoe'er the man might be, 10 
 
 Who the first with pointed rays 
 
 (Workman worthy to be sainted) 
 
Il8 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Set the sign-board in a blaze, 
 When the rising sun he painted, 
 Took the fancy from a glance 
 At thy glittering countenance. 
 
 Soon as gentle breezes bring 
 
 News of winter's vanishing ; 
 
 And the children build their bowers, 
 
 Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould 20 
 
 All about with full-blown flowers, 
 
 Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold ! 
 
 With the proudest thou art there, 
 
 Mantling in the tiny square. 
 
 Often have I sighed to measure 
 
 By myself a lonely pleasure, 
 
 Sighed to think, I read a book. 
 
 Only read, perhaps, by me ; 
 
 Yet I long could overlook 
 
 Thy bright coronet and Thee, 3° 
 
 And thy arch and wily ways. 
 
 And thy store of other praise. 
 
 Blithe of heart, from week to week 
 
 Thou dost play at hide-and-seek ; 
 
 While the patient primrose sits 
 
 Like a beggar in the cold, 
 
 Thou, a flower of wiser wits, 
 
 Slipp'st into thy sheltering hold ; 
 
 Liveliest of the vernal train 
 
 When we are all out again. 40 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 119 
 
 Drawn by what peculiar spell, 
 By what charm of sight or smell, 
 Does the dim-eyed curious Bee, 
 Laboring for her waxen cells, 
 Fondly settle upon Thee, 
 Prized above all buds and bells 
 Opening daily at thy side, 
 By the season multiplied? 
 
 Thou art not beyond the moon, 
 
 But a thing " beneath our shoon : " 50 
 
 Let the bold Discoverer thrid 
 
 In his bark the polar sea ; 
 
 Rear who will a pyramid ; 
 
 Praise it is enough for me, 
 
 If there be but three or four 
 
 Who will love my little Flower. 
 
 THE LEECH-GATHERER; 
 
 OR, RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 1802. — 1807. 
 
 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. 
 
I20 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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 lo 
 
 The hare is running races in her mirth ; 
 
 And with her feet she from the plashy earth 
 
 Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun, 
 
 Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. 
 
 I was a Traveller then upon the moor, 
 
 I sav/ 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, 20 
 
 And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy. 
 
 But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might 
 Of joy in minds that can no further go. 
 As high as we have mounted in delight 
 In our dejection do we sink as low ; 
 To me that morning did it happen so : 
 And fears and fancies thick upon me came ; 
 Dim sadness and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could 
 name. 
 
 I heard the skylark warbling in the sky ; 
 
 And I bethought me of the playful hare ; 3° 
 
 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. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. I2I 
 
 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 4o 
 
 Build for him, sow for him, and at his call 
 
 Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all? 
 
 I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, 
 
 The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride ; 
 
 Of Him who walked in glory and in joy 
 
 Following his plough, along the mountain-side ; 
 
 By our own spirits are we deified : 
 
 We Poets in our youth begin in gladness : 
 
 But thereof come in the end despondency and madness. 
 
 Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 5° 
 
 A leading from above, a something given, 
 
 Yet it befell that in this lonely place. 
 
 When I with these untoward thoughts had striven. 
 
 Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven 
 
 I saw a Man before me unawares : 
 
 The oldest man he seemed that ever wore gray hairs. 
 
 As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie 
 
 Couched on the bald top of an eminence ; 
 
 Wonder to all who do the same espy. 
 
 By what means it could thither come, and whence ; 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; 
 
122 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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. 7° 
 
 Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, 
 Upon a long gray staff of shaven wood ; 
 And, still as I drew near with gentle pace. 
 Upon the margin of that moorish flood 
 Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood. 
 That heareth not the loud winds when they call. 
 And moveth all together, if it move at all. 
 
 At length, himself unsettling, he the pond 
 
 Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look 
 
 Upon the muddy water, which he conned, 80 
 
 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." 
 
 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 90 
 
 Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes. 
 
^ELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 123 
 
 His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, 
 
 But each in solemn order followed each, 
 
 With something of a lofty utterance drest, — 
 
 Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach 
 
 Of ordinary men ; a stately speech ; 
 
 Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use, 
 
 Religious men, who give to God and man their dues. 
 
 He told, that to these waters he had come 
 
 To gather leeches, being old and poor, — 100 
 
 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. 
 
 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, no 
 
 Or like a man from some far region sent. 
 
 To give me human strength, by apt admonishment. 
 
 My former thoughts returned : the fear that kills ; 
 
 And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; 
 
 Cold, pain, and labor, and all fleshly ills ; 
 
 And mighty Poets in their misery dead. 
 
 — Perplexed, and longing to be comforted. 
 
 My question eagerly did I renew, 
 
 " How is it that you live, and what is it you do ? '* 
 
124 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 He with a smile did then his words repeat ; 120 
 
 And said that, gathering leeches, far and wide 
 
 He travelled ; stirring thus about his feet 
 
 The waters of the pools where they abide. 
 
 " Once I could meet with them on every side ; 
 
 But they have dwindled long by slow decay ; 
 
 Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may." 
 
 While he was talking thus, the lonely place, 
 
 The old Man's shape, and speech, — all troubled me : 
 
 In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace 
 
 About the weary moors continually, 130 
 
 Wandering about alone and silently. 
 
 While I these thoughts within myself pursued, 
 
 He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. 
 
 And soon with this he other matter blended, 
 
 Cheerfully uttered, with demeanor kind. 
 
 But stately in the main ; and when he ended, 
 
 I could have laughed myself to scorn to find 
 
 In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. 
 
 " God," said I, " be my help and stay secure; 
 
 I '11 think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor ! " Mo 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 125 
 
 A FAREWELL. 
 
 1802. — 1815. 
 
 Farewell, thou little Nook of mountain-ground, 
 
 Tliou rocky corner in the lowest stair 
 
 Of that magnificent temple which doth bound 
 
 One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare ; 
 
 Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair, 
 
 The loveliest spot that man hath ever found, 
 
 Farewell ! — we leave thee to Heaven's peaceful care, 
 
 Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost surround. 
 
 Our boat is safely anchored by the shore, 
 And there will safely ride when we are gone ; 10 
 
 The flowering shrubs that deck our humble door 
 Will prosper, though untended and alone : 
 Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none ; 
 These narrow bounds contain our private store 
 Of things earth makes, and sun doth shine upon ; 
 Here are they in our sight, — we have no more. 
 
 Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell ! 
 For two months now in vain we shall be sought ; 
 We leave you here in solitude to dwell 
 With these our latest gifts of tender thought : 20 
 
 Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat, 
 Bright go wan, and marsh-marigold, farewell ! 
 Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought, 
 And placed together near our rocky Well. 
 
126 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 We go for One to whom ye will be dear ; 
 
 And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed, 
 
 Our own contrivance, Building without peer ! 
 
 — A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred, 
 
 Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered, 
 
 With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer, 30 
 
 Will come to you ; to you herself will wed. 
 
 And love the blessed life that we lead here. 
 
 Dear Spot ! which we have watched with tender heed, 
 Bringing the chosen plants and blossoms blown 
 Among the distant mountains, flower and weed, 
 Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own. 
 Making all kindness registered and known ; — 
 Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed, 
 Fair in thyself and beautiful alone. 
 Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need. 40 
 
 And O most constant, yet most fickle Place, 
 That hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show 
 To them who look not daily on thy face ; 
 Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know, 
 And say'st, when we forsake thee, ** Let them go ! " 
 Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race 
 Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow, 
 And travel with the year at a soft pace. 
 
 Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by. 
 
 And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best ; 50 
 
 Joy will be flown in its mortality ; 
 
 Something must stay to tell us of the rest. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 127 
 
 Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast 
 Glittered at evening like a starry sky ; 
 And in this bush our sparrow built her nest, 
 Of which I sang one song that will not die. 
 
 O happy Garden ! whose seclusion deep 
 
 Hath been so friendly to industrious hours ; 
 
 And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep 
 
 Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers 60 
 
 And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers, 
 
 Two burning months let summer overleap. 
 
 And coming back with Her who will be ours, 
 
 Into thy bosom we again shall creep. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 WRITTEN IN MY POCKET-COPY OF THOMSON'S CASTLE OF 
 INDOLENCE. 
 
 1802. — 1815. 
 
 Within our happy Castle there dwelt One 
 
 Whom without blame I may not overlook ; 
 
 For never sun on living creature shone 
 
 Who more devout enjoyment with us took ; 
 
 Here on his hours he hung as on a book, 
 
 On his own time here would he float away. 
 
 As doth a fly upon a summer brook ; 
 
 But go to-morrow, or belike to-day, 
 
 Seek for him, — he is fled ; and whither none can say 
 
.128 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Thus often would he leave our peaceful home, lo 
 
 And find elsewhere his business or delight ; 
 
 Out of our Valley's limits did he roam : 
 
 Full many a time, upon a stormy night, 
 
 His voice came to us from the neighboring height : 
 
 Oft could we see him driving full in view 
 
 At mid-day when the sun was shining bright ; 
 
 What ill was on him, what he had to do, 
 
 A mighty wonder bred among our quiet crew. 
 
 Ah ! piteous sight it was to see this Man 
 
 When he came back to us, a withered flower, — 20 
 
 Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan. 
 
 Down would he sit ; and without strength or power 
 
 Look at the common grass from hour to hour : 
 
 And oftentimes, how long I fear to say, 
 
 Where apple-trees in blossom made a bower, 
 
 Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay ; 
 
 And, like a naked Indian, slept himself away. 
 
 Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was 
 
 Whenever from our Valley he withdrew ; 
 
 For happier soul no living creature has 3° 
 
 Than he had, being here the long day through. 
 
 Some thought he was a lover, and did woo ; 
 
 Some thought far worse of him, and judged him wrong : 
 
 But verse was what he had been wedded to ; 
 
 And his own mind did like a tempest strong 
 
 Come to him thus, and drove the weary Wight along. 
 
 With him there often walked in friendly guise, 
 Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree, 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 1 29 
 
 A noticeable Man, with large gray eyes, 
 
 And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly 40 
 
 As if a blooming face it ought to be ; 
 
 Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear, 
 
 Deprest by weight of musing Phantasy ; 
 
 Profound his forehead was, though not severe ; 
 
 Yet some did think that he had little business here : 
 
 Sweet heaven forefend ! his was a lawful right ; 
 
 Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy ; 
 
 His limbs would toss about him with delight, 
 
 Like branches when strong winds the trees annoy. 
 
 Nor lacked his calmer hours device or toy 5° 
 
 To banish listlessness and irksome care ; 
 
 He would have taught you how you might employ 
 
 Yourself; and many did to him repair, — 
 
 And certes not in vain ; he had inventions rare. 
 
 Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried : 
 
 Long blades of grass plucked round him as he lay, 
 
 Made, to his ear attentively applied, 
 
 A pipe on which the wind would deftly play ; 
 
 Glasses he had, that little things display, — 
 
 The beetle panoplied in gems of gold, 60 
 
 A mailed angel on a battle-day ; 
 
 The mysteries that cups of flowers enfold, 
 
 And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold. 
 
 He would entice that other Man to hear 
 His music, and to view his imagery : 
 And sooth, these two were each to the other dear ; 
 9 
 
130 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 No livelier love in such a place could be : 
 
 There did they dwell, from earthly labor free, 
 
 As happy spirits as were ever seen ; 
 
 If but a bird, to keep them company, 70 
 
 Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween, 
 
 As pleased as if the same had been a Maiden-queen. 
 
 "THE SUN HAS LONG BEEN SET." 
 1802. — 1807. 
 
 The sun has long been set. 
 
 The stars are out by twos and threes, 
 The little birds are piping yet 
 
 Among the bushes and trees ; 
 There 's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes, 
 And a far-off wind that rushes, 
 And a sound of water that gushes, 
 And the cuckoo's sovereign cry 
 Fills all the hollow of the sky. 
 
 Who would " go parading " 
 In London, " and masquerading," 
 On such a night of June 
 With that beautiful soft half-moon, 
 On all these innocent blisses ? 
 On such a night as this is ! 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 131 
 
 TO H. C. 
 
 SIX YEARS OLD. 
 1802. — 1807. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Thou faery voyager ! that dost float 
 
 In such clear water, that thy boat 
 
 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 
 
 blessed vision ! happy child ! 
 Thou art so exquisitely wild, 
 
 1 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 ; 
 
 And Grief, uneasy lover ! never rest 
 
 But when she sate within the touch of thee. 
 
 O too industrious folly ! 
 
 O vain and causeless melancholy ! 20 
 
 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. 
 
132 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 
 
 Or the injuries of to-morrow ? 
 
 Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth, 
 
 111 fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, 
 
 Or to be trailed along the soiling earth ; 
 
 A gem that glitters while it lives, 3° 
 
 And no forewarning gives, 
 
 But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife 
 
 Slips in a moment out of life. 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 1802. — 1807. 
 
 C In youth from rock to rock I went, 
 ■' From hill to hill in discontent 
 Of pleasure high and turbulent. 
 
 Most pleased when most uneasy ; 
 But now my own delights I make, — 
 My thirst at every rill can slake, 
 And gladly Nature's love partake 
 Of Thee, sweet Daisy ! 
 
 Thee Winter in the garland wears 
 
 That thinly decks his few gray hairs ; 10 
 
 Spring parts the clouds with softest airs. 
 
 That she may sun thee ; 
 Whole Summer-fields are thine by right j 
 And Autumn, melancholy Wight ! 
 •. Doth in thy crimson head delight 
 When rains are on thee. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 133 
 
 In shoals and bands, a morrice train, 
 Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane ; 
 Pleased at his greeting thee again ; 
 
 Yet nothing daunted, 20 
 
 Nor grieved if thou be set at naught ; 
 And oft alone in nooks remote 
 We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, 
 
 When such are wanted. 
 
 Be violets in their secret mews 
 
 The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose ; 
 
 Proud be the rose, with rains and dews 
 
 Her head impearling. 
 Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, 
 Yet hast not gone without thy fame j 3° 
 
 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, 
 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. 40 
 
 A hundred times, by rock or bower, 
 Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, 
 Have I derived from thy sweet power 
 Some apprehension \ 
 
134 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Some steady love ; some brief delight ; 
 Some memory that had taken flight ; 
 Some chime of fancy wrong or right, 
 Or stray invention. 
 
 If stately passions in me burn, 
 
 And one chance look to Thee should turn, 
 
 I drink out of an humbler urn 
 
 A lowlier pleasure, — 
 The homely sympathy that heeds 
 The common life our nature breeds ; 
 A wisdom fitted to the needs 
 
 Of hearts at leisure. 
 
 Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, 
 When thou art up, alert and gay, 
 Then, cheerful Flower ! my spirits play 
 
 With kindred gladness ; 60 
 
 And when, at dusk, by dews opprest 
 Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest 
 Hath often eased my pensive breast 
 
 Of careful sadness. 
 
 And all day long I number yet, 
 All seasons through, another debt. 
 Which I, wherever thou art met, 
 
 To thee am owing ; 
 An instinct call it, a blind sense, 
 A happy, genial influence, 70 
 
 Coming one knows not how, nor whence, 
 
 Nor whither going. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 135 
 
 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 favorite. 80 
 
 ON THE SAME FLOWER. 
 
 1802. — 1807. 
 
 With litde 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 ! 
 
 Oft on the dappled turf at ease 
 
 I sit, and play with similes, 10 
 
 Loose types of things through all degrees, 
 
 Thoughts of thy raising ; 
 And many a fond and idle name 
 I give to thee, for praise or blame 
 As is the humor of the game, 
 
 While I am gazing. 
 
 A nun demure of lowly port ; 
 
 Or sprightly maiden of Love's court. 
 
136 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 In thy simplicity the sport 
 
 Of all temptations ; 20 
 
 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, 30 
 
 That spreads itself some faery bold 
 
 In fight to cover. 
 
 I see thee glittering from afar — 
 And then thou art a pretty star ; 
 Not quite so fair as many are 
 
 In heaven above thee ! 
 Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
 Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ; 
 May peace come never to his nest 
 
 Who shall reprove thee ! 40 
 
 Bright Flower I for by that name at last, 
 When all my reveries are past, 
 I call thee, and to that cleave fast. 
 
 Sweet silent creature ! 
 That breath'st with me in sun and air. 
 Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
 My heart with gladness, and a share 
 
 Of thy meek nature ! 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 137 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 1802. — 1807. 
 
 Bright Flower ! whose home is everywhere, 
 
 Bold in maternal Nature's care, 
 
 And all the long year through the heir 
 
 Of joy or sorrow, 
 Methinks that there abides in thee 
 Some concord with humanity. 
 Given to no other flower I see 
 
 The forest thorough 1 
 
 Is it that Man is soon deprest, — 
 
 A thoughtless thing ! who, once unblest, 10 
 
 Does little on his memory rest, 
 
 Or on his reason. 
 And Thou would'st teach him how to find 
 A shelter under every wind, 
 A hope for times that are unkind 
 
 And every season? 
 
 Thou wander'st the wide world about, 
 Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt. 
 With friends to greet thee, or without. 
 
 Yet pleased and willing ; 20 
 
 Meek, yielding to the occasion's call. 
 And all things suffering from all. 
 Thy function apostolical 
 
 In peace fulfilling. 
 
138 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 THE GREEN LINNET. 
 
 1803. — 1807. * 
 
 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 ; 10 
 
 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 ; 20 
 
 A Life, a Presence like the Air, 
 Scattering thy gladness without care, 
 Too blest with any one to pair ; 
 
 Thyself thy own enjoyment. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 139 
 
 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 30 
 
 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. 4o 
 
 YEW-TREES. 
 
 1803. — 1815. 
 
 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 loath to furnish weapons for the hands 
 
 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. 
 
I40 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Of vast circumference and gloom profound 
 
 This solitary Tree ! a living thing lo 
 
 Produced too slowly ever to decay ; 
 
 Of form and aspect too magnificent 
 
 To be destroyed. But worthier still of note 
 
 Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale, 
 
 Joined in one solemn and capacious grove ; 
 
 Huge trunks ! and each particular trunk a growth 
 
 Of intertwisted fibres serpentine 
 
 Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved ; 
 
 Nor 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 
 
 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, 30 
 
 United worship ; or in mute repose 
 
 To lie, and listen to the mountain flood 
 
 Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 141 
 
 AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS. 
 
 SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH. 
 1803. — 1845. 
 
 I SHIVER, Spirit fierce and bold, 
 
 At thought of what I now behold ; 
 
 As vapors 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 ; 10 
 
 And both my wishes and my fear 
 
 Alike are vain. 
 
 Off weight — nor press on weight ! — away 
 Dark thoughts ! — they came, but not to stay ; 
 With chastened feelings would I pay 
 
 The tribute due 
 To him, and aught that hides his clay 
 
 From mortal view. 
 
 Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth 
 
 He sang, his genius "glinted " forth, 20 
 
142 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 
 
 Rose like a star that touching earth. 
 
 For so it seems, 
 Doth glorify its humble birth 
 
 With matchless beams. 
 
 The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow, 
 
 The struggling heart, where be they now? — 
 
 Full soon the Aspirant of the plough, 
 
 The prompt, the brave, 
 Slept, with the obscurest, in the low 
 
 And silent grave. 3° 
 
 I mourned with thousands, but as one 
 More deeply grieved, for He was gone 
 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 Criffers hoary top ascends 
 
 By Skiddaw seen, — 40 
 
 Neighbors 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. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 143 
 
 The tear will start, and let it flow ; 
 
 Thou " poor Inhabitant below," 50 
 
 At this dread moment — even so — 
 
 Might we together 
 Have sate and talked where gowans blow, 
 
 Or on wild heather. 
 
 What treasures would have then been placea 
 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. 60 
 
 There, too, a Son, his joy and pride, 
 (Not three weeks past the Stripling died,) 
 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. 
 
 Harbored where none can be misled. 
 
 Wronged, or distrest ; 70 
 
 And surely here it may be said 
 
 That such are blest. 
 
 And oh for Thee, by pitying grace 
 Checked ofttimes in a devious race. 
 
144 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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, 80 
 
 Music that sorrow comes not near, — 
 
 A ritual hymn, 
 Chanted in love that casts out fear 
 
 By Seraphim. 
 
 THOUGHTS 
 
 SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING, ON THE BANKS OF NITH, 
 NEAR THE POET'S RESIDENCE. 
 
 1803. — 1845. 
 
 Too frail to keep the lofty vow 
 
 That must have followed when his brow 
 
 Was wreathed — " The Vision " tells us how — 
 
 With holly spray. 
 He faltered, drifted to and fro, 
 
 And 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 — 10 
 
 Indulged as if it were a wrong 
 
 To seek relief. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 145 
 
 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 20 
 
 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. 30 
 
 How oft inspired must he have trode 
 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, 
 10 
 
146 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 
 
 And ask of Nature, from what cause 
 
 And by what rules 40 
 
 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, 5° 
 
 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 endeavor, 
 And memory of Earth's bitter leaven 
 
 Effaced forever. 60 
 
 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 1 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 147 
 
 TO THE SONS OF BURNS, 
 
 AFTER VISITING THE GRAVE OF THEIR FATHER. 
 1803. — 1807. 
 
 'Mid crowded obelisks and urns 
 
 I sought the untimely grave of Bums ; 
 
 Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns 
 
 With sorrow true ; 
 And more would grieve, but that it turns 
 
 Trembling to you ! 
 
 Through twilight shades of good and ill 
 
 Ye now are panting up hfe's hill. 
 
 And more than common strength and skill 
 
 Must ye display, 10 
 
 If ye would give the better will 
 
 Its lawful sway. 
 
 Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear 
 Intemperance with less harm, beware ! 
 But if the Poet's wit ye share, 
 
 Like him can speed 
 The social hour — of tenfold care 
 
 There will be need ; 
 
 For honest men delight will take 
 
 To spare your failings for his sake, 20 
 
148 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 
 
 Will flatter you, — and fool and rake 
 
 Your steps pursue ; 
 And of your Father's name will make 
 
 A snare for you. 
 
 Far from their noisy haunts retire, 
 And add your voices to the quire 
 That sanctify the cottage fire 
 
 With service meet ; 
 There seek the genius of your Sire, 
 
 His spirit greet ; 30 
 
 Or where, 'mid " lonely heights and hows," 
 He paid to Nature tuneful vows ; 
 Or wiped his honorable brows 
 
 Bedewed with toil. 
 While reapers strove, or busy ploughs 
 
 Upturned the soil ; 
 
 His judgment with benignant ray 
 Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way ; 
 But ne'er to a seductive lay 
 
 Let faith be given : 40 
 
 Nor deem that " light which leads astray, 
 
 Is light from Heaven." 
 
 Let no mean hope your souls enslave ; 
 Be independent, generous, brave ; 
 Your Father such example gave. 
 
 And such revere ; 
 But be admonished by his grave, 
 
 And think, and fear 1 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 149 
 
 TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. 
 
 (at INVERSNEYDE, upon loch LOMOND.) 
 1803.— 1807. 
 
 Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 
 
 Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 
 
 Twice seven consenting years have shed 
 
 Their utmost bounty on thy head : 
 
 And these gray rocks ; that household lawn ; 
 
 Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn j 
 
 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 — 10 
 
 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 ; 20 
 
 And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 
 
 With earnest feeling I shall pray 
 For thee when I am far away ; 
 
ISO SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 • 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, 3° 
 
 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 4® 
 
 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 ; 5° 
 
 Adopt your homely ways and dress, 
 A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess ! 
 But I could frame a wish for thee 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 151 
 
 More like a grave reality : 
 
 Thou art to me but as a wave 
 
 Of the wild sea ; and I would have 
 
 Some claim upon thee, if I could, 
 
 Though but of common neighborhood. 
 
 What joy to hear thee, and to see ! 
 
 Thy elder Brother I would be, 60 
 
 Thy Father — anything to thee ! 
 
 Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
 Hath led me to this lonely place. 
 Joy have I had ; and going hence 
 I bear away my recompense. 
 In spots like these it is we prize 
 Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes : 
 Then, why should I be loath to stir? 
 I feel this place was made for her ; 
 To give new pleasure like the past, 70 
 
 Continued long as life shall last. 
 Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart, 
 Sweet Highland Girl ! from thee to part ; 
 For I, methinks, till I grow old, 
 As fair before me shall behold 
 As I do now the cabin small. 
 The lake, the bay, the waterfall ; 
 And Thee, the Spirit of them all 1 
 
153 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 ADDRESS 
 
 TO KILCHURN CASTLE, UPON LOCH AWE. 
 
 From the top of the hill a most impressive scene opened upon our 
 view, — a ruined Castle on an Island (for an Island the flood had 
 made it) at some distance from the shore, backed by a Cove of the 
 Mountain Cruachan, down which came a foaming stream. The 
 Castle occupied every foot of the Island that was visible to us, 
 appearing to rise out of the water, — mists rested upon the moun- 
 tain side, with spots of sunshine ; there was a mild desolation in 
 the low grounds, a solemn grandeur in the mountains, and the 
 Castle was wild, yet stately, — not dismantled of turrets, nor the 
 walls broken down, though obviously a ruin. — Extract from the 
 Journal of my Companion. 
 
 1803. — 1807. 
 
 Child of loud-throated War ! the mountain Stream 
 
 Roars in thy hearing ; but thy hour of rest 
 
 Is come, and thou art silent in thy age, 
 
 Save vi^hen the wind sweeps by and sounds are caught 
 
 Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs. 
 
 Oh ! there is life that breathes not ; Powers there are 
 
 That touch each other to the quick in modes 
 
 Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive, 
 
 No soul to dream of. What art Thou, from care 
 
 Cast off — abandoned by thy rugged Sire, 10 
 
 Nor by soft Peace adopted ; though, in place 
 
 And in dimension, such that thou might'st seem 
 
 But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord, 
 
 Huge Cruachan (a thing that meaner hills 
 
 Might crush, nor know that it had suffered harm) ; 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 153 
 
 Yet he, not loath, in favor of thy claims 
 
 To reverence, suspends his own ; submitting 
 
 All that the God of Nature hath conferred, 
 
 All that he holds in common with the stars, 
 
 To the memorial majesty of Time 20 
 
 Impersonated in thy calm decay ! 
 
 Take, then, thy seat. Vicegerent unreproved ! 
 
 Now, while a farewell gleam of evening light 
 
 Is fondly lingering on thy shattered front. 
 
 Do thou, in turn, be paramount ; and rule 
 
 Over the pomp and beauty of a scene 
 
 Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and woods unite 
 
 To pay thee homage ; and with these are joined, 
 
 In willing admiration and respect. 
 
 Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be called 30 
 
 Youthful as Spring. — Shade of departed Power, 
 
 Skeleton of unfleshed humanity. 
 
 The chronicle were welcome that should call 
 
 Into the compass of distinct regard 
 
 The toils and stmggles of thy infant years ! 
 
 Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice ; 
 
 Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye. 
 
 Frozen by distance ; so, majestic Pile, 
 
 To the perception of this Age, appear 
 
 Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subdued 40 
 
 And quieted in character, — the strife, 
 
 The pride, the fury uncontrollable, 
 
 Lost on the aerial heights of the Crusades ! 
 
154 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 GLEN-ALMAIN; 
 
 OR, THE NARROW GLEN. 
 1803. — 1807. 
 
 In this still place, remote from men, 
 
 Sleeps Ossian, in the narrow glen ; 
 
 In this still place, where murmurs on 
 
 But one meek streamlet, only one : 
 
 He sang of battles, and the breath 
 
 Of stormy war, and violent death ; 
 
 And should, methinks, when all was past, 
 
 Have rightfully been laid at last 
 
 Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent 
 
 As by a spirit turbulent ; 10 
 
 Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild, 
 
 And everything unreconciled ; 
 
 In some complaining, dim retreat. 
 
 For fear and melancholy meet ; 
 
 But this is calm \ there cannot be 
 
 A more entire tranquillity. 
 
 Does then the Bard sleep here indeed, 
 Or is it but a groundless creed ? 
 What matters it? I blame them not 
 Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot 20 
 
 Was moved, and in such way expressed 
 Their notion of its perfect rest. 
 A convent, even a hermit^s cell. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 1 55 
 
 Would break the silence of this Dell ; 
 
 It is not quiet, is not ease ; 
 
 But something deeper far than these ; 
 
 The separation that is here 
 
 Is of the grave ; and of austere 
 
 Yet happy feelings of the dead ; 
 
 And therefore was it rightly said 3° 
 
 That Ossian, last of all his race ! 
 
 lies buried in this lonely place. 
 
 STEPPING WESTWARD. 
 
 While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch 
 Ketterine, one fine evening after sunset, in our road to a Hut 
 where, in the course of our Tour, we had been hospitably enter- 
 tained some weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of 
 that solitary region, two well-dressed Women, one of whom said to 
 us, by way of greeting, " What, you are stepping westward?" 
 
 1803. — 1807. 
 
 " What, you are stepping westward "i " — " Yea.^^ 
 
 — 'T would be a wildish destiny, 
 
 If we, who thus together roam 
 
 In a strange Land, and far from home, 
 
 Were in jthis place the guests of Chance ; 
 
 Yet who would stop, or fear to advance, 
 
 Though home or shelter he had none, 
 
 With such a sky to lead him on ? 
 
156 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 The dewy ground was dark and cold ; 
 
 Behind, all gloomy to behold ; 10 
 
 And stepping westward seemed to be 
 
 A kind. of heavenly destiny : 
 
 I liked the greeting ; 't was a sound 
 
 Of something without place or bound : 
 
 And seemed to give me spiritual right 
 
 To travel through that region bright. 
 
 The voice was soft, and she who spake 
 
 Was walking by her native lake ; 
 
 The salutation had to me 
 
 The very sound of courtesy ; 20 
 
 Its power was felt ; and while my eye 
 
 Was fixed upon the glowing Sky, 
 
 The echo of the voice enwrought 
 
 A human sweetness with the thought 
 
 Of travelling through the world that lay 
 
 Before me in my endless way. 
 
 THE SOLITARY REAPER. 
 
 1803. — 1807. 
 
 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 ; 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 157 
 
 O listen ! for the Vale profound 
 Is overflowing with the sound. 
 
 No Nightingale did ever chant {a^ 
 
 More welcome notes to weary bands }. 10 
 
 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. 
 
 ■K. 
 
 Will no one tell me what she sings ? — 
 
 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
 
 For old, unhappy, far-off things, 
 
 And battles long ago ; 20 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Whatever 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, 30 
 
 The music in my heart I bore. 
 
 Long after it was heard no more. 
 
158 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 YARROW UNVISITED. 
 
 (See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks 
 of the Yarrow ; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton, 
 beginning, — 
 
 " Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, 
 Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow! ") 
 
 1803. — 1807. 
 
 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 '11 turn aside, 
 And see the Braes of Yarrow." 
 
 *' Let Yarrow ioVs^^frae Selkirk town, 
 
 Who have been buying, selling, 10 
 
 Go back to Yarrow, 't is 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 ; 20 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 159 
 
 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? 
 
 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 '11 wander Scotland thorough ; 
 
 But, though so near, we will not turn 
 
 Into the dale of Yarrow. 40 
 
 Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 
 The sweets of Bum-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. 
 
l6o SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown ! 
 
 It must, or we shall rue it : 50 
 
 We have a vision of our own : 
 
 Ah ! why should we undo it? 
 
 The treasured dreams of times long past, 
 
 We '11 keep them, winsome Marrow ! 
 
 For when we 're there, although 't is fair, 
 
 *T will be another Yarrow ! 
 
 If Care with freezing years should come, 
 
 And wandering seem but folly, — 
 
 Should we be loath to stir from home, 
 
 And yet be melancholy ; 60 
 
 Should life be dull, and spirits low, 
 
 'T will soothe us in our sorrow. 
 
 That earth has something yet to show. 
 
 The bonny holms of Yarrow ! " 
 
 THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH AND HER 
 HUSBAND. 
 
 At Jedborough, my companion and I went into private lodgings for a 
 few days ; and the following Verses were called forth by the charac- 
 ter and domestic situation of our Hostess. 
 
 1803. — 1807. 
 
 Age ! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers. 
 And call a train of laughing Hours ; 
 And bid them dance, and bid them smg ; 
 And thou, too, mingle in the ring ! 
 
H- 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. i6i 
 
 Take to thy heart a new delight ; 
 
 If not, make merry in despite 
 
 That there is One who scorns thy power: 
 
 But dance ! for under Jedborough Tower 
 
 A Matron dwells who, though she bears 
 
 The weight of more than seventy years, i3 
 
 Lives in the light of youthful glee, 
 
 And she will dance and sing with thee. 
 
 Nay ! start not at that Figure — there ! 
 Him who is rooted to his chair ! 
 Look at him — look again ! for he 
 Hath long been of thy family. 
 J With legs that move not, if they can, 
 
 ^^'A^^'"^^^^ And useless arms, a trunk of man, 
 He sits, and with a vacant eye, — 
 A sight to make a stranger sigh ! 20 
 
 Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom ; 
 His world is in this single room : 
 Is this a place for mirthful cheer ? 
 Can merry-making enter here ? 
 
 The joyous Woman is the Mate 
 
 Of him in that forlorn estate ! 
 
 He breathes a subterraneous damp ; 
 
 But bright as Vesper shines her lamp ; 
 
 He is as mute as Jedborougli Tower ; 
 r-. c . . . She jocund as it was of yore, 3° 
 
 ' /^ . , ^^ With all its bravery on ; in times 
 ^^' / ' When all alive with merry chimes, 
 
 Upon a sun-bright morn of May, 
 
 It roused the Vale to holiday. 
 II 
 
i62 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 I praise thee, Matron ! and thy due 
 Is praise, heroic pjraise, and true ! 
 With admiration I behold 
 Thy gladness unsubdued and bold. 
 Thy looks, thy gestures, all present 
 The picture of a life well spent : ^^s^h^^'f^ 4° 
 
 This do I see ; and something more, — -^ 
 A strength unthought of heretofore ! 
 Delighted am I for thy sake ; 
 AnZ'yet a higher joy partake ; 
 Our Human-nature throws away 
 Its second twilight, and looks gay ; 
 A land of promise and of pride 
 Unfolding, wide as life is wide. 
 
 Ah ! see her helpless Charge ! enclosed 
 Within himself as seems, composed ; So 
 
 To fear of loss, and hope of gain, 
 The strife of happiness and pain, 
 'Utterly dead ! yet in the guise 
 Of little infants, when their eyes 
 Begin to follow to and fro 
 The persons that before them go, 
 He tracks her motions, quick or slow. 
 Her buoyant spirit can prevail 
 Where common cheerfulness would fail ; 
 She strikes upon him with the heat 60 
 
 Of July suns ; he feels it sweet, — 
 An animal delight, though dim ! 
 'T is all that now remains for him. 
 
N^ 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 163 
 
 ;^ 
 
 The more I looked, I wondered more — 
 And while I scanned them o'er and o'er, 
 Some inward trouble suddenly 
 Broke from the Matron's strong black eye — 
 A remnant of uneasy light, 
 A flash of something over-bright ! 
 Nor long this mystery did detain 70 
 
 My thoughts ; she told in pensive strain 
 That she had borne a heavy yoke. 
 Been stricken by a twofold stroke : 
 Ill-health of body ; and had pined 
 Beneath worse ailments of the mind. 
 
 So be it ! — but let praise ascend 
 To Him who is our Lord and friend ! 
 Who from disease and suffering 
 Hath called for thee a second spring ; 
 Repaid thee for that sore distress ' ^ 
 
 By no untimely joyousness, 
 Which makes of thine a blissful state, 
 And cheers thy melancholy Mate ! 
 
 ON APPROACHING HOME, 
 
 AFTER A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 1803. — 1815. 
 
 Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale ! 
 Say that we come, and come by this day's light ; 
 Fly upon swiftest wing round field and height, 
 
1 64 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale ; 
 
 There let a mystery of joy prevail, — 
 
 The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite ; 
 
 And Rover whine, as at a second sight 
 
 Of near-approaching good that shall not fail ; 
 
 And from that Infant's face let joy appear ; 
 
 Yea, let our Mary's one companion child — 
 
 That hath her six weeks' sohtude beguiled 
 
 With intimations manifold and dear, 
 
 While we have wandered over wood and wild — 
 
 Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer. 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 1804. — 1807. 
 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. 
 
 Though babbling only to the Vale, 
 
 Of sunshine and of flowers, 10 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 1 65 
 
 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 schoolboy days 
 I listened to ; that Cry 
 Which made me look a thousand ways 
 In bush, and tree, and sky. 
 
 20 
 
 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 30 
 
 An unsubstantial, faery place : 
 
 That is fit home for Thee I 
 
1 66 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 "SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT/' 
 
 1804. —1807. 
 
 She was a Phantom of delight 
 
 When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
 
 A lovely Apparition, sent 
 
 To be a moment's ornament ; 
 
 Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ; 
 
 Like Twilight's, too, her dusky Jiair ; 
 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 
 From May-time and the cheerful Da\^n ; 
 
 A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 
 
 To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 10 
 
 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 
 
 And now I see with eye serene 
 The very pulse of the machine ; 
 A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 A Traveller between hfe and death ; 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 167 
 
 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. 30 
 
 1*^ Out-did the^parkling w^es in glee \ 
 
 A po^)Could not. wit be ga^, 
 ^vln such a jocund c(5mpan 
 
 C 
 
 THE DAFFODILS; \ ^., 
 
 OR, "I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD." 
 1804. — 1807. 
 
 ^ , V* J_ wXndered l(5nely a s a cloud *- ^ 
 
 That floats on high o'er vales^and hills, V? 
 
 y / ^ y 
 
 When all at ojice I saw a crowd, a^ 
 
 ^ A host, of golden daffodils^, i? 
 
 Beside^he lake, bepeath the trees^ ^ 
 
 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze, c ^ 
 
 4^\**^ Continuous ^s the_star g that shme o- 
 And twmkle on the niilky w^ <, , 
 They stretched in never-ending line 1 
 Along the margin of a b^ :<*- 10 
 
 Ten thousand s^ I at a glance/r ^ 
 
 ^^ ♦Tossiilg thei r^he^ds in spfightly danceX - 
 
 *The wa^s besiae them dajiced; bj^t they 
 
l68 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 I gazed — ;.and gazed ~ butjit^ thoueht 
 What w^lth the show to me had brought 
 
 / y" /" ^ 
 
 For oft, wheji on my couch I lie 
 
 In vacant dr in p^sive mood. 
 
 They flash^upon that inward eye 
 
 Which is^the bfisS/prsdlkudE^; y 
 
 And th^n my heart with pleasure fills, 
 
 ..^'And dimces wifti the dstffodils. 
 
 20 
 
 THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET . 
 
 1804. — 1807. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Seven years, alas ! to have received 
 
 No tidings of an only child ; 
 
 To have despaired, have hoped, believed, 10 
 
 And been for evermore beguiled, " 
 
 Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss ! 
 
 I catch at them, and then I miss ; 
 
 Was ever dar^ess like to this ? 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 169 
 
 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 ; 20 
 
 And never blush was on my face. 
 
 Ah ! little doth the young-one dream, 
 When full of play and childish cares, 
 What power is in his wildest scream. 
 Heard by his mother unawares ! 
 He knows it not, he cannot guess : 
 Years to a mother bring distress, 
 But do not make her love the less. 
 
 Neglect me ! no, I suffered long 
 
 From that ill thought ; and being blind, 30 
 
 Said, " Pride shall help me in my wrong ; 
 
 Kind mother have I been, as kind 
 
 As ever breathed : " and that is true ; 
 
 I Ve wet my path with tears like dew, 
 
 Weeping for him when no one knew. 
 
 My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, 
 
 Hopeless of honor and of gain. 
 
 Oh ! do not dread thy mother's door ; 
 
 Think not of me with grief and pain : 
 
 I now can see with better eyes ; Af> 
 
 And worldly grandeur I despise. 
 
 And fortune with her gifts and lies. 
 
I70 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Alas ! the fowls of heaven have wings, 
 And blasts of heaven will aid their flight ; 
 They mount — how short a voyage brings 
 The wanderers back to their delight ! 
 Chains tie us down by land and sea ; 
 And wishes, vain as mine, may be 
 All that is left to comfort thee. 
 
 Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, 50 
 
 Maimed, mangled by inhuman men ; 
 
 Or thou upon a desert thrown 
 
 Inheritest the lion's den ; 
 
 Or hast been summoned to the deep, 
 
 Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep 
 
 An incommunicable sleep. 
 
 I look for ghosts ; but none will force 
 
 Their way to me : 't is falsely said 
 
 That there was ever intercourse 
 
 Between the living and the dead ; 60 
 
 For, surely, then I should have sight 
 
 Of him I wait for day and night, 
 
 With love and longings infinite. 
 
 My apprehensions come in crowds ; 
 
 I dread the rustling of the grass ; 
 
 The very shadows of the clouds 
 
 Have power to shake me as they pass : 
 
 I question things and do not find 
 
 One that will answer to my mind ; 
 
 And all the world appears unkind. 70 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 171 
 
 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 ! 
 
 ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER DORA, 
 
 ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD THAT 
 DAY, SEPTEMBER 1 6. 
 
 1804.— 1815. 
 
 Hast thou then survived — 
 
 Mild Offspring of infirm humanity, 
 
 Meek Infant ! among all forlornest things 
 
 The most forlorn — one life of that bright star, 
 
 The second glory of the Heavens ? — Thou hast ; 
 
 Already hast survived that great decay. 
 
 That transformation through the wide earth felt, 
 
 And by all nations. In that Being's sight 
 
 From whom the Race of human kind proceed, 
 
 A thousand years are but as yesterday ; 
 
 And one day's narrow circuit is to Him 
 
 Not less capacious than a thousand years. 
 
 But what is time ? What outward glory ? Neither 
 
 A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend 
 
 Through " heaven's eternal year." Yet hail to Thee, 
 
 Frail, feeble Monthling ! — by that name, methinks, 
 
172 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out 
 Not idly. — Hadst thou been of Indian birth, 
 Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves, 
 • And rudely canopied by leafy boughs, 20 
 
 Or to the churlish elements exposed 
 On the blank plains, — the coldness of the night, 
 Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful face 
 Of beauty, by the changing moon adorned, 
 Would, with imperious admonition, then 
 Have scored thine age, and punctually timed 
 Thine infant history, on the minds of those 
 Who might have wandered with thee. — Mother's love, 
 Nor less than mother's love in other breasts. 
 Will, among us warm-clad and warmly housed, 30 
 
 Do for thee what the finger of the heavens 
 Doth all too often harshly execute 
 For thy unblest coevals, amid wilds 
 Where fancy hath small liberty to grace 
 The affections, to exalt them or refine ; 
 And the maternal sympathy itself, 
 Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie 
 Of naked instinct, wound about the heart. 
 Happier, far happier, is thy lot and ours ! 
 Even now — to solemnize thy helpless state, 4° 
 
 And to enliven in the mind's regard 
 Thy passive beauty — parallels have risen, 
 Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect, 
 Within the region of a father's thoughts. 
 Thee and thy mate and sister of the sky. 
 And first ; — thy sinless progress, through a world, 
 By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed, 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 173 
 
 Apt likeness bears to hers, through gathered clouds 
 
 Moving untouched in silver purity, 
 
 And cheering oft-times their reluctant gloom. 50 
 
 Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain ; 
 
 But thou, how leisurely thou fiU'st thy horn 
 
 With brightness ! leaving her to post along. 
 
 And range about, disquieted in change. 
 
 And still impatient of the shape she wears. 
 
 Once up, once down the hill, one journey, Babe, 
 
 That will suffice thee ; and it seems that now • 
 
 Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task is thine ; 
 
 Thou travellest so contentedly, and sleep'st 
 
 In such a heedless peace. Alas ! full soon 60 
 
 Hath this conception, grateful to behold, 
 
 Changed countenance, like an object sullied o'er 
 
 By breathing mist ; and thine appears to be 
 
 A mournful labor, while to her is given 
 
 Hope, and a renovation without end. 
 
 — That smile forbids the thought ; for on thy face 
 
 Smiles are beginning, like the beams of dawn, 
 
 To shoot and circulate ; smiles have there been seen ; 
 
 Tranquil assurances that Heaven supports 
 
 The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers 7° 
 
 Thy loneliness : or shall those smiles be called 
 
 Feelers of love, put forth as if to explore 
 
 This untried world, and to prepare thy way 
 
 Through a strait passage, intricate and dim ? 
 
 Such are they ; and the same are tokens, signs. 
 
 Which, when the appointed season hath arrived, 
 
 Joy, as her holiest language shall adopt ; 
 
 And Reason's godlike Power be proud to own. 
 
174 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 THE SMALL CELANDINE. 
 
 1804. — 1807. 
 
 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, 't is out again ! 
 
 When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, 
 Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest. 
 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 recognized it, though an altered form, 10 
 
 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. 20 
 
 To be a Prodigal's Favorite — then, worse truth, 
 A Miser's Pensioner — behold our lot ! 
 O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth 
 Age might but take the things Youth needed not ! 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 175 
 
 ODE TO DUTY. 
 
 "Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eo perductus, ut non tantum 
 recte facere possim, sed nisi recte facere non possim." 
 
 1805. — 1807. 
 
 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God I 
 
 O Duty ! if that name thou love 
 
 Who art a light to guide, a rod 
 
 To check the erring, and reprove ; 
 
 Thou, who art victory and law 
 
 When empty terrors overawe ; 
 
 From vain temptations dost set free ; 
 
 And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity ! 
 
 There are who ask not if thine eye 
 
 Be on them ; who, in love and truth, 10 
 
 W^here 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. 20 
 
 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. 
 
176 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 I, loving fr.eedom, 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 30 
 
 The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 
 
 But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 
 
 Through no disturbance of my soul. 
 
 Or strong compunction in me wrought, 
 
 I supplicate for thy control ; 
 
 But in the quietness of thought : 
 
 Me this unchartered freedom tires ; 
 
 I feel the weight of chance-desires : 
 
 My hopes no more must change their name, 
 
 I long for a repose that ever is the same. 40 
 
 Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
 The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
 Nor know we anything so fair 
 As is the smile upon thy face : 
 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds 
 And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
 Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
 And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and 
 strong. 
 
 To humbler functions, awful Power ! 
 
 I call thee : I myself commend 50 
 
 Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 
 
 Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 177 
 
 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 ! 
 
 TO A SKYLARK. 
 
 1805. — 1807. 
 
 Up with me ! up with me into the clouds ! 
 
 For thy song, Lark, is strong ; 
 Up with me, up with me into the clouds ! 
 
 Singing, singing, 
 With clouds and sky about thee ringing, 
 
 Lift me, guide me till I find 
 That spot which seems so to thy mind ! 
 
 I have walked through wildernesses dreary, 
 
 And to-day my heart is weary ; 
 
 Had I now the wings of a Faery, 
 
 Up to thee would I fly. 
 
 There is madness about thee, and joy divine 
 
 In that song of thine ; 
 
 Lift me, guide me high and high 
 
 To thy banqueting-place in the sky. 
 
 Joyous as morning 
 Thou art laughing and scorning ; 
 Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, 
 And, though litde troubled with sloth, 
 12 
 
178 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Drunken Lark ! thou would'st be loath 20 
 
 To be such a traveller as I. 
 
 Happy, happy Liver, 
 
 With a soul as strong as a mountain river 
 
 Pouring out praise to the almighty Giver, 
 
 Joy and jollity be with us both ! 
 
 Alas ! my journey, rugged and uneven, 
 
 Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind ; 
 
 But hearing thee, or others of thy kind. 
 
 As full of gladness and as free of heaven, 
 
 I, with my fate contented, will plod on, 30 
 
 And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done. 
 
 FIDELITY. 
 
 1805. — 1807. 
 
 A BARKING sound the Shepherd hears, - 
 A cry as of a dog or fox ; 
 He halts — and searches with his eyes 
 Among the scattered rocks : 
 And now at distance can discern 
 A stirring in a brake of fern ; 
 And instantly a dog is seen. 
 Glancing through that covert green. 
 
 The Dog is not of mountain breed ; 
 Its motions, too, are wild and shy ; 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. I79 
 
 With something, as the Shepherd thinks, 
 
 Unusual in its cry : 
 
 No'r is there any one in sight 
 
 All round, in hollow "or on height ; 
 
 Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear ; 
 
 What is the creature doing here ? 
 
 It was a cove, a huge recess, 
 
 That keeps, till June, December's snow; 
 
 A lofty precipice in front, 
 
 A silent tarn below ! 20 
 
 Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, 
 
 Remote from public road or dwelling, 
 
 Pathway, or cultivated land ; 
 
 From trace of human foot or hand. 
 
 There sometimes doth a leaping fish 
 
 Send through the tarn a lonely cheer ; 
 
 The crags repeat the raven's croak. 
 
 In symphony austere ; 
 
 Thither the rainbow comes, — the cloud, 
 
 And mists that spread the flying shroud ; 3° 
 
 And sunbeams ; and the sounding blast. 
 
 That, if it could, would hurry past ; 
 
 But that enormous barrier holds it fast. 
 
 Not free from boding thoughts, a while 
 
 The Shepherd stood ; then makes his way 
 
 O'er rocks and stones, following the Dog 
 
 As quickly as he may ; 
 
 Nor far had gone before he found 
 
 A human skeleton on the ground; 
 
l8o SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 The appalled Discoverer with a sigh 40 
 
 Looks round, to learn the history. 
 
 From those abrupt and perilous rocks 
 
 The Man had fallen, that place of fear ! 
 
 At length upon the Shepherd's mind 
 
 It breaks, and all is clear : 
 
 He instantly recalled the name, 
 
 And who he was, and whence he came ; 
 
 Remembered, too, the very day 
 
 On which the Traveller passed this way. 
 
 But hear a wonder, for whose sake 50 
 
 This lamentable tale I tell ! 
 
 A lasting monument of words 
 
 This wonder merits well. 
 
 The Dog, which still was hovering nigh, 
 
 Repeating the same timid cry, 
 
 This Dog had been through three months' space 
 
 A dweller in that savage place. 
 
 Yes, proof was plain that, since the day 
 
 When this ill-fated Traveller died. 
 
 The Dog had watched about the spot, 60 
 
 Or by his master's side : 
 
 How nourished here through such long time 
 
 He knows, who gave that love sublime ; 
 
 And gave that strength of feeling, great 
 
 Above all human estimate ! 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. i8i 
 
 INCIDENT 
 
 CHARACTERISTIC OF A FAVORITE DOG. 
 1805. — 1807. 
 
 On his morning rounds the Master 
 
 Goes to learn how all things fare ; 
 
 Searches pasture after pasture. 
 
 Sheep and catde eyes with care ; 
 
 And, for silence or for talk, 
 
 He hath comrades in his walk ; 
 
 Four dogs, each pair of different breed, 
 
 Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed. 
 
 See a hare before him started ! 
 
 — Off they fly in earnest chase ; 'o 
 
 Every dog is eager-hearted, 
 
 All the four are in the race : 
 
 And the hare whom they pursue 
 
 Knows from instinct what to do ; 
 
 Her hope is near : no turn she makes ; 
 
 But, like an arrow, to the river takes. 
 
 Deep the river was and crusted 
 
 Thinly by a one night's frost ; 
 
 But the nimble Hare hath trusted 
 
 To the ice, and safely crost ; 20 
 
 She hath crost, and without heed 
 
 All are following at full speed, 
 
 When, lo ! the ice, so thinly spread, 
 
 Breaks — and the greyhound, Dart, is overhead ! 
 
1 82 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Better fate have Prince and Swallow — 
 
 See them cleaving to the sport ! 
 
 Music has no heart to follow, 
 
 Little Music, she stops short. 
 
 She hath neither wish nor heart, 
 
 Hers is now another part : 3° 
 
 A loving creature she, and brave ! 
 
 And fondly strives her struggling friend to save. 
 
 From the brink her paws she stretches, 
 
 Very hands as you would say ! 
 
 And afflicting moans she fetches. 
 
 As he breaks the ice away. 
 
 For herself she hath no fears, — 
 
 Him alone she sees and hears, — 
 
 Makes efforts with complainings ; nor gives o'er 
 
 Until her fellow sinks to reappear no more. 4^ 
 
 TRIBUTE 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG. 
 1805. — 1807. 
 
 Lie here, without a record of thy worth, 
 Beneath a covering of the common earth ! 
 It is not from unwillingness to praise. 
 Or want of love, that here no Stone we raise ; 
 More thou deserv'st ; but this man gives to man, 
 Brother to brother, this is all we can. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 183 
 
 Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee dear 
 Shall find thee through all changes of the year : 
 This Oak points out thy grave ; the silent tree 
 Will gladly stand a monument of thee. 
 
 We grieved for thee, and wished thy end were past : 
 And willingly have laid thee here at last : 
 For thou hadst lived till everything that cheers 
 In thee had yielded to the weight of years ; 
 Extreme old age had wasted thee away, 
 And left thee but a glimmering of the day ; 
 Thy ears were deaf, and feeble were thy knees, — 
 I saw thee stagger in the summer breeze, 
 Too weak to stand against its sportive breath, 
 And ready for the gentlest stroke of death. 20 
 
 It came, and we were glad ; yet tears were shed ; 
 Both man and woman wept when thou wert dead ; 
 Not only for a thousand thoughts that were. 
 Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share ; 
 But for some precious boons vouchsafed to thee, 
 Found scarcely anywhere in like degree ! 
 For love, that comes wherever life and sense 
 Are given by God, in thee was most intense ; 
 A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind, 
 A tender sympathy, which did thee bind 30 
 
 Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind : 
 Yea, for thy fellow-brutes in thee we saw 
 A soul of love, love's intellectual law : — 
 Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame ; 
 Our tears from passion and from reason came. 
 And, therefore, shalt thou be an honored name. 
 
184 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 
 
 "WHEN, TO THE ATTRACTIONS OF THE BUSY 
 WORLD." 
 
 1805. — 1815. 
 
 When, to the attractions of the busy world, 
 
 Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen 
 
 A habitation in this peaceful Vale, 
 
 Sharp season followed of continual storm 
 
 In deepest winter ; and, from week to week, 
 
 Pathway, and lane, and public road were clogged 
 
 With frequent showers of snow. Upon a hill . 
 
 At a short distance from my cottage, stands 
 
 A stately Fir-grove, whither I was wont 
 
 To hasten, for I found, beneath the roof 10 
 
 Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place 
 
 Of refuge, with an unencumbered floor. 
 
 Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow, 
 
 And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth. 
 
 The redbreast near me hopped ; nor was I loath 
 
 To sympathize with vulgar coppice birds 
 
 That, for protection from the nipping blast. 
 
 Hither repaired. — A single beech-tree grew 
 
 Within this grove of firs ! and, on the fork 
 
 Of that one beech, appeared a thrush's nest ; 20 
 
 A last year's nest, conspicuously built 
 
 At such small elevation from the ground 
 
 As gave sure sign that they, who in that house 
 
 Of nature and of love had made their home 
 
 Amid the fir-trees, all the summer long 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 185 
 
 Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes 
 
 A few sheep, stragglers from some mountain-flock, 
 
 Would watch my motions with suspicious stare, 
 
 From the remotest outskirts of the grove, — 
 
 Some nook where they had made their final stand, 3° 
 
 Huddling together from two fears — the fear 
 
 Of me and of the storm. Full many an hour 
 
 Here did I lose. But in this grove the trees 
 
 Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven 
 
 In such perplexed and intricate array. 
 
 That vainly did I seek beneath their stems 
 
 A length of open space, where to and fro 
 
 My feet might move without concern or care ; 
 
 And, baffled thus, though earth from day to day 
 
 Was fettered, and the air by storm disturbed, 40 
 
 I ceased the shelter to frequent, — and prized, 
 
 Less than I wished to prize, that calm recess. 
 
 The snows dissolved, and genial Spring returned 
 To clothe the fields with verdure. Other haunts 
 Meanwhile were mine ; till, one bright April day, 
 By chance retiring from the glare of noon 
 To this forsaken covert, there I found 
 A hoary pathway traced between the trees, 
 And winding on with such an easy line 
 Along a natural opening, that I stood 50 
 
 Much wondering how I could have sought in vain 
 For what was now so obvious. To abide, 
 For an allotted interval of ease. 
 Under my cottage-roof, had gladly come 
 From the wild sea a cherished Visitant ; 
 
i86 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And with the sight of this same path — begun, 
 
 Begun and ended, in the shady grove, 
 
 Pleasant conviction flashed upon my mind 
 
 That, to this opportune recess allured. 
 
 He had surveyed it with a finer eye, 60 
 
 A heart more wakeful ; and had worn the track 
 
 By pacing here, unwearied and alone, 
 
 In that habitual restlessness of foot 
 
 That haunts the Sailor measuring o'er and o'er 
 
 His short domain upon the vessel's deck. 
 
 While she pursues her course through the dreary sea. 
 
 When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant shore. 
 And taken thy first leave of those green hills 
 And rocks that were the play-ground of thy youth, 
 Year followed year, my Brother ! and we two, 70 
 
 Conversing not, knew little in what mould 
 Each other's mind was fashioned ; and at length, ' 
 When once again we met in Grasmere Vale, 
 Between us there was little other bond 
 Than common feelings of fraternal love. 
 But thou, a School-boy, to the sea hadst carried 
 Undying recollections 3 Nature there 
 Was with thee ; she, who loved us both, she still 
 Was with thee ; and even so didst thou become 
 A silent Poet ; from the solitude 80 
 
 Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful heart 
 Still couchant, an inevitable ear, 
 And an eye practised like a blind man's touch. 
 — Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone ; 
 Nor from this vestige of thy musing hours 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 187 
 
 Could I withhold thy honored name, — and now 
 
 I love the fir-grove with a perfect love. 
 
 Thither do I withdraw when cloudless suns 
 
 Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and strong; 
 
 And there I sit at evening, when the steep 9° 
 
 Of Silver-how, and Grasmere's peaceful lake, 
 
 And one green island, gleam between the stems 
 
 Of the dark firs, — a visionary scene ! 
 
 And, while I gaze upon the spectacle 
 
 Of clouded splendor, on this dream-like sight 
 
 Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee, 
 
 My Brother, and on all which thou hast lost. 
 
 Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, while Thou, 
 
 Muttering the verses which I muttered first 
 
 Among the mountains, through the midnight watch 100 
 
 Art pacing thoughtfully the vessel's deck 
 
 In some far region, here, while o'er my head. 
 
 At every impulse of the moving breeze, 
 
 The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound. 
 
 Alone I tread this path, — for aught I know, 
 
 Timing my steps to thine ; and, with a store 
 
 Of undistinguishable sympathies. 
 
 Mingling most earnest wishes for the day 
 
 When we, and others whom we love, shall meet 
 
 A second time, in Grasmere's happy Vale. "c* 
 
1 88 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS, 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE, IN A STORM, 
 PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT. 
 
 1805. — 1807. 
 
 I WAS thy neighbor 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. 
 
 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 : 10 
 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 bUss. 20 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 189 
 
 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. 
 
 A Picture had it been of lasting ease, 
 Elysian quiet, without toil or strife ; 
 No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, 
 Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 
 
 Such, in the fond illusion of my heart. 
 
 Such Picture would I at that time have made : 3© 
 
 And seen the soul of truth in every part, 
 
 A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed. 
 
 So once it would have been, — 't is so no more ; 
 I have submitted to a new control : 
 A power is gone, which nothing can restore ; 
 A deep distress hath humanized my Soul. 
 
 Not for a moment could I now behold 
 
 A smiling sea, and be what I have been : 
 
 The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old ; 
 
 This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 40 
 
 Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would have been the Friend, 
 If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore. 
 This work of thine I blame not, but commend ; 
 This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 
 
 O 't is a passionate Work — yet wise and well, 
 Well chosen is the spirit that is here ; 
 That Hulk which labors in the deadly swell, 
 This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 
 
igo SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, 
 
 I love to see the look with which it braves, 5° 
 
 Cased in the unfeeling armor of old time. 
 
 The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. 
 
 .Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, 
 Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind ! 
 Such happiness, wherever it be known, 
 Is to be pitied ; for 't is surely blind. 
 
 But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, 
 
 And frequent sights of what is to be borne ! 
 
 Such sights, or worse, as are before me here. — 
 
 Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 60 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 1805.— 1815. 
 
 Sweet Flower ! belike one day to have 
 A place upon thy Poet's grave, 
 I welcome thee once more : 
 But He, who was on land, at sea, 
 My Brother, too, in loving thee, 
 Although he loved more silently. 
 Sleeps by his native shore. 
 
 Ah ! hopeful, hopeful was the day 
 
 When to that ship he bent his way, 
 
 To govern and to guide : 
 
 His wish was gained : a little time 
 
 Would bring him back, in manhood's prime 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 19 1 
 
 And free for life, these hills to climb ; 
 With all his wants supplied. 
 
 And full of hope day followed day- 
 While that stout Ship at anchor lay 
 Beside the shores of Wight ; 
 The May had then made all things green ; 
 And, floating there, in pomp serene, 
 That Ship was goodly to be seen, 
 His pride and his delight ! 
 
 20 
 
 Yet then, when called ashore, he sought 
 The tender peace of rural thought : 
 In more than happy mood 
 To your abodes, bright daisy Flowers ! 
 He then would steal at leisure hours, 
 And loved you glittering in your bowers, 
 A starry multitude. 
 
 But hark the word ! — the Ship is gone ; — 
 
 Returns from her long course : — anon 30 
 
 Sets sail : — in season due 
 
 Once more on English earth they stand : 
 
 But, when a third time from the land 
 
 They parted, sorrow was at hand 
 
 For Him and for his crew. 
 
 Ill-fated Vessel ! — ghastly shock ! 
 
 — At length delivered from the rock. 
 
 The deep she hath regained ; 
 
 And through the stormy night they steer, 
 
 Laboring for life, in hope and fear, 40 
 
 To reach a safer shore — how near, 
 
 Yet not to be attained ! 
 
192 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " Silence ! " the brave Commander cried ; 
 To tiiat calm word a shriek replied : 
 It was the last death-shriek. 
 — A few (my soul oft sees that sight) 
 Survive upon the tall mast's height ; 
 But one dear remnant of the night — 
 For Him in vain I seek. 
 
 Six weeks beneath the moving sea 50 
 
 He lay in slumber quietly ; 
 
 Unforced by wind or wave 
 
 To quit the Ship for which he died, 
 
 (All claims of duty satisfied ;) 
 
 And there they found him at her side. 
 
 And bore him to the grave. 
 
 Vain service ! yet not vainly done 
 
 For this, if other end were none, 
 
 That He, who had been cast 
 
 Upon a way of life unmeet 60 
 
 For such a gentle Soul and sweet, 
 
 Should find an undisturbed retreat 
 
 Near what he loved, at last — 
 
 That neighborhood of grove and field 
 
 To Him a resting-place should yield, 
 
 A meek man and a brave ! 
 
 The birds shall sing and ocean make 
 
 A mournful murmur for his sake ; 
 
 And Thou, sweet Flower, shalt sleep and wake 
 
 Upon his senseless grave. 70 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 193 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY, 
 
 WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING XONG WALKS IN 
 THE COUNTRY. 
 
 1805.-1807. 
 
 Dear Child of Nature, let them rail ! 
 
 — There is a nest in a green dale, 
 
 A harbor and a hold ; 
 
 Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see 
 
 Thy own heart-stirring days, and be 
 
 A light to young and old. 
 
 There, healthy as a shepherd boy, 
 
 And treading among flowers of joy 
 
 Which at no season fade. 
 
 Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, 10 
 
 Shalt show us how divine a thing 
 
 A Woman may be made. 
 
 Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die, 
 
 Nor leave thee, when gray hairs are nigh, 
 
 A melancholy slave ; 
 
 But an old age serene and bright. 
 
 And lovely as a Lapland night, 
 
 Shall lead thee to thy grave. 
 
 13 
 
194 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 
 
 1806. — 1807. 
 
 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 : 
 Whose high endeavors are an inward light 
 That makes the path before him always bright : 
 Who, with a natural instinct to discern 
 What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn ; 
 Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, 
 But makes his moral being his prime care ; 
 Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, 
 And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train ! 
 Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 
 In face of these doth exercise a power 
 Which is our human nature's highest dower ; 
 Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 
 Of their bad influence, and their good receives : 
 By objects, which might force the soul to abate 
 Her feeling, rendered more compassionate ; 
 Is placable — because occasions rise 
 So often that demand such sacrifice ; 
 More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, 
 As tempted more ; more able to endure 
 As more exposed to suffering and distress ; 
 Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 1 95 
 
 — - T is 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, 30 
 
 And what in quality or act is best 
 
 Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, 
 
 He labors 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 honorable terms, or else retire, 
 
 And in himself possess his own desire ; 
 
 Who comprehends his trust, and to the same 
 
 Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; 40 
 
 And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait 
 
 For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state ; 
 
 Whom they must follow ; on whose head must fall, 
 
 Like showers of manna, if they come at all : 
 
 Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, 
 
 Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 
 
 A constant influence, a peculiar grace ; 
 
 But who, if he be called upon to face 
 
 Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined 
 
 Great issues, good or bad for human kind, 50 
 
 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 
 
196 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 
 
 And faculty for storm and turbulence, 
 
 Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans 
 
 To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes ; 60 
 
 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, 
 
 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 70 
 
 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 — 80 
 
 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. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 197 
 
 STRAY PLEASURES. 
 
 " Pleasure is spread through the earth 
 
 In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find." 
 
 1806. — 1807. 
 
 By their floating mill, 
 
 That lies dead and still, 
 Behold yon Prisoners three, 
 
 The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames ! 
 The platform is small, but gives room for them all ; 
 And they 're dancing merrily. 
 
 From the shore come the notes 
 
 To their mill where it floats, 
 To their house and their mill tethered fast : 
 To the small wooden isle where, their work to beguile, 10 
 They from morning to even take whatever is given ; — 
 And many a blithe day they have past. 
 
 In sight of the spires. 
 
 All alive with the fires 
 Of the sun going down to his rest. 
 In the broad open eye of the solitary sky. 
 They dance, — there are three, as jocund as free. 
 While they dance on the calm river's breast. 
 
 Man and Maidens wheel. 
 
 They themselves make the reel, 20 
 
 And their music 's a prey which they seize ; 
 It plays not for them, — what matter ? 't is theirs ; 
 
198 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And if they had care, it has scattered their cares ; 
 While they dance, crying, " Long as ye please ! " 
 
 They dance not for me. 
 
 Yet mine is their glee 1 
 Thus pleasure is spread through the earth 
 In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find ; 
 Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind, 
 Moves all Nature to gladness and mirth. 3° 
 
 The showers of the spring 
 Rouse the birds, and they sing ; 
 
 If the wind do but stir for his proper delight. 
 
 Each leaf, that and this, his neighbor will kiss ; 
 
 Each wave, one and t'other, speeds after his brother ; 
 
 They are happy, for that is their right ! 
 
 "YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN ECHO." 
 
 1806. — 1807. 
 
 Yes, it was the mountain Echo, 
 Solitary, clear, profound. 
 Answering to the shouting Cuckoo, 
 Giving to her sound for sound ! 
 
 Unsolicited reply 
 
 To a babbling wanderer sent ; 
 
 Like her ordinary cry. 
 
 Like — but oh, how different ! 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 199 
 
 Hears not also mortal Life ? 
 
 Hear not we, unthinking Creatures ! 10 
 
 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, 
 Recognized intelligence ! 
 
 Such rebounds our inward ear 
 Catches sometimes from afar — 
 Listen, ponder, hold them dear ; 
 For of God, — of God they are. 
 
 LINES 
 
 Composed at Grasmere, during a walk one Evening, after a stormy 
 day, the Author having just read in a Newspaper that the disso- 
 lution of Mr. Fox was hourly expected. 
 
 1806.— 1807. 
 
 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 ; 
 
200 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Yon star upon the mountain-top 
 Is listening quietly. 
 
 Sad was I, even to pain deprest, 
 Importunate and heavy load ! lo 
 
 The Comforter hath found me here, 
 Upon this lonely road ; 
 
 And many thousands now are sad — 
 Wait the fulfilment of their fear ; 
 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 — 20 
 
 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? 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 201 
 
 POWER OF MUSIC. 
 
 1806. — 1807. 
 
 An Orpheus ! an Orpheus ! yes, Faith may grow bold, 
 And take to herself all the wonders of old, — 
 Near the stately Pantheon you '11 meet with the same 
 In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name. 
 
 His station is there ; and he works on the crowd, 
 He sways them with harmony merry and loud ; 
 He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim, — 
 Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him ? 
 
 What an eager assembly ! what an empire is this ! 
 The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss ; 10 
 
 The mourner is cheered, and the anxious have rest ; 
 And the guilt-burdened soul is no longer opprest. 
 
 As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night, 
 So He, where he stands, is a centre of light ; 
 It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed Jack, 
 And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back. 
 
 That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in haste — 
 What matter ! he 's caught, and his time runs to waste ; 
 The Newsman is stopped, though he stops on the fret ; 
 And the half-breathless Lamplighter — he 's in the net ! 20 
 
202 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore ; 
 The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store, — 
 If a thief could be here he might pilfer at ease ; 
 She sees the Musician, 't is all that she sees ! 
 
 He stands, backed by the wall ; he abates not his din ; 
 His hat gives him vigor, with boons dropping in, 
 From the old and the young, from the poorest : and there 1 
 The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare. 
 
 blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand 
 
 Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a band ; 30 
 
 1 am glad for him, blind as he is ! — all the while 
 
 If they speak 't is to praise, and they praise with a smile. 
 
 That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in height. 
 Not an inch of his body is free from delight ; 
 Can he keep himself still, if he would ? Oh, not he ! 
 The music stirs in him like wind through a tree. 
 
 Mark that Cripple who leans on his crutch ; like a tower 
 That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour ! — 
 That Mother, whose spirit in fetters is bound. 
 While she dandles the Babe in her arms to the sound. 40 
 
 Now, coaches and chariots ! roar on hke a stream ; 
 Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream : 
 They are deaf to your murmurs, — they care not for you. 
 Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue ! 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 203 
 
 ODE 
 
 ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 EARLY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 1803-6. — 1807. 
 I. 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream. 
 The earth, and every common sight, 
 To me did seem 
 Apparelled in celestial light, 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
 -""~'It is not now as it hath been of yore : 
 Turn whereso'er I may, 
 By night or day, 
 ^^The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Rainbow comes and goes, 10 
 
 And lovely is the Rose ; 
 The Moon doth with delight 
 Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 
 Waters on a starry night 
 Are beautiful and fair ; 
 The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
 But yet I know, where'er I go, 
 That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 
 
 m. 
 Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song. 
 
 And while the young lambs bound 20 
 
204 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 As to the tabor's sound, 
 To me alone there came a thought of grief : \ 
 A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 
 
 And I again am strong : 
 The Cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; 
 No more shall grief_of.mine the season wrong ; 
 I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, 
 The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
 And all the earth is gay ; 
 
 Land and sea 30 
 
 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 ! 
 
 rv. 
 
 Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 
 
 Ye to each other make : I see 
 The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 
 My heart is at your festival. 
 
 My head hath its coronal, 40 
 
 The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 
 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, 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 205 
 
 And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm : — 
 
 I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 50 
 
 — ■ 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 ? 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
 The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 
 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 60 
 
 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 homej_ 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 .'Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 -Upon the growing Boy, 
 But He beholds the light, and whence it flows 
 
 He sees it in his joy ; 70 
 
 The Youth, who daily farther from the east 
 
 Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 
 
 And by the vision splendid 
 
 Is on his way attended ; 
 At length the Man perceives it die away, 
 And fade into the light of common day. ^ 
 
206 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
 Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
 And, even with something of a Mother's mind, 
 
 . And no unworthy aim, 80 
 
 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. 
 
 vn. 
 
 Behold the Child among his new-bom 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, 90 
 
 Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
 
 Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ! 
 
 A wedding or a festival, 
 
 A mourning or a funeral ; 
 And this hath now his heart. 
 
 And unto this he frames his song : 
 Then will he fit his tongue 
 To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 
 
 But it will not be long 
 
 Ere this be thrown aside, 100 
 
 And with new joy and pride 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 207 
 
 The little Actor cons another part ; 
 Filling from time to time his " humorous stage " 
 With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
 That Life brings with her in her equipage ; 
 
 As if his whole vocation 
 
 Were endless imitation. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 
 
 Thy Soul's immensity ; 
 Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep "o 
 
 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 ; "o 
 
 Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 
 Of heaven-bom 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 He upon thee with a weight. 
 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 
 
208 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 IX. 
 
 O joy ! that in our embers 
 
 Is something that doth live, 130 
 
 That Nature yet remembers 
 What was so fugitive ! 
 The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
 Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
 For that which is most worthy to be blest ; 
 Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
 Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
 With new-fledged hopes still fluttering in his breast : — 
 Not for these I raise 
 
 The song of thanks and praise ; 140 
 
 / But for those obstinate questionings 
 \ Of sense and outward things, 
 Fallings from us, vanishings ; 
 Blank misgivings of a Creature 
 Moving about in worlds not realized. 
 High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
 Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised : 
 But for those first affections, _ 
 
 Tliose^ shadowy recollections, 
 
 Which, be they what they may, 150 
 
 Are yet the fountain light of all our day. 
 Are yet a master light of all our seeingj 
 
 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 endeavor, 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 209 
 
 Nor Man nor Boy, 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 160 
 
 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. 
 
 Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 
 
 And let the young Lambs bound 
 
 As to the tabor's sound ! 170 
 
 We in thought will join your throng. 
 
 Ye that pipe and ye that play. 
 
 Ye that through your hearts to-day 
 
 Feel the gladness of the May ! 
 xWhat though the radiance which was once so bright 
 '-Be now forever taken from my sight, 
 
 Though nothing can bring back the hour 
 Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower ; 
 
 We will grieve not, rather find 
 
 Strength in what remains behind ; 180 
 
 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. 
 14. 
 
2IO SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 
 
 Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 
 
 Yet in my heart of heartsf^I feel your might ; 
 
 I only have relinquished one delight 190 
 
 Tp live beneath your more habitual sway.) 
 
 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 coloring from an eye 
 That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
 Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
 Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 200 
 
 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. 
 
 O NIGHTINGALE! THOU SURELY ART.' 
 
 1807 (?).— 1807. 
 
 O Nightingale ! thou surely art 
 
 A creature of a " fiery heart : " — 
 
 These notes of thine — they pierce and pierce ; 
 
 Tumultuous harmony and fierce ! 
 
 Thou sing'st as if the God of wine 
 
 Had helped thee to a Valentine ; 
 
 A song in mockery and despite 
 
 Of shades, and dews, and silent night, 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 2il 
 
 And steady bliss, and all the loves 
 
 Now sleeping in these peaceful groves. lo 
 
 I heard a Stock-dove sing or say 
 
 His homely tale, this very day ; 
 
 His voice was buried among trees, 
 
 Yet to be come-at by the breeze : 
 
 He did not cease, but cooed — and cooed, 
 
 And somewhat pensively he wooed : 
 
 He sang of love, with quiet blending, 
 
 Slow to begin, and never ending ; 
 
 Of serious faith, and inward glee : 
 
 That was the song — the song for me ! 20 
 
 SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE, 
 
 UPON THE RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, THE SHEPHERD, 
 TO THE ESTATES AND HONORS OF HIS ANCESTORS. 
 
 1807. — 1807. 
 
 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 : lo 
 
212 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 ; 20 
 
 Both chiefly from above the board 
 
 Where sits in state our rightful Lord, 
 
 A Cliflbrd to his own restored ! 
 
 They came with banner, spear, and shield ; 
 And it was proved in Bosworth-field 
 Not long the Avenger was withstood — 
 Earth helped him with the cry of blood : 
 St. George was for us, and the might 
 Of blessed Angels crowned the right. 
 Loud voice the Land has uttered forth, 30 
 
 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 40 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 213 
 
 Of years be on her ! — She shall reap 
 
 A taste of this great pleasure, viewing 
 
 As in a dream her own renewing. 
 
 Rejoiced is Broiigh, right glad I deem 
 
 Beside her little humble stream ; 
 
 And she that keepeth watch and ward 
 
 Her stateHer 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 50 
 
 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. 60 
 
 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, 70 
 
 Save a Mother and her Child ! 
 
214 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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, Hke 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 80 
 
 That those dear words should be fulfilled, 
 The Lady's words, when forced away, 
 The last she to her Babe did say ; 
 ' My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest 
 I may not be ; but rest thee, rest. 
 For lowly shepherd's life is best ! ' 
 
 Alas ! when evil men are strong 
 No life is good, no pleasure long. 
 The Boy must part from Mosedale's groves, 
 And leave Blencathara's rugged coves, 90 
 
 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, 100 
 
 When falcons were abroad for prey. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 215 
 
 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, no 
 
 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 
 Came, and rested without fear ; 
 
 The eagle, lord of land and sea, 120 
 
 Stooped down to pay him fealty ; 
 And both the undying fish that swim 
 Through Bowscale-tam 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 : 130 
 
 And into caves where Faeries sing 
 He hath entered ; and been told 
 
2l6 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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, 140 
 
 And hath buried deep his book ; 
 
 Armor rusting in his halls 
 
 On the blood of Clifford calls ; — 
 
 * Quell the Scot,' exclaims the Lance — 
 
 Bear me to the heart of France, 
 
 Is the longing of the Shield — 
 
 Tell thy name, thou trembling Field ; 
 
 Field of death, where'er thou be, 
 
 Groan thou with our victory ! 
 
 Happy day, and mighty hour, 150 
 
 When our Shepherd, in his power, 
 
 Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword, 
 
 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. 160 
 
 Love had he found in huts where poor men lie ; 
 His daily teachers had been woods and rills. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 217 
 
 The silence that is in the starry sky, 
 The sleep that is among the lonely hills. 
 
 In him the savage virtue of the Race, 
 Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead : 
 Nor did he change ; but kept in lofty place 
 The wisdom which adversity had bred. 
 
 Glad were the vales, and every cottage-hearth ; 
 
 The Shepherd-lord was honored more and more ; 170 
 
 And, ages after he was laid in earth, 
 
 "The good Lord Clifford " was the name he bore. 
 
 THE FORCE OF PRAYER; 
 
 OR, THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY. — A TRADITION. 
 
 1807. — 1815. 
 
 •* C5^!)at ts gootf for a fiootless tjene ? '* 
 
 With these dark words begins my Tale ; 
 
 And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring 
 
 When Prayer is of no avail ? 
 
 *• C?^|)at IS flooTr for a bootless bene? ** 
 
 The Falconer to the Lady said ; 
 
 And she made answer, " endless sorrow I " 
 
 For she knew that her Son was dead. 
 
 She knew it by the Falconer's words, 
 
 And from the look of the Falconer's eye ; 10 
 
 And from the love which was in her soul 
 
 For her youthful Romilly. 
 
2l8 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 — Young Romilly through Barden woods 
 Is ranging high and low ; 
 And holds a greyhound in a leash, 
 To let slip upon buck or doe. 
 
 The pair have reached that fearful chasm, 
 
 How tempting to bestride ! 
 
 For lordly Wharf is there pent in 
 
 With rocks on either side. 20 
 
 This striding-place is called The Strid, 
 A name which it took of yore : 
 A thousand years hath it borne that name, 
 And shall a thousand more. 
 
 And hither is young Romilly come, 
 And what may now forbid 
 That he, perhaps for the hundredth time, 
 Shall bound across The Strid ? 
 
 He sprang in glee, — for what cared he 
 
 That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep ? — 3° 
 
 But the greyhound in the leash hung back, 
 
 And checked him in his leap. 
 
 The Boy is in the arms of Wharf, 
 And strangled by a merciless force ; 
 For never more was young Romilly seen 
 Till he rose a lifeless corse. 
 
 Now there is stillness in the vale, 
 
 And long, unspeaking sorrow : 
 
 Wharf shall be to pitying hearts 
 
 A name more sad than Yarrow. 40 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 219 
 
 If for a lover the Lady wept, 
 
 A solace she might borrow 
 
 From death, and from the passion of death ; — 
 
 Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. 
 
 She weeps not for the wedding-day 
 Which was to be to-morrow : 
 Her hope was a further-looking hope, 
 And hers is a mother's sorrow. 
 
 He was a tree that stood alone, 
 
 And proudly did its branches wave ; 5° 
 
 And the root of this delightful tree 
 
 Was in her husband's grave ! 
 
 Long, long in darkness did she sit. 
 And her first words were, " Let there be 
 In Bolton, on the field of Wharf, 
 A stately Priory ! " 
 
 The stately Priory was reared ; 
 
 And Wharf, as he moved along, 
 
 To matins joined a mournful voice, 
 
 Nor failed at even-song. 60 
 
 And the Lady prayed in heaviness 
 That looked not for rehef ! 
 But slowly did her succor come, 
 And a patience to her grief. 
 
 Oh ! there is never sorrow of heart 
 That shall lack a timely end, 
 If but to God we turn, and ask 
 Of Him to be our friend ! 
 
230 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 LAODAMIA. 
 
 1814. — 1815. 
 
 " With sacrifice before the rising morn 
 
 Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired ; 
 
 And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn 
 
 Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required : 
 
 Celestial pity I again implore : — 
 
 Restore him to my sight — great Jove, restore ! " 
 
 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 terror ! what hath she perceived? — O joy ! 
 What doth she look on? — whom doth she behold? 
 Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy ? 
 His vital presence ? his corporeal mould ? 
 It is — if sense deceive her not — 't is He ! 
 And a God leads him, winged Mercury ! 
 
 Mild Hermes spake — and touched her with his wand 
 
 That calms all fear ; " Such grace hath crowned thy prayer, 20 
 
 Laodamia ! 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 ! " 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 221 
 
 Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to clasp : 
 
 Again that consummation she essayed : 
 
 But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp 
 
 As often as that eager grasp was made. 
 
 The Phantom parts — but parts to re-unite, 
 
 And re-assume his place before her sight. 30 
 
 " Protesildus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! 
 Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice ; 
 This is our palace, — yonder is thy throne : 
 Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice. 
 Not to appall 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. 40 
 
 And something also did my worth obtain ; 
 
 For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. 
 
 Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold 
 
 That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand 
 
 Should die ; but me the threat could not withhold : 
 
 A generous cause a victim did demand ; 
 
 And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain ; 
 
 A self-devoted chief, by Hector slain.'* 
 
 " Supreme of Heroes — bravest, noblest, best ! 
 
 Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, 50 
 
 Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest 
 
222 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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. 
 
 But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 
 
 Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave ; 
 
 And he whose power restores thee hath decreed 
 
 Thou shouldst elude the malice of the grave : 
 
 Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 
 
 As when their breath enriched Thessalian air. 6g 
 
 No Spectre greets me, — no vain Shadow this ; 
 Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side ! 
 Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss 
 To me, this day, a second time thy bride ! " 
 Jove frowned in heaven : the conscious Parcae threw 
 Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 
 
 " This visage tells me 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 70 
 
 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 — " 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 223 
 
 " Ah, wherefore ? — Did not Hercules by force 
 
 Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb 80 
 
 Alcestis, a reanimated corse, 
 
 Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom ? 
 
 Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, 
 
 And ^son stood a youth 'mid youthful peers. 
 
 The Gods to us are merciful — and they 
 
 Yet further may relent : for mightier far 
 
 Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway 
 
 Of magic potent over sun and star, 
 
 Is love, though oft to agony distrest, 
 
 And though his favorite seat be feeble woman's breast. 90 
 
 But if thou goest, I follow — " " Peace ! " he said, — 
 
 She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered ; 
 
 The ghastly color from his lips had fle^ ; 
 
 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 ; 100 
 
 Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 
 
 Revived, with finer harmony pursued ; 
 
 Of all that is most beauteous — imaged there 
 In happier beauty ; more pellucid streams, 
 An ampler ether, a diviner air, 
 
224 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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 ente^ which hath earned 
 
 That privilege by virtue. ^ — ^' 111," said he, no 
 
 " 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. i2(3 
 
 The wished- for wind was given : — I then revolved 
 
 The oracle, upon the silent sea ; 
 
 And, if no worthier led the way, resolved 
 
 That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 
 
 The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, — 
 
 Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. 
 
 Yet bitter, 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, — 130 
 
 The paths which we had trod ; these fountains, flowers ; 
 
 My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 225 
 
 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 ; 140 
 
 I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 
 
 Our blest re-union in the shades below. 
 
 The invisible world with thee hath sympathized ; 
 
 Be thy affection raised and solemnized. 
 
 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." — 150 
 
 Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes re-appears ! 
 
 Round the dear Shade she would have clung — 't is vain ; 
 
 The hours are past — too brief had they been years ; 
 
 And him no mortal effort can detain : 
 
 Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day, 
 
 He through the portal takes his silent way. 
 
 And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse She lay. 
 
 Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved, 
 She perished ; and, as for a wilful crime, 
 By the ,\ust Gods whom no weak pity moved, 160 
 
 IS 
 
2 26 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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.) 
 
 1814. — 1820. 
 
 I. 
 
 Serene, and fitted to embrace. 
 Where'er he turned, a swan-like grace 
 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 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 227 
 
 Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere, 
 
 Fell round him in the grove of Academe, 10 
 
 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. 
 
 n. 
 
 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 corslet clad ! 
 
 Pure transport undisturbed by doubt or fear 
 
 The gazers feel ; and rushing to the plain. 
 
 Salute those strangers as a holy train 
 
 Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear) 
 
 That brought their precious liberty again. ^P' 
 
 Lo ! when the gates are entered, on each hand, 
 
 Down the long street, rich goblets filled with wine 
 
 In seemly order stand. 
 On tables set, as if for rites divine ; 
 And as the great Deliverer marches by. 
 
 He looks on festal ground with fruits bestrewn ; 
 And flowers are on his person thrown 
 
2 28 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 In boundless prodigality ; 
 Nor doth the general voice abstain from prayer, 
 Invoking Dion's tutelary care, 40 
 
 As if a very Deity he were ! 
 
 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. 
 
 Not on the breath of popular applause. 
 
 But through dependence on the sacred laws 
 
 Framed in the schools where Wisdom dwells retired, 
 
 Intent to trace the ideal path of right 50 
 
 (More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved with stars) 
 
 Which Dion learned to measure with sublime 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 60 
 
 As, through the abysses of a joyless heart. 
 
 The heaviest plummet of despair can go. 
 
 But whence that sudden check ? that fearful start ? 
 
 He hears an uncouth sound, — 
 
 Anon his Hfted eyes 
 Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound, 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 229 
 
 A Shape of more than mortal size 
 
 And hideous aspect, stalliing round and round. 
 
 A woman's garb the Phantom wore, 
 
 And fiercely swept the marble floor, — • 70 
 
 Like Auster whirling to and fro, 
 
 His force on Caspian foam to try ; 
 Or Boreas when he scours the snow 
 That skims the plains of Thessaly, 
 Or when aloft on Maenalus he stops 
 His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops ! 
 
 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 ! 80 
 
 " 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 ! " 
 
 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, 
 
 Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall ! 
 
 Ye Gods, thought He, that servile Implement 
 
230 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 
 
 Obeys a mystical intent ! 
 
 Your Minister would brush away 
 
 The spots that to my soul adhere ; 
 
 But should she labor night and day, 
 
 They will not, cannot disappear ; 
 
 Whence angry perturbations, — and that look 100 
 
 Which no Philosophy can brook ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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^ no 
 
 And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh ; 
 
 But in calm peace the appointed Victim slept. 
 
 As he had fallen in magnanimity ; 
 
 Of spirit too capacious to require 
 
 That Destiny her course should change ; too just 
 
 To his own native greatness to desire 
 
 That wretched boon, days lengthened by mistrust. 
 
 So were the hopeless troubles, that involved 
 
 The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. 
 
 Released from life and cares of princely state, 120 
 
 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." 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 231 
 
 COMPOSED AT CORA LINN, 
 
 IN SIGHT OF WALLACE'S TOWER. 
 1814. — 1820. 
 
 Lord of the vale ! astounding Flood ; 
 The dullest leaf in this thick wood 
 Quakes — conscious of thy power ; 
 The caves reply with hollow moan ; 
 And vibrates, to its central stone, 
 Yon time-cemented Tower ! 
 
 And yet how fair the rural scene ! 
 
 For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been 
 
 Beneficent as strong ; 
 
 Pleased in refreshing dews to steep w 
 
 The little trembling flowers that peep 
 
 Thy shelving rocks among. 
 
 Hence all who love their country, love 
 To look on thee, — delight to rove 
 Where they thy voice can hear ; 
 And, to the patriot-warrior's Shade, 
 Lord of the vale ! to Heroes laid • 
 In dust, that voice is dear !. 
 
 Along thy banks, at dead of night 
 
 Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight ; • 20 
 
 Or stands, in warlike vest. 
 
 Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam, 
 
232 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 A Champion worthy of the stream, 
 Yon gray tower's living crest ! 
 
 But clouds and envious darkness hide 
 
 A form not doubtfully descried : — 
 
 Their transient mission o'er, 
 
 O say to what blind region flee 
 
 These Shapes of awful phantasy ? 
 
 To what untrodden shore ? 30 
 
 Less than divine command they spurn ; 
 But this we from the mountains learn, 
 And this the valleys show ; 
 That never will they deign to hold 
 Communion where the heart is cold 
 To human weal and woe. 
 
 The man of abject soul in vain 
 
 Shall walk the Marathonian plain ; 
 
 Or thrid the shadowy gloom 
 
 That still invests the guardian Pass 40 
 
 Where stood, sublime, Leonidas 
 
 Devoted to the tomb. 
 
 And let no Slave his head incline, 
 Or kneel, before the votive shrine 
 By Uri's lake, where Tell 
 Leapt, from his storm- vext boat, to land, 
 Heaven's Instrument, for by his hand 
 That day the Tyrant fell. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 233 
 
 YARROW VISITED, 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1814. 
 1814. — 1820. 
 
 And is this — Yarrow ? — This the Stream 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Yet why ? — a silvery current flows 
 
 With uncontrolled meanderings ; 
 
 Nor have these eyes by greener hills 
 
 Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 
 
 And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake 
 
 Is visibly delighted ; 
 
 For not a feature of those hills 
 
 Is in the mirror slighted. 
 
 A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, 
 
 Save where that pearly whiteness 
 
 Is round the rising sun diffused, 
 
 A tender hazy brightness ; 
 
 Mild dawn of promise 1 that excludes 
 
 All profitless dejection j 
 
 Though not unwilling here to admit 
 
 A pensive recollection. 
 
234 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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, 30 
 
 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 ! 40 
 
 But thou, that didst appear so fair 
 
 To fond imagination. 
 
 Dost rival in the light of day 
 
 Her delicate creation : 
 
 Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 
 
 A softness still and holy ; 
 
 The grace of forest charms decayed, 
 
 And pastoral melancholy. 
 
 That region left, the vale unfolds 
 
 Rich groves of lofty stature, 5° 
 
 With Yarrow winding through the pomp 
 
 Of cultivated nature ; 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 235 
 
 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 ! 60 
 
 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 ! 
 
 'T were no offence to reason ; 70 
 
 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. 80 
 
236 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 The vapors linger round the Heights, 
 They melt, and soon must vanish ; 
 One hour is theirs, nor more is mine, — 
 Sad thought, which I would banish, 
 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. 
 
 TO 
 
 ON HER FIRST ASCENT TO THE SUMMIT OF HELVELLYN. 
 1816. — 1820. 
 
 Inmate of a mountain dwelling, 
 Thou hast clomb aloft, and gazed 
 From the watch-towers of Helvellyn ; 
 Awed, delighted, and amazed ! 
 
 Potent was the spell that bound thee, 
 Not unwilling to obey ; 
 For blue Ether's arms, flung round thee, 
 Stilled the pantings of dismay. 
 
 Lo ! the dwindled woods and meadows ; 
 
 What a vast abyss is there ! 10 
 
 Lo ! the clouds, the solemn shadows. 
 
 And the glistenings — heavenly fair ! 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 237 
 
 And a record of commotion 
 Which a thousand ridges yield : 
 Ridge, and gulf, and distant ocean 
 Gleaming like a silver shield ! 
 
 Maiden ! now take flight ; — inherit 
 
 Alps or Andes, — they are thine ! 
 
 With the morning's roseate Spirit, 
 
 Sweep their length of snowy line ; 20 
 
 Or survey their bright dominions 
 In the gorgeous colors drest 
 Flung from off the purple pinions, 
 Evening spreads throughout the west ! 
 
 Thine are all the coral fountains 
 Warbling in each sparry vault 
 Of the untrodden lunar mountains ; 
 Listen to their songs ! — or halt, 
 
 To Niphates' top invited, 
 
 Whither spiteful Satan steered ; 30 
 
 Or descend where the ark alighted. 
 
 When the green earth re-appeared ; 
 
 For the power of hills is on thee, 
 As was witnessed through thine eye 
 Then, when old Helvellyn won thee, 
 To confess their majesty ! 
 
238 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 ODE TO LYCORIS. 
 
 1817. — 1820. 
 
 I. 
 
 An age hath been when Earth was proud * 
 Of lustre too intense i 
 
 To be sustained ; and Mortals bowed 4 
 
 The front in self-defence. 3 
 
 Who then, if Dian's crescent gleamed, ^ 
 
 Or Cupid's sparkling arrow streamed ^ 
 
 While on the wing the Urchin played, ^ 
 
 Could fearlessly approach the shade ? ^ 
 
 — Enough for one soft vernal day, ^ ^ 
 
 If I, a bard of ebbing time, 4r '' '° 
 
 And nurtured in a fickle clime ^ -* 
 
 May haunt this hom6d bay ; ^ 
 
 Whose amorous water multiplies \ ^ 
 
 The flitting halcyon's vivid dyes ; ^- *^ 
 
 And smooths her liquid breast — to show ^ ^ 
 These swan-like specks of mountain snow, v ^ 
 White as the pair that slid along the plains -^ S 
 Of heaven, when Venus held the reins ! ^ ^ 
 
 n. 
 
 In youth we love the darksome lawn 
 
 Brushed by the owlet's wing ; - 20 
 
 Then, Twilight is preferred to Dawn, , 
 
 And Autumn to the Spring. 
 
 Sad fancies do we then affect, 
 
 In luxury of disrespect o. g. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 239 
 
 To our own prodigal excess '^ ^ 
 
 Of too familiar happiness. c^- 4 
 
 Lycoris (if such name befit ^ ''-* 
 
 Thee, thee my life's celestial sign !) ^ ^ 
 \Yhen Nature marks the year's decline, 4, 
 Be ours to welcome "It ; ^30 
 
 ^^ Pleased with the harvest hope that runs ^. ^ 
 
 Before the path of milder suns ; ^ *^ 
 
 Pleased while the sylvan world displays "^ ^ 
 Its ripeness to the feeding gaze ; ^ •^" 
 
 Pleased when the sullen winds resound the knell a. ,/ 
 Of the resplendent miracle. ^ r ^ 
 
 III. 
 
 But something whispers to my heart «x ^ 
 That, as we downward tend, "^ 2 
 
 Lycoris ! life requires an art "^ ^ 
 
 To which our souls must bend ; "" 2 40 
 
 A skill — to balance and supply ; •" 
 
 And, ere the flowing fount be dry, ^ 
 
 As soon it must, a sense to sip, . 
 
 C Or drink, with no fastidious lip. 
 
 Then welcome, above all, the Guest "^ 
 
 Whose smiles, diffused o'er land and sea, <t ^ 
 Seem to recall the Deity V 
 
 Of youth into the breast : ^3 
 
 May pensive Autumn ne'er present ^ 
 
 A claim to her disparagement ! '\ 50 
 
 While blossoms and the budding spray -^ 
 Inspire us in our own decay ; "^ 
 
 Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark goal, 5" 
 
 Be hopeful Spring the favorite of the Soul ! -i- r 
 
240 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE. 
 
 1817. — 1820. 
 
 Within the mind strong fancies work, 
 
 A deep delight the bosom thrills, 
 
 Oft as I pass along the fork 
 
 Of these fraternal hills ; 
 
 Where, save the rugged road, we find 
 
 No appanage of human kind. 
 
 Nor hint of man : if stone or rock 
 
 Seem not his handy-work to mock 
 
 By something cognizably shaped : 
 
 Mockery, — or model roughly hewn, 10 
 
 And left as if by earthquake strewn, 
 
 Or from the Flood escaped : 
 
 Altars for Druid service fit ; 
 
 (But where no fire was ever lit, 
 
 Unless the glow-worm to the skies 
 
 Thence offer nightly sacrifice) 
 
 Wrinkled Egyptian monument ; 
 
 Green moss-grown tower ; or hoary tent ; 
 
 Tents of a camp that never shall be razed — 
 
 On which four thousand years have gazed ! 20 
 
 II. 
 
 Ye plough -shares sparkling on the slopes ! 
 Ye snow-white lambs that trip 
 Imprisoned 'mid the formal props 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 241 
 
 Of restless ownership ! 
 
 Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall 
 
 To feed the insatiate Prodigal ! 
 
 Lawns, houses, chattels, groves and fields, 
 
 All that the fertile valley shields ; 
 
 Wages of folly — baits of crime, 
 
 Of hfe's uneasy game the stake, Z^ 
 
 Playthings that keep the eyes awake 
 
 Of drowsy, dotard Time ; — 
 
 O care ! O guilt ! — O vales and plains, 
 
 Here, 'mid his own unvexed domains, 
 
 A Genius dwells, that can subdue 
 
 At once all memory of You, — 
 
 Most potent when mists veil the sky, 
 
 Mists that distort and magnify ; 
 
 While the coarse rushes, to the sweeping breeze, 
 
 Sigh forth their ancient melodies ! 40 
 
 III. 
 
 List to those shriller notes ! — that march 
 Perchance was on the blast, 
 When, through this Height's inverted arch, 
 Rome's earhest legion passed ! 
 — They saw, adventurously impelled, 
 And older eyes than theirs beheld. 
 This block — and yon, whose church-like frame 
 Gives to this savage Pass its name. 
 Aspiring Road ! that lov'st to hide 
 Thy daring in a vapory bourn, 50 
 
 Not seldom may the hour return 
 When thou shalt be my guide : 
 16 
 
242 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And I (as all men may find cause. 
 
 When life is at a weary pause, 
 
 And they have panted up the hill 
 
 Of duty with reluctant will) 
 
 Be thankful, even though tired and faint, 
 
 For the rich bounties of constraint ; 
 
 Whence oft invigorating transports flow 
 
 That choice lacked courage to bestow ! 60 
 
 IV. 
 
 My soul was grateful for delight 
 
 That wore a threatening brow ; 
 
 A veil is lifted — can she slight 
 
 The scene that opens now? 
 
 Though habitation none appear, 
 
 The greenness tells, man must be there ; 
 
 The shelter — that the perspective 
 
 Is of the clime in which we live ; 
 
 Where Toil pursues his daily round ; 
 
 Where Pity sheds sweet tears — and Love, 7° 
 
 In woodbine bower or birchen grove, 
 
 Inflicts his tender wound. 
 
 — Who comes not hither ne'er shall know 
 
 How beautiful the world below ; 
 
 Nor can he guess how lightly leaps 
 
 The brook adown the rocky steeps. 
 
 Farewell, thou desolate Domain ! 
 
 Hope, pointing to the cultured plain, 
 
 Carols like a shepherd-boy ; 
 
 And who is she ? — Can that be Joy ! 80 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 243 
 
 Who, with a sunbeam for her guide, 
 
 Smoothly skims the meadows wide ; 
 
 While Faith, from yonder opening cloud, 
 
 To hill and vale proclaims aloud, 
 
 " Whate'er the weak may dread, the wicked dare, 
 
 Thy lot, O Man, is good, thy portion fair ! " 
 
 SEQUEL TO "THE BEGGARS." 
 
 COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER. 
 1817. — 1827. 
 
 Where are they now, those wanton Boys ? 
 
 For whose free range the daedal earth 
 
 Was filled with animated toys. 
 
 And implements of frolic mirth ; 
 
 With tools for ready wit to guide ; 
 
 And ornaments of seemlier pride, 
 
 More fresh, more bright, than princes wear ; 
 
 For what one moment flung aside, 
 
 Another could repair : 
 
 What good or evil have they seen 
 
 Since I their pastime witnessed here. 
 
 Their daring wiles, their sportive cheer? 
 
 I ask — but all is dark between ! 
 
 They met me in a genial hour, 
 When universal nature breathed 
 
244 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 As with the breath of one sweet flower — 
 
 A time to overrule the power 
 
 Of discontent, and check the birth 
 
 Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife, 
 
 The most famiHar bane of Hfe 20 
 
 Since parting Innocence bequeathed 
 
 MortaHty to Earth ! 
 
 Soft clouds, the whitest of the year, 
 
 Sailed through the sky — the brooks ran clear ; 
 
 The lambs from rock to rock were bounding ; 
 
 With songs the budded groves resounding ; 
 
 And to my heart are still endeared 
 
 The thoughts with which it then was cheered ; 
 
 The faith which saw that gladsome pair 
 
 Walk through the fire with unsinged hair. 3° 
 
 Or, if such faith must needs deceive — 
 
 Then, Spirits of beauty and of grace, 
 
 Associates in that eager chase ; 
 
 Ye, who within the blameless mind 
 
 Your favorite seat of empire find — 
 
 Kind Spirits ! may we not believe 
 
 That they, so happy and so fair 
 
 Through your sweet influence, and the care 
 
 Of pitying Heaven, at least were free 
 
 From touch of ^^d!^/)^ injury? 40 
 
 Destined, whate'er their earthly doom, 
 
 For mercy and immortal bloom ! 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 245 
 
 COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF EXTRAOR- 
 DINARY SPLENDOR AND BEAUTY. 
 
 1818. — 1820. 
 
 I. 
 
 Had this effulgence disappeared 
 
 With flying haste, I might have sent, 
 
 Among the speechless clouds, a look 
 
 Of blank astonishment ; 
 
 But 't is 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, 10 
 
 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 gleam — 
 
 The shadow, and the peace supreme ! 20 
 
 II. 
 No sound is uttered, — but a deep 
 And solemn harmony pervades 
 
246 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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 ; 3° 
 
 And glistening antlers are descried ; 
 
 And gilded flocks appear. 
 
 Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve ! 
 
 But long as god-Hke 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 ! 40 
 
 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 . 5° 
 
 On those bright steps that heavenward raise 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 247 
 
 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 ; 
 
 And wake him with such gentle heed 
 
 As may attune his soul to meet the dower 
 
 Bestowed on this transcendent hour ! 60 
 
 IV. 
 
 Such hues from their celestial Urn 
 
 Were wont to stream before mine eye, 
 
 Where'er it wandered in the mom 
 
 Of blissful infancy. 
 
 This glimpse of glory, why renewed ? 
 
 Nay, rather speak with gratitude ; 
 
 For if a vestige of those gleams 
 
 Survived, 't was only in my dreams. 
 
 Dread Power ! whom peace and calmness serve 
 
 No less than Nature's threatening voice, 70 
 
 If aught unworthy be my choice, 
 
 From Thee if I would swerve ; 
 
 Oh, let thy gi-ace remind me of the light 
 
 Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored j 
 
 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 ! 
 
 — 'T is past, the visionary splendor fades ; 
 
 And night approaches with her shades. 80 
 
248 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 NEAR THE SPRING OF THE HERMITAGE. 
 
 1818. — 1820. 
 
 Troubled long with warring notions, 
 Long impatient of thy rod, 
 I resign my soul's emotions 
 Unto Thee, mysterious God ! 
 
 What avails the kindly shelter 
 Yielded by this craggy rent. 
 If my spirit toss and welter 
 On the waves of discontent ? 
 
 Parching Summer hath no warrant 
 To consume this crystal Well ; 
 Rains, that make each rill a torrent, 
 Neither sully it nor swell. 
 
 Thus, dishonoring not her station, 
 Would my Life present to Thee, 
 Gracious God, the pure oblation 
 Of divine tranquillity ! 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 249 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1819. 
 
 1819. — 1820. 
 
 Departing summer hath assumed 
 An aspect tenderly illumed, 
 The gentlest look of spring ; 
 That calls from yonder leafy shade 
 Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, 
 A timely carolling. 
 
 No faint and hesitating trill — 
 
 Such tribute as to winter chill 
 
 The lonely redbreast pays ! 
 
 Clear, loud, and lively is the din, 10 
 
 From social warblers gathering in 
 
 Their harvest of sweet lays. 
 
 Nor doth the example fail to cheer 
 Me, conscious that my leaf is sere, 
 And yellow on the bough : — 
 Fall, rosy garlands, from my head ! 
 Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed 
 Around a younger brow ! 
 
 Yet will I temperately rejoice ; 
 
 Wide is the range, and free the choice 20 
 
 Of undiscordant themes ; 
 
 Which, haply, kindred souls may prize 
 
iSO SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 
 
 Not less than vernal ecstasies, 
 And passion's feverish dreams. 
 
 For deathless powers to verse belong, 
 
 And they like Demi-gods are strong 
 
 On whom the Muses smile ; 
 
 But some their function have disclaimed, 
 
 Best pleased with what is aptliest framed 
 
 To enervate and defile. 3° 
 
 Not such the initiatory strains 
 
 Committed to the silent plains 
 
 In Britain's earliest dawn : 
 
 Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale, 
 
 While all-too-daringly the veil 
 
 Of nature was withdrawn ! 
 
 Nor such the spirit-stirring note 
 
 When the live chords Alcaeus smote. 
 
 Inflamed by sense of wrong ; 
 
 Woe ! woe to Tyrants ! from the lyre 4° 
 
 Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire 
 
 Of fierce vindictive song. 
 
 And not unhallowed was the page 
 By winged Love inscribed, to assuage 
 The pangs of vain pursuit ; 
 Love listening while the Lesbian Maid 
 With finest touch of passion swayed 
 Her own ^olian lute. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 251 
 
 O ye, who patiently explore 
 
 The wreck of Herculanean lore, 5° 
 
 What rapture ! could ye seize 
 
 Some Theban fragment, or unroll 
 
 One precious, tender-hearted scroll 
 
 Of pure Simonides. 
 
 That were, indeed, a genuine birth 
 
 Of poesy ; a bursting forth 
 
 Of genius from the dust : 
 
 What Horace gloried to behold. 
 
 What Maro loved, shall we enfold ? 
 
 Can haughty Time be just ! 60 
 
 THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 TO THE REV. DR. WORDSWORTH. (WITH THE SONNETS TO 
 THE RIVER DUDDON.) 
 
 1820. — 1820. 
 
 The minstrels played their Christmas tune 
 To-night beneath my cottage-eaves ; 
 While, smitten by a lofty moon, 
 The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, 
 Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen, 
 That overpowered their natural green. 
 
 Through hill and valley every breeze 
 
 Had sunk to rest with folded wings : 
 
 Keen was the air, but could not freeze, 
 
 Nor check, the music of the strings ; k 
 
252 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 So stout and hardy were the band 
 
 That scraped the chords with strenuous hand ! 
 
 And who but listened ? — till was paid 
 Respect to every Inmate's claim : 
 The greeting given, the music played, 
 In honor of each household name, 
 Duly pronounced with lusty call, 
 And " Merry Christmas " wished to all ! 
 
 O Brother ! I revere the choice 
 
 That took thee from thy native hills ; 20 
 
 And it is given thee to rejoice : 
 
 Though public care full often tills 
 
 (Heaven only witness of the toil) 
 
 A barren and ungrateful soil. 
 
 Yet, would that Thou, with me and mine, 
 
 Hadst heard this never-failing rite ; 
 
 And seen on other faces shine 
 
 A true revival of the light 
 
 Which Nature and these rustic Powers, 
 
 In simple childhood, spread through ours ! 3° 
 
 For pleasure hath not ceased to wait 
 On these expected annual rounds ; 
 Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate 
 Call forth the unelaborate sounds. 
 Or they are offered at the door 
 That guards the lowliest of the poor. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 253 
 
 How touching, when, at midnight, sweep 
 
 Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark, 
 
 To hear — and sink again to sleep ! 
 
 Or, at an earlier call, to mark, 40 
 
 By blazing fire, the still suspense 
 
 Of self-complacent innocence ; 
 
 The mutual nod, — the grave disguise 
 
 Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er ; 
 
 And some unbidden tears that rise 
 
 For names once heard, and heard no more ; 
 
 Tears brightened by the serenade 
 
 For infant in the cradle laid. 
 
 Ah ! not for emerald fields alone, 
 
 With ambient streams more pure and bright 5^ 
 
 Than fabled Cytherea's zone 
 
 Glittering before the Thunderer's sight, 
 
 Is to my heart of hearts endeared 
 
 The ground where we were born and reared ! 
 
 Hail, ancient Manners ! sure defence, 
 
 Where they survive, of wholesome laws ; 
 
 Remnants of love whose modest sense 
 
 Thus into narrow room withdraws ; 
 
 Hail, Usages of pristine mould. 
 
 And ye that guard them, Mountains old ! 60 
 
 Bear with me. Brother ! quench the thought 
 That slights this passion, or condemns ; 
 If thee fond Fancy ever brought 
 From the proud margin of the Thames, 
 
254 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And Lambeth's venerable towers, 
 
 To humbler streams, and greener bowers. 
 
 Yes, they can make, who fail to find. 
 
 Short leisure even in busiest days ; 
 
 Moments, to cast a look behind. 
 
 And profit by those kindly rays 70 
 
 That through the clouds do sometimes steal. 
 
 And all the far-off past reveal. 
 
 Hence, while the imperial City's din 
 Beats frequent on thy satiate ear, 
 A pleased attention I may win 
 To agitations less severe. 
 That neither overwhelm nor cloy, 
 But fill the hollow vale with joy 1 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 1823. —1827. 
 
 A PEN — to register ; a key — 
 That winds through secret wards ; 
 Are well assigned to Memory 
 By allegoric Bards. 
 
 As aptly, also, might be given 
 
 A Pencil to her hand ; 
 
 That, softening objects, sometimes even 
 
 Outstrips the heart's demand ; 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 255 
 
 That smooths foregone distress, the lines 
 
 Of lingering care subdues, ^o 
 
 Long-vanished happiness refines. 
 
 And clothes in brighter hues ; 
 
 Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works 
 Those Spectres to dilate 
 That starde Conscience, as she lurks 
 Within her lonely seat. 
 
 O that our lives, which flee so fast, 
 
 In purity were such 
 
 That not an image of the past 
 
 Should fear that pencil's touch ! 20 
 
 Retirement then might hourly look 
 Upon a soothing scene, 
 Age steal to his allotted nook- 
 Contented and serene ; 
 
 With heart as calm as lakes that sleep, 
 In frosty moonlight glistening ; 
 Or mountain rivers, where they creep 
 'Along a channel smooth and deep, 
 To their own far-off murmurs listening. 
 
256 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 TO THE LADY FLEMING, 
 
 ON SEEING THE FOUNDATION PREPARING FOR THE ERECTION 
 OF RYDAL CHAPEL, WESTMORELAND. 
 
 1823.— 1827. 
 I. 
 
 Blest is this Isle, — our native Land ; 
 
 Where battlement and moated gate 
 
 Are objects only for the hand 
 
 Of hoary Time to decorate ; 
 
 Where shady hamlet, town that breathes 
 
 Its busy smoke in social wreaths. 
 
 No rampart's stern defence require, 
 
 Naught but the heaven-directed spire, 
 
 And steeple tower (with pealing bells 
 
 Far heard) — our only citadels. 10 
 
 II. 
 
 O Lady ! from a noble line 
 
 Of chieftains sprung, who stoutly bore 
 
 The spear, yet gave to works divine 
 
 A bounteous help in days of yore 
 
 (As records mouldering in the Dell 
 
 Of Nightshade haply yet may tell) ; 
 
 Thee kindred aspirations moved 
 
 To build, within a vale beloved, 
 
 For Him upon whose high behests 
 
 All peace depends, all safety rests. 20 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 257 
 
 III. 
 
 How fondly will the woods embrace 
 
 This daughter of thy pious care, 
 
 Lifting her front with modest grace 
 
 To make a fair recess more fair ; 
 
 And to exalt the passing hour, 
 
 Or soothe it with a healing power 
 
 Drawn from the Sacrifice fulfilled 
 
 Before this rugged soil was tilled, 
 
 Or human habitation rose 
 
 To interrupt the deep repose 1 30 
 
 IV. 
 
 Well may the villagers rejoice ! 
 
 Nor heat, nor cold, nor weary ways, 
 
 Will be a hindrance to the voice 
 
 That would unite in prayer and praise ; 
 
 More duly shall wild wandering Youth 
 
 Receive the curb of sacred truth, 
 
 Shall tottering Age, bent earthward, hear 
 
 The Promise, with uplifted ear ; 
 
 And all shall welcome the new ray 
 
 Imparted to their Sabbath-day. 40 
 
 Nor deem the Poet's hope misplaced, 
 His fancy cheated — that can see 
 A shade upon the future cast, 
 Of time's pathetic sanctity ; 
 Can hear the monitory clock 
 Sound o'er the lake with gentle shock 
 17 
 
258 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 At evening, when the ground beneath 
 
 Is ruffled o'er with cells of death ; 
 
 Where happy generations lie, 
 
 Here tutored for eternity. 50 
 
 VI. 
 
 Lives there a man whose sole delights 
 
 Are trivial pomp and city noise, 
 
 Hardening a heart that loathes or slights 
 
 What every natural heart enjoys? 
 
 Who never caught a noon-tide dream 
 
 From murmur of a running stream ; 
 
 Could strip, for aught the prospect yields 
 
 To him, their verdure from the fields ; 
 
 And take the radiance from the clouds 
 
 In which the sun his setting shrouds ? 6a 
 
 vn. 
 
 A soul so pitiably forlorn, 
 
 If such do on this earth abide, 
 
 May season apathy with scorn. 
 
 May turn indifference to pride ; 
 
 And still be not unblest — compared 
 
 With him who grovels, self-debarred 
 
 From all that lies within the scope 
 
 Of holy faith and Christian hope ; 
 
 Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast 
 
 False fires, that others may be lost. 70 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Alas ! that such perverted zeal 
 
 Should spread on Britain's favored ground ! 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 259 
 
 That public order, private weal, 
 
 Should e'er have felt or feared a wound 
 
 From champions of the desperate law 
 
 Which from their own blind hearts they draw ; 
 
 Who tempt their reason to deny 
 
 God, whom their passions dare defy, 
 
 And boast that they alone are free 
 
 Who reach this dire extremity ! 80 
 
 IX. 
 
 But turn we from these " bold, bad " men ; 
 
 The way, mild Lady ! that hath led 
 
 Down to their " dark opprobrious den," 
 
 Is all too rough for Thee to tread. 
 
 Softly as morning vapors glide 
 
 Down Rydal-cove from Fairfield's side, 
 
 Should move the tenor of his song 
 
 Who means to charity no wrong ; 
 
 Whose offering gladly would accord 
 
 With this day's work, in thought and word. 90 
 
 Heaven prosper it ! may peace, and love, 
 
 And hope, and consolation fall. 
 
 Through its meek influence, from above, 
 
 And penetrate the hearts of all ; 
 
 All who, around the hallowed Fane, 
 
 Shall sojourn in this fair domain ; 
 
 Grateful to Thee, while service pure. 
 
 And ancient ordinance, shall endure. 
 
 For opportunity bestowed 
 
 To kneel together, and adore their God ! 100 
 
26o SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 "O DEARER FAR THAN LIGHT AND LIFE ARE 
 DEAR." 
 
 1824. — 1827. 
 
 O DEARER far than light and life are dear, 
 Full oft our human foresight I deplore ; 
 Trembling, through my un worthiness, 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 ; 10 
 
 Yet bear me up — else faltering in the rear 
 
 Of a steep march : support me to the end. 
 
 Peace settles where the intellect is meek, 
 
 And Love is dutiful in thought and deed ; 
 
 Through Thee communion with that Love I seek : 
 
 The faith Heaven strengthens where he moulds the Creed. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 261 
 
 WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF MACPHERSON'S 
 OSSIAN. 
 
 1824. — 1827. 
 
 Oft have I caught, upon a fitful breeze. 
 
 Fragments of far-off melodies, 
 
 With ear not coveting the whole, 
 
 A part so charmed the pensive soul : 
 
 While a dark storm before my sight 
 
 Was yielding, on a mountain height 
 
 Loose vapors have I watched, that won 
 
 Prismatic colors from the sun ; 
 
 Nor felt a wish that heaven would show 
 
 The image of its perfect bow. 10 
 
 What need, then, of these finished Strains ? 
 
 Away with counterfeit Remains ! 
 
 An abbey in its lone recess, 
 
 A temple of the wilderness, 
 
 Wrecks though they be, announce with feeling 
 
 The majesty of honest dealing. 
 
 Spirit of Ossian ! if imbound 
 
 In language thou mayst yet be found. 
 
 If aught (intrusted to the pen 
 
 Or floating on the tongues of men, 20 
 
 Albeit shattered and impaired) 
 
 Subsist thy dignity to guard. 
 
 In concert with memorial claim 
 
 Of old gray stone, and high-born name 
 
 That cleaves to rock or pillared cave 
 
262 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Where moans the blast, or beats the wave, 
 
 Let Truth, stern arbitress of all. 
 
 Interpret that Original, 
 
 And for presumptuous wrongs atone j 
 
 Authentic words be given, or none ! 3° 
 
 Time is not blind ! — yet He, who spares 
 
 Pyramid pointing to the stars. 
 
 Hath preyed with ruthless appetite 
 
 On all that marked the primal flight 
 
 Of the poetic ecstasy 
 
 Into the land of mystery. 
 
 No tongue is able to rehearse 
 
 One measure, Orpheus ! of thy verse ; 
 
 Musaeus, stationed with his lyre 
 
 Supreme among the Elysian quire, 4© 
 
 Is, for the dwellers upon earth. 
 
 Mute as a lark ere morning's birth. 
 
 Why grieve for these, though past away 
 
 The music, and extinct the lay ? 
 
 When thousands, by severer doom. 
 
 Full early to the silent tomb 
 
 Have sunk, at Nature's call ; or strayed 
 
 From hope and promise, self-betrayed ; 
 
 The garland withering on their brows. 
 
 Stung with remorse for broken vows, 5° 
 
 Frantic — else how might they rejoice? 
 
 And friendless, by their own sad choice ! 
 
 Hail, Bards of mightier grasp ! on you 
 I chiefly call, the chosen Few, 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 263 
 
 Who cast not off the acknowledged guide, 
 
 Who faltered not, nor turned aside ; 
 
 Whose lofty genius could survive 
 
 Privation, under sorrow thrive ; 
 
 In whom the fiery Muse revered 
 
 The symbol of a snow-white beard, 60 
 
 Bedewed with meditative tears 
 
 Dropped from the lenient cloud of years. 
 
 Brothers in soul! though distant times 
 Produced you nursed in various climes, 
 Ye, when the orb of life had waned, 
 A plenitude of love retained : 
 Hence, while in you each sad regret 
 By corresponding hope was met, 
 Ye lingered among human kind, 
 Sweet voices for the passing wind ; 70 
 
 Departing sunbeams, loath to stop, 
 Though smiling on the last hill-top ! 
 Such to the tender-hearted maid 
 Even ere her joys begin to fade ; 
 Such, haply, to the rugged chief 
 By fortune crushed, or tamed by grief; 
 Appears, on Morven's lonely shore. 
 Dim-gleaming through imperfect lore, 
 The Son of Fingal ; such was blind 
 Mseonides of ampler mind ; 80 
 
 Such Milton, to the fountain-head 
 Of glory by Urania led I 
 
264 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 TO A SKY-LARK. 
 
 1825. — 1827. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 : 10 
 
 Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ; 
 
 True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home ! 
 
 TO MAY. 
 
 1826-34. — 1835. 
 
 Though many suns have risen and set 
 
 Since thou, blithe May, wert born. 
 And Bards, who hailed thee, may forget 
 
 Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn ; 
 There are who to a birthday strain 
 
 Confine not harp and voice. 
 But evermore throughout thy reign 
 
 Are grateful and rejoice ! 
 
 Delicious odors ! music sweet, 
 Too sweet to pass away ! 10 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 26$ 
 
 Oh for a deathless song to meet 
 
 The soul's desire — a lay 
 That, when a thousand years are told, 
 
 Should praise thee, genial Power ! 
 Through summer heat, autumnal cold, 
 
 And winter's dreariest hour. 
 
 Earth, sea, thy presence feel — nor less, 
 
 If yon ethereal blue 
 With its soft smile the truth express, 
 
 The heavens have felt it too. 20 
 
 The inmost heart of man if glad 
 
 Partakes a livelier cheer ; 
 And eyes that cannot but be sad 
 
 Let fall a brightened tear. 
 
 Since thy return, through days and weeks 
 
 Of hope that grew by stealth, 
 How many wan and faded cheeks 
 
 Have kindled into health ! 
 The Old, by thee revived, have said, 
 
 " Another year is ours ; " 30 
 
 And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, 
 
 Have smiled upon thy flowers. 
 
 Who tripping lisps a merry song 
 
 Amid his playful peers ? 
 The tender Infant who was long 
 
 A prisoner of fond fears ; 
 But now, when every sharp-edged blast 
 
 Is quiet in its sheath, 
 His Mother leaves him free to taste 
 
 Earth's sweetness in thy breath. 40 
 
266 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Thy help is with the weed that creeps 
 
 Along the humblest ground ; 
 No cHff so bare but on its steeps 
 
 Thy favors may be found ; 
 But most on some pecuHar nook 
 
 That our own hands have drest, 
 Thou and thy train are proud to look, 
 
 And seem to love it best. 
 
 And yet how pleased we wander forth 
 
 When May is whispering, ** Come ! 5^ 
 
 Choose from the bowers of virgin earth 
 
 The happiest for your home ; 
 Heaven's bounteous love through me is spread 
 
 From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves, 
 Drops on the mouldering turret's head 
 
 And on your turf-clad graves ! " 
 
 Such greeting heard, away with sighs 
 
 For lilies that must fade, 
 Or ^ the rathe primrose as it dies 
 
 Forsaken ' in the shade ! 60 
 
 Vernal fruitions and desires 
 
 Are linked in endless chase ; 
 While, as one kindly growth retires, 
 
 Another takes its place. 
 
 And what if thou, sweet May, hast known 
 
 Mishap by worm and blight ; 
 If expectations newly blown 
 
 Have perished in thy sight ; 
 If loves and joys, while up they sprung, 
 
 Were caught as in a snare, — ?o 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 267 
 
 Such is the lot of all the young, 
 However bright and fair. 
 
 Lo ! Streams that April could not check 
 
 Are patient of thy rule ; 
 Gurgling in foamy water-break, 
 
 Loitering in glassy pool : 
 By thee, thee only, could be sent 
 
 Such gentle mists as glide, 
 Curling with unconfirmed intent, 
 
 On that green mountain's side. 80 
 
 How delicate the leafy veil 
 
 Through which yon house of God 
 Gleams 'mid the peace of this deep dale, 
 
 By few but shepherds trod ! 
 And lowly huts, near beaten ways. 
 
 No sooner stand attired 
 In thy fresh wreaths, than they for praise 
 
 Peep forth, and are admired. 
 
 Season of fancy and of hope, 
 
 Permit not for one hour 90 
 
 A blossom from thy crown to drop, 
 
 Nor add to it a flower ! 
 Keep, lovely May, as if by touch 
 
 Of self-restraining art. 
 This modest charm of not too much, 
 
 Part seen, imagined part ! 
 
268 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 THE PILLAR OF TRAJAN. 
 
 1826. — 1827. 
 
 Where towers are crushed, and unforbidden weeds 
 
 O'er mutilated arches shed their seeds ; 
 
 And temples, doomed to milder change, unfold 
 
 A new magnificence that vies with old ; 
 
 Firm in its pristine majesty hath stood 
 
 A votive Column, spared by fire and flood : — 
 
 And, though the passions of man's fretful race 
 
 Have never ceased to eddy round its base, 
 
 Not injured more by touch of meddling hands 
 
 Than a lone obelisk 'mid Nubian sands, 10 
 
 Or aught in Syrian deserts left to save 
 
 From death the memory of the good and brave. 
 
 Historic figures round the shaft embost 
 
 Ascend, with hneaments in air not lost : 
 
 Still as he turns, the charmed spectator sees 
 
 Group winding after group with dream-like ease, 
 
 Triumphs in sunbright gratitude displayed. 
 
 Or softly stealing into modest shade. 
 
 — So, pleased with purple clusters to entwine 
 
 Some lofty elm-tree, mounts the daring vine ; 20 
 
 The woodbine so, with spiral grace, and breathes 
 
 Wide-spreading odors from her flowery wreaths. 
 
 Borne by the Muse from rills in shepherds' ears, 
 Murmuring but one smooth story for all years, 
 I gladly commune with the mind and heart 
 Of him who thus survives by classic art. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 269 
 
 His actions witness, venerate his mien, 
 
 And study Trajan as by Pliny seen ; 
 
 Behold how fought the Chief whose conquering sword 
 
 Stretched far as earth might own a single lord ; 30 
 
 In the delight of moral prudence schooled, 
 
 How feelingly at home the Sovereign ruled ; 
 
 Best of the good — in Pagan faith allied 
 
 To more than Man, by virtue deified. 
 
 Memorial Pillar ! 'mid the wrecks of Time 
 Preserve thy charge with confidence sublime, — 
 The exultations, pomps, and cares of Rome, 
 Whence half the breathing world received its doom ; 
 Things that recoil from language ; that, if shown 
 By apter pencil, from the light had flown. 40 
 
 A Pontiff, Trajan here the Gods implores," • 
 There greets an Embassy from Indian shores ; 
 Lo ! he harangues his cohorts — there the storm 
 Of battle meets him in authentic form ! 
 Unharnessed, naked, troops of Moorish horse 
 Sweep to the charge ; more high, the Dacian force 
 To hoof and finger mailed : yet, high or low, 
 None bleed, and none lie prostrate but the foe. 
 In every Roman, through all turns of fate, 
 Is Roman dignity inviolate ; 50 
 
 Spirit in him pre-eminent, who guides. 
 Supports, adorns, and over all presides ; 
 Distinguished only by inherent state 
 From honored Instruments that round him wait ; 
 Rise as he may, his grandeur scorns the test 
 Of outward symbol, nor will deign to rest 
 
2 70 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 On aught by which another is deprest. 
 
 — Alas ! that One thus disciplined could toil 
 
 To enslave whole nations on their native soil ; 
 
 So emulous of Macedonian fame, 60 
 
 That, when his age was measured with his aim, 
 
 He drooped, 'mid else unclouded victories, | 
 
 And turned his eagles back with deep-drawn sighs ; 
 
 O weakness of the Great ! O folly of the Wise ! 
 
 Where now the haughty Empire that was spread 
 With such fond hope ? Her very speech is dead ; 
 Yet glorious Art the power of Time defies, 
 And Trajan still, through various enterprise, 
 Mounts, in this fine illusion, toward the skies : 
 Still are we present with the imperial Chief, 7^ 
 
 Nor cease to gaze upon the bold Relief 
 Till Rome, to silent marble unconfined, 
 Becomes with all her years a vision of the Mind. 
 
 THE WISHING-GATE. 
 
 1828. — 1829. 
 
 In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of the old highway leading to 
 Ambleside, is a gate, which, time out of mind, has been called the 
 Wishing-gate, from a belief that wishes formed or indulged there 
 have a favorable issue. 
 
 Hope rules a land forever green : 
 
 All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen 
 
 Are confident and gay ; 
 Clouds at her bidding disappear ; 
 Points she to aught ? — the bliss draws near, 
 
 And Fancy smooths the way. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 271 
 
 Not such the land of Wishes — there 
 Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless prayer, 
 
 And thoughts with things at strife ; 
 Yet how forlorn, should ye depart, 10 
 
 Ye superstitions of the heart., 
 
 How poor, were human life ! 
 
 When magic lore abjured its might, 
 Ye did not forfeit one dear right. 
 
 One tender claim abate ; 
 Witness this symbol of your sway, 
 Surviving near the public way, 
 
 The rustic Wishing-gate ! 
 
 Inquire not if the faery race 
 
 Shed kindly influence on the place, 20 
 
 Ere northward they retired ; 
 If here a warrior left a spell. 
 Panting for glory as he fell ; 
 
 Or here a saint expired. 
 
 Enough that all around is fair. 
 Composed with Nature's finest care, 
 
 And in her fondest love — 
 Peace to embosom and content — 
 To overawe the turbulent. 
 
 The selfish to reprove. 3° 
 
 Yea ! even the Stranger from afar, 
 Reclining on this moss-grown bar, 
 Unknowing and unknown. 
 
272 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 The infection of the ground partakes, 
 Longing for his Beloved — who makes 
 All happiness her own. 
 
 Then why should conscious Spirits fear 
 The mystic stirrings that are here, 
 
 The ancient faith disclaim ? 
 The local Genius ne'er befriends 40 
 
 Desires whose course in folly ends. 
 
 Whose just reward is shame. 
 
 Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn, 
 If some, by ceaseless pains outworn, 
 
 Here crave an easier lot ; 
 If some have thirsted to renew 
 A broken vow, or bind a true, 
 
 With firmer, holier knot. 
 
 And not in vain, when thoughts are cast 
 
 Upon the irrevocable past, 50 
 
 Some Penitent sincere 
 May for a worthier future sigh. 
 While trickles from his dowijcast eye 
 
 No unavailing tear. 
 
 The Worldling, pining to be freed 
 From turmoil, who would turn or speed 
 
 The current of his fate, 
 Might stop before this favored scene. 
 At Nature's call, nor blush to lean 
 
 Upon the Wishing-gate. 60 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 273 
 
 The Sage, who feels how blind, how weak 
 Is man, though loath such help to seek^ 
 
 Yet, passing, here might pause, 
 And thirst for insight to allay 
 Misgiving, while the crimson day 
 
 In quietness withdraws ; 
 
 Or when the church-clock's knell profound 
 To Time's first step across the bound 
 
 Of midnight makes reply ; 
 Time pressing on with starry crest, 70 
 
 To filial sleep upon the breast 
 
 Of dread eternity. 
 
 THE WISHING-GATE DESTROYED. 
 
 1828. — 1842. 
 
 'T IS gone, — with old belief and dream 
 That round it clung, and tempting scheme 
 
 Released from fear and doubt ; 
 And the bright landscape too must lie, 
 By this blank wall from every eye 
 
 Relentlessly shut out. 
 
 Bear witness, ye who seldom passed 
 That opening — but a look ye cast 
 
 Upon the lake below, 
 What spirit-stirring power it gained 10 
 
 From faith which here was entertained, 
 
 Though reason might say no. 
 18 
 
»74 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Blest is that ground, where, o'er the springs 
 Of history. Glory claps her wings, 
 
 Fame sheds the exulting tear ; 
 Yet earth is wide, and many a nook 
 Unheard of is, like this, a book 
 
 For modest meanings dear. 
 
 It was in sooth a happy thought 
 
 That grafted, on so fair a spot, 20 
 
 So confident a token 
 Of coming good ; — the charm is fled ; 
 Indulgent centuries spun a thread. 
 
 Which one harsh day has broken. 
 
 Alas for him who gave the word ! 
 Could he no sympathy afford. 
 
 Derived from earth or heaven, 
 To hearts so oft by hope betrayed 
 Their very wishes wanted aid 
 
 Which here was freely given ? 30 
 
 Where, for the love-lorn maiden's wound. 
 Will now so readily be found 
 
 A balm of expectation ? 
 Anxious for far-off children, where 
 Shall mothers breathe a like sweet air 
 
 Of home-felt consolation ? 
 
 And not unfelt will prove the loss 
 'Mid trivial care and petty cross 
 And each day's shallow grief; 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 275 
 
 Though the most easily beguiled 40 
 
 Were oft among the first that smiled 
 At their own fond behef. 
 
 If still the reckless change we mourn, 
 A reconciling thought may turn 
 
 To harm that might lurk here, 
 Ere judgment prompted from within 
 Fit aims, with courage to begin, 
 
 And strength to persevere. 
 
 Not Fortune's slave is Man : our state 
 
 Enjoins, while firm resolves await 50 
 
 On wishes just and wise. 
 That strenuous action follow both. 
 And life be one perpetual growth 
 
 Of heavenward enterprise. 
 
 So taught, so trained, we boldly face 
 All accidents of time and place ; 
 
 Whatever props may fail. 
 Trust in that sovereign law can spread 
 New glory o'er the mountain's head, 
 
 Fresh beauty through the vale. 60 
 
 That truth informing mind and heart, 
 The simplest cottager may part, 
 
 Ungrieved, with charm and spell ; 
 And yet, lost Wishing-gate, to thee 
 The voice of grateful memory 
 
 Shall bid a kind farewell ! 
 
276 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 "IN THESE FAIR VALES HATH MANY A TREE.'» 
 
 1830. — 1835. 
 
 In these fair vales hath many a Tree 
 
 At Wordsworth's suit been spared ; 
 And from the builder's hand this Stone, 
 For some rude beauty of its own, 
 
 Was rescued by the Bard : 
 So let it rest ; and time will come 
 
 When here the tender-hearted 
 May heave a gentle sigh for him, 
 
 As one of the departed. 
 
 THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK. 
 1831.-1835. 
 
 A Rock there is whose homely front 
 
 The passing traveller slights ; 
 Yet there the glow-worms hang their lamps, 
 
 Like stars, at various heights : 
 And one coy Primrose to that Rock 
 
 The vernal breeze invites. 
 
 What hideous warfare hath been waged. 
 
 What kingdoms overthrown, 
 Since first I spied that Primrose-tuft 
 
 And marked it for my own ; 
 A lasting link in Nature's chain 
 
 From highest heaven let down ! 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 277 
 
 The flowers, still faithful to the stems, 
 
 Their fellowship renew : 
 The stems are faithful to the root, 
 
 That worketh out of view ; 
 And to the rock the root adheres 
 
 In every fibre true. 
 
 Close clings to earth the living rock, 
 
 Though threatening still to fall ; 20 
 
 The earth is constant to her sphere ; 
 
 And God upholds them all : 
 So blooms this lonely Plant, nor dreads 
 
 Her annual funeral. 
 
 Here closed the meditative strain ; 
 
 But air breathed soft that day, 
 The hoary mountain-heights were cheered, 
 
 The sunny vale looked gay. 
 And to the Primrose of the Rock 
 
 I gave this after-lay. 30 
 
 I sang — Let myriads of bright flowers, 
 
 Like Thee, in field and grove 
 Revive unenvied ; — mightier far, 
 
 Than tremblings that reprove 
 Our vernal tendencies to hope, 
 
 Is God's redeeming love ; 
 
 That love which changed — for wan disease, 
 
 For sorrow that had bent 
 0*er hopeless dust, for withered age — 
 
 Their moral element, 40 
 
 And turned the thistles of a curse 
 
 To types beneficent. 
 
278 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Sin-blighted though we are, we too, 
 
 The reasoning Sons of Men, 
 From one oblivious winter called 
 
 Shall rise, and breathe again ; 
 And in eternal summer lose 
 
 Our threescore years and ten. 
 
 To humbleness of heart descends 
 
 This prescience from on high, 50 
 
 The faith that elevates the just. 
 
 Before and when they die ; 
 And makes each soul a separate heaven, 
 
 A court for Deity. 
 
 YARROW REVISITED. 
 
 1831. — 1835. 
 
 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 10 
 
 In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves 
 Were on the bough, or falling ; 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 279 
 
 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 : 20 
 
 No public and no private care 
 
 The free-born mind enthralling, 
 We made a day of happy hours, 
 
 Our happy days recalling. 
 
 Brisk Youth appeared, the mom of youth, 
 
 With freaks of graceful folly, — 
 Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, 
 
 Her Night not melancholy ; 
 Past, present, future, all appeared 
 
 In harmony united, 30 
 
 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. 40 
 
28o SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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 50 
 
 For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes ; 
 
 And leave thy Tweed and Teviot 
 For mild Sorrento's breezy waves ; 
 
 May classic Fancy, linking 
 With native Fancy her fresh aid, 
 
 Preserve thy heart from sinking ! 
 
 O ! while they minister to thee. 
 
 Each vying with the other, 
 May Health return to mellow Age 
 
 With strength her venturous brother ; 60 
 
 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 ; 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 281 
 
 And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, 
 
 Wherever they invite Thee, 7° 
 
 At parent Nature's grateful call, 
 With gladness must requite Thee. 
 
 A gracious welcome shall be thine, 
 
 Such looks of love and honor 
 As thy own Yarrow gave to me 
 
 When 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. 80 
 
 And what, for this frail world, were all 
 
 That mortals do or suffer. 
 Did no responsive harp, no pen, " 
 
 Memorial tribute offer ? 
 Yea, what were mighty Nature's self? 
 
 Her features, could they win us, 
 Unhelped by the poetic voice 
 
 That hourly speaks within us ? 
 
 Nor deem that localized Romance 
 
 Plays false with our affections ; 9° 
 
 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. 
 
282 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day 
 
 In Yarrow's groves were centred ; 
 Who through the silent portal arch 
 
 Of mouldering Newark entered ; icx) 
 
 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, iio 
 
 And dearer still, as now I feel. 
 
 To memory's shadowy moonshine ! 
 
 ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 FROM ABBOTSFORD, FOR NAPLES. 
 
 1831. — 1835. 
 
 A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain. 
 Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light 
 Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height : 
 Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain 
 For kindred Power departing from their sight ; 
 While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, 
 Saddens his voice again, and yet again. 
 Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners ! for the might 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 283 
 
 Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes ; 
 Blessings and prayers, in nobler retinue 10 
 
 Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows, 
 Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true, 
 Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea, 
 Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope ! 
 
 DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS. 
 
 " Not to the earth confined, 
 Ascend to heaven." 
 
 1832.— 1835. 
 
 Where will they stop, those breathing Powers, 
 
 The Spirits of the new-born flowers ? 
 
 They wander with the breeze, they wind 
 
 Where'er the streams a passage find ; 
 
 Up from their native ground they rise 
 
 In mute aerial harmonies ; 
 
 From humble violet — modest thyme — 
 
 Exhaled, the essential odors climb. 
 
 As if no space below the sky 
 
 Their subtle flight could satisfy : 10 
 
 Heaven will not tax our thoughts with pride 
 
 If like ambition be their guide. 
 
 Roused by this kindliest of May-showers, 
 The spirit-quickener of the flowers, 
 That with moist virtue softly cleaves 
 The buds, and freshens the young leaves, 
 The birds pour forth their souls in notes 
 Of rapture from a thousand throats — 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Here checked by too impetuous haste, 
 
 While there the music runs to waste, 20 
 
 With bounty more and more enlarged. 
 
 Till the whole air is overcharged ; 
 
 Give ear, O Man ! to their appeal 
 
 And thirst for no inferior zeal, 
 
 Thou, who canst ihink^ as well as feel. 
 
 Mount from the earth ; aspire ! aspire ! 
 So pleads the town's cathedral quire. 
 In strains that from their solemn height 
 Sink, to attain a loftier flight ; 
 While incense from the altar breathes 30 
 
 Rich fragrance in embodied wreaths ; 
 Or, flung from swinging censer, shrouds 
 The taper-lights, and curls in clouds 
 Around angelic Forms, the still 
 Creation of the painter's skill, 
 That on the service wait concealed 
 One moment, and the next revealed. 
 — Cast off" your bonds, awake, arise, 
 And for no transient ecstasies ! 
 What else can mean the visual plea 40 
 
 Of still or moving imagery, — 
 The iterated summons loud, 
 Not wasted on the attendant crowd, 
 Nor wholly lost upon the throng 
 Hurrying the busy streets along ? 
 
 Alas ! the sanctities combined 
 By art to unsensualize the mind 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 285 
 
 Decay and languish ; or, as creeds 
 
 And humors change, are spurned like weeds : 
 
 The priests are from their altars thrust ; 5° 
 
 Temples are levelled with the dust ; 
 
 And solemn rites and awful forms 
 
 Founder amid fanatic storms. 
 
 Yet evermore, through years renewed 
 
 In undisturbed vicissitude 
 
 Of seasons balancing their flight 
 
 On the swift wings of day and night, 
 
 Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door 
 
 Wide open for the scattered Poor. 
 
 Where flower-breathed incense to the skies 60 
 
 Is wafted in mute harmonies ; 
 
 And ground fresh-cloven by the plough 
 
 Is fragrant with a humbler vow ; 
 
 Where birds and brooks from leafy dells 
 
 Chime forth unwearied canticles, 
 
 And vapors magnify and spread 
 
 The glory of the sun's bright head, — 
 
 Still constant in her worship, still 
 
 Conforming to the eternal Will, 
 
 Whether men sow or reap the fields, 70 
 
 Divine monition Nature yields. 
 
 That not by bread alone we live. 
 
 Or what a hand of flesh can give ; 
 
 That every day should leave some part 
 
 Free for a Sabbath of the heart : 
 
 So shall the seventh be truly blest, 
 
 From morn to eve, with hallowed rest. 
 
286 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 "IF THOU INDEED." 
 
 ?--i832. 
 
 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, 
 
 (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 lo 
 
 Of some dark mountain ; or than those which seem 
 
 Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter lamps, 
 
 Among the branches of the leafless trees. 
 
 Then to the measure of the light vouchsafed, 
 
 Shine, Poet, in thy place, and be content. 
 
 "IF THIS GREAT WORLD OF JOY AND PAIN." 
 
 1833.-1835. 
 
 If this great world of joy and pain 
 
 Revolve in one sure track ; 
 If freedom, set, will rise again. 
 
 And virtue, flown, come back ; 
 Woe to the purblind crew who fill 
 
 The heart with each day's care ; 
 Nor gain, from past or future, skill 
 
 To bear, and to forbear ! 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 287 
 
 "NOT IN THE LUCID INTERVALS OF LIFE." 
 
 1834. — 1835. 
 
 Not in the lucid intervals of life 
 
 That come but as a curse to party strife ; 
 
 Not in some hour when Pleasure with a sigh 
 
 Of languor puts his rosy garland by ; 
 
 Not in the breathing-times of that poor slave 
 
 Who daily piles up wealth in Mammon's cave — 
 
 Is Nature felt, or can be ; nor do words, 
 
 Which practised talent readily affords, 
 
 Prove that her hand has touched responsive chords ; 
 
 Nor has her gentle beauty power to move 10 
 
 With genuine rapture and with fervent love 
 
 The soul of Genius, if he dare to take 
 
 Life's rule from passion craved for passion's sake ; 
 
 Untaught that meekness is the cherished bent 
 
 Of all the truly great and all the innocent. 
 
 But who is innocent? By grace divine. 
 Not otherwise, O Nature ! we are thine. 
 Through good and evil thine, in just degree 
 Of rational and manly sympathy. 
 
 To all that Earth from pensive hearts is stealing, 20 
 
 And Heaven is now to gladdened eyes revealing, 
 Add every charm the Universe can show 
 Through every change its aspects undergo — 
 Care may be respited, but not repealed ; 
 No perfect cure grows on that bounded field. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Vain is the pleasure, a false calm the peace. 
 
 If He, through whom alone our conflicts cease, 
 
 Our virtuous hopes without relapse advance, 
 
 Come not to speed the Soul's deliverance ; 
 
 To the distempered Intellect refuse 3° 
 
 His gracious help, or give what we abuse. 
 
 TO A CHILD. 
 
 WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM. 
 1834.-1835. 
 
 Small service is true service while it lasts. 
 
 Of humblest Friends, bright Creature ! scorn not one ; 
 
 The Daisy, by the shadow that it casts, 
 
 Protects the lingering dew-drop from the Sun. 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 1835.— 1835. 
 
 To a good Man of most dear memory 
 
 This Stone is sacred. Here he lies apart 
 
 From the great city where he first drew breath, 
 
 Was reared and taught ; and humbly earned his bread, 
 
 To the strict labors of the merchant's desk 
 
 By duty chained. Not seldom did those tasks 
 
 Tease, and the thought of time so spent depress, 
 
 His spirit, but the recompense was high ; 
 
 Firm Independence, Bounty's rightful sire ; 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 289 
 
 Affections, warm as sunshine, free as air ; 10 
 
 And when the precious hours of leisure came, 
 
 Knowledge and wisdom, gained from converse sweet 
 
 With books, or while he ranged the crowded streets 
 
 With a keen eye, and overflowing heart : 
 
 So genius triumphed over seeming wrong, 
 
 And poured out truth in works by thoughtful love 
 
 Inspired — works potent over smiles and tears. 
 
 And as round mountain-tops the lightning plays, 
 
 Thus innocently sported, breaking forth 
 
 As from a cloud of some grave sympathy, ^ 
 
 Humor and wild instinctive wit, and all 
 
 The vivid flashes of his spoken words. 
 
 From the most gentle creature nursed in fields 
 
 Had been derived the name he bore — a name, 
 
 Wherever Christian altars have been raised. 
 
 Hallowed to meekness and to innocence ; 
 
 And if in him meekness at times gave way, 
 
 Provoked out of herself by troubles strange, 
 
 Many and strange, that hung about his life ; 
 
 Still, at the centre of his being, lodged 3° 
 
 A soul by resignation sanctified : 
 
 And if too often, self-reproached, he felt 
 
 That innocence belongs not to our kind, 
 
 A power that never ceased to abide in him, 
 
 Charity, 'mid the multitude of sins 
 
 That she can cover, left not his exposed 
 
 To an unforgiving judgment from just Heaven. 
 
 Oh, he was good, if e'er a good Man lived ! 
 
 From a reflecting mind and sorrowing heart 
 
 Those simple lines flowed with an earnest wish, 40 
 
290 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Though but a doubting hope, that they might serve 
 
 Fitly to guard the precious dust of him 
 
 Whose virtues called them forth. That aim is missed ; 
 
 For much that truth most urgently required 
 
 Had from a faltering pen been asked in vain : 
 
 Yet, haply, on the printed page received, 
 
 The imperfect record, there, may stand unblamed 
 
 As long as verse of mine shall breathe the air 
 
 Of memory, or see the light of love. 
 
 Thou wert a scorner of the fields, my Friend, 5<5 
 
 But more in show than truth ; and from the fields, 
 And from the mountains, to thy rural grave 
 Transported, my soothed spirit hovers o'er 
 Its green untrodden turf, and blowing flowers ; 
 And taking up a voice, shall speak (tho' still 
 Awed by the theme's peculiar sanctity 
 Which words less free presumed not even to touch) 
 Of that fraternal love, whose heaven-lit lamp 
 From infancy, through manhood, to the last 
 Of threescore years, and to thy latest hour, 60 
 
 Burnt on with ever- strengthening light, enshrined 
 Within thy bosom. 
 
 " Wonderful " hath been 
 The love established between man and man, 
 " Passing the love of women ; " and between 
 Man and his help-mate in fast wedlock joined 
 Through God, is raised a spirit and soul of love 
 Without whose blissful influence Paradise 
 Had been no Paradise ; and earth were now 
 A waste where creatures bearing human form, 
 Direst of savage beasts, would roim in fear, 70 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 291 
 
 Joyless and comfortless. Our days glide on ; 
 
 And let him grieve who cannot choose but grieve 
 
 That he hath been an Elm without his Vine, 
 
 And her bright dower of clustering charities, 
 
 That, round his trunk and branches, might have clung 
 
 Enriching and adorning. Unto thee. 
 
 Not so enriched, not so adorned, to thee 
 
 Was given (say rather thou of later birth 
 
 Wert given to her) a Sister — 't is a word 
 
 Timidly uttered, for she lives, the meek, 80 
 
 The self-restraining, and the ever-kind ; 
 
 In whom thy reason and intelligent heart 
 
 Found — for all interests, hopes, and tender cares, 
 
 All softening, humanizing, hallowing powers. 
 
 Whether withheld, or for her sake unsought — 
 
 More than sufficient recompense ! 
 
 Her love 
 (What weakness prompts the voice to tell it here ?) 
 Was as the love of mothers ; and when years, 
 Lifting the boy to man's estate, had called 
 The long protected to assume the part 9° 
 
 Of a protector, the first filial tie 
 Was undissolved ; and, in or out of sight. 
 Remained imperishably interwoven 
 With life itself. Thus, 'mid a shifting world, 
 Did they together testify of time 
 And season's difference — a double tree 
 With two collateral stems sprung from one root ; 
 Such were they — such through life they might have been 
 In union, in partition only such ; 
 
 Otherwise wrought the will of the Most High ; 100 
 
 Yet through all visitations and all trials, 
 
292 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Still they were faithful ; like two vessels launched 
 From the same beach one ocean to explore 
 With mutual help, and sailing — to their league 
 True, as inexorable winds, or bars 
 Floating or fixed of polar ice, allow. 
 
 But turn we rather, let my spirit turn 
 With thine, O silent and invisible Friend ! 
 To those dear intervals, nor rare nor brief, 
 When reunited, and by choice withdrawn no 
 
 From miscellaneous converse, ye were taught 
 That the remembrance of foregone distress. 
 And the worse fear of future ill (which oft 
 Doth hang around it, as a sickly child 
 Upon its mother) may be both alike 
 Disarmed of power to unsettle present good 
 So prized, and things inward and outward held 
 In such an even balance, that the heart 
 Acknowledges God's grace, his mercy feels, 
 And in its depth of gratitude is still. 120 
 
 O gift divine of quiet sequestration ! 
 The hermit, exercised in prayer and praise, 
 And feeding daily on the hope of heaven, 
 Is happy in his vow, and fondly cleaves 
 To life-long singleness ; but happier far 
 Was to your souls, and, to the thoughts of others, 
 A thousand times more beautiful appeared, 
 Your dual loneliness. The sacred tie 
 Is broken ; yet why grieve ? for Time but holds 
 His moiety in trust, till Joy shall lead 130 
 
 To the blest world where parting is unknown. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 293 
 
 EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH OF 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 1835.— 1836. 
 
 When first, descending from the Moorlands, 
 
 I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide 
 
 Along a bare and open valley, 
 
 The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide. 
 
 When last along its banks I wandered, 
 Through groves that had begun to shed 
 Their golden leaves upon the pathways. 
 My steps the Border-minstrel led. 
 
 The Mighty Minstrel breathes no longer, 
 
 'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies ; 10 
 
 And death upon the braes of Yarrow 
 
 Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes : 
 
 Nor has the rolling year twice measured, 
 From sign to sign, its steadfast course, 
 Since every mortal power of Coleridge 
 Was frozen at its marvellous source ; 
 
 The rapt One, of the godlike forehead, 
 
 The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth : 
 
 And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle. 
 
 Has vanished from his lonely hearth. ao 
 
294 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits. 
 Or waves that own no curbing hand, 
 How fast has brother followed brother, 
 From sunshine to the sunless land ! 
 
 Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber 
 Were earlier raised, remain to hear 
 A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
 " Who next will drop and disappear ? " 
 
 Our haughty life is crowned with darkness, 
 
 Like London with its own black wreath, 30 
 
 On which with thee, O Crabbe ! forth-looking, 
 
 I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath. 
 
 As if but yesterday departed. 
 Thou too art gone before ; but why, 
 O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered, 
 Should frail survivors heave a sigh? 
 
 Mourn rather for that holy Spirit, 
 
 Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep ; 
 
 For Her who, ere her summer faded. 
 
 Has sunk into a breathless sleep. 40 
 
 No more of old romantic sorrows. 
 
 For slaughtered Youth or love-lorn Maid ! 
 
 With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten. 
 
 And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet dead. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 295 
 
 «S0 FAIR, SO SWEET, WITHAL SO SENSITIVE." 
 
 1845.-1845. 
 
 So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive, 
 
 Would that the little Flowers were born to live, 
 
 Conscious of half the pleasure which they give ; 
 
 That to this mountain-daisy's self were known 
 The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown 
 On the smooth surface of this naked stone ! 
 
 And what if hence a bold desire should mount 
 High as the Sun, that he could take account 
 Of all the issues from his glorious fount ! 
 
 So might he ken how by his sovereign aid 10 
 
 These delicate companionships are made ; 
 
 And how he rules the pomp of light and shade ; - 
 
 And were the Sister-power that shines by night 
 
 So privileged, what a countenance of dehght 
 
 Would through the clouds break forth on human sight ! 
 
 Fond fancies ! wheresoe'er shall turn thine eye 
 On earth, air, ocean, or the starry sky, 
 Converse with Nature in pure sympathy ; 
 
 All vain desires, all lawless wishes quelled, s 
 
 Be Thou to love and praise alike impelled, 20 
 
 Whatever boon is granted or withheld. 
 
296 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. 
 1797. — 1800. 
 
 At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, 
 Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years 
 Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard 
 In the silence of morning the song of the Bird. 
 
 'T is a note of enchantment ; what ails her? She sees 
 A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; 
 Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, 
 And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 
 
 Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, 
 Down which she so often has tripped with her pail ; 
 And a single small Cottage, a nest Hke a dove's. 
 The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. 
 
 She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but they fade, 
 The mist and the river, the hill and the shade : 
 The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 
 And the colours have all passed away from her eyes. 
 
 In the edition of 1800 the following stanza is added to the poems 
 
 Poor Outcast ! return, to receive thee once more 
 The house of thy Father will open its door. 
 And then once again, in thy plain russet gown, 
 May 'st hear the thrush sing from a tree of its own. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 299 
 
 I. 
 
 1802. — 1807. 
 I GRIEVED for Buonaparte, with a vain 
 And an unthinking grief ! The tenderest mood 
 Of that Man's mind — what can it be ? what food 
 Fed his first hopes ? what knowledge could he gain ? 
 'T is not in battles that from youth we train 
 The Governor who must be wise and good, 
 And temper with the sternness of the brain 
 Thoughts motherly, and 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. 
 
 II. --COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE. 
 
 1802.— 1807. 
 * Earth has not anything to show more fair : c^ 
 
 Dull w(5uld he be of s^ul who could pass by \> 
 
 A si'ght so touching in i^ majest/^ 
 
 ight^o touching in i^ majesty : \^ 
 
 ^Tl ] i ^ City now doth, lil£e a gamient, w^ . '- ^ 
 The beauty of the nforning ; sjlent, b^e, • - ' / ( 
 Ships, t(^ers, dmftes, tlieat];j^§,' apd tempTes lie ? 
 Open unto the fields, and to the sKy ;^ y 
 All br ight and glittering in tire snl^eless air' 
 Never dici ^^ more bemitifufest^p 
 
 In(hjjs1first si5tendor, Valley, r&:k, or hm." ' ** 
 
 Ne'er saw I, never felt,' a calm so d^gp ! ^ 
 
 y.*^he f iver .gtideth at his own sweet will w}^ « 
 
 ^••^ear God ! the. very houses s^em^asl^p. ' ^ 
 
 { And all that nlighty he^t is l^tisg still*! ^X^ ^ 
 
300 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 III. — BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS. 
 
 1802. — 1807. 
 Fair Star of evening, Splendor of the west, 
 Star of my Country ! — on the horizon's brink 
 Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink 
 On England's bosom ; yet well pleased to rest, 
 Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest, 
 Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think, 
 Should'st be my Country's emblem ; and 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. 
 
 IV.— CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802. 
 1802. — 1807. 
 
 Is it a reed that 's shaken by the wind, 
 
 Or what is it that ye go forth to see ? 
 
 Lords, lawyers, statesmen, squires of low degree. 
 
 Men known, and men unknown, sick, lame, and blind, ■ 
 
 Post forward all, like creatures of one kind. 
 
 With first-fruit offerings crowd to bend the knee 
 
 In France, before the new-born Majesty. 
 
 'T is ever thus. Ye men of prostrate mind, 
 
 A seemly reverence may be paid to power ; 
 
 But that 's a loyal virtue, never sown 
 
 In haste, nor springing with a transient shower : 
 
 When truth, when sense, when liberty were flown, 
 
 What hardship had it been to wait an hour? 
 
 Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery prone ! 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 30 1 
 
 v. — COMPOSED NEAR CALAIS. 
 1802. — 1807. 
 Jones ! as from Calais southward you and I 
 Went pacing, side by side, this public Way 
 Streamed with the pomp of a too credulous day, 
 When faith was pledged to new-born Liberty : 
 A homeless sound of joy was in the sky : 
 From hour to hour the antiquated Earth 
 Beat like the heart of Man : songs, garlands, mirth, 
 Banners, and happy faces, far and nigh ! 
 And now, sole register that these things were, 
 Two solitary greetings have I heard, 
 ^^Good-morrow, Citizen!'^ a hollow word. 
 As if a dead man spake it ! Yet despair 
 Touches me not, though pensive as a bird 
 Whose vernal coverts winter hath laid bare. 
 
 VL — CALAIS, AUGUST 15, 1802. 
 1802, — 1807. 
 Festivals have I seen that were not names : 
 This is young Bonaparte's natal day, 
 And his is henceforth an established sway — 
 Consul for life. With worship France proclaims 
 Her approbation, and with pomps and games. 
 Heaven grant that other Cities may be gay ! 
 Calais is not : and I have bent my way 
 To the sea-coast, noting that each man frames 
 His business as he likes. Far other show 
 My youth here witnessed, in a prouder time : 
 The senselessness of Joy was then sublime ! ■ 
 Happy is he, who, caring not for Pope, 
 Consul, or King, can sound himself to know 
 The destiny of Man, and live in hope. 
 
302 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 VIL— COMPOSED ON THE BEACH NEAR CALAIS. 
 1802. — 1807. 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, lo,^^ 
 
 The holy time is quiet as a Nun . 
 
 Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun C>-' 
 
 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 
 
 A sound like thunder — everlastingly. i 
 
 Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkest with me here,cA.y 
 
 If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, 
 
 Thy nature is not therefore less divine : 
 
 Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; ^--^ 
 
 And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, W " 
 
 God being with thee when we know it not. 
 
 VIIL — EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC. 
 1802.— 1807. 
 
 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. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 303 
 
 IX. — TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. 
 
 1802.— 1807. 
 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 ; 
 
 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. 
 
 X. — SEPTEMBER, 1802, NEAR DOVER. 
 
 1802. — 1807. 
 
 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 neighborhood. 
 
 1 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, * 
 
 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. 
 
304 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 XL — WRITTEN IN LONDON, 1802. 
 1802. — 1807. 
 O Friend ! I know not which way I must look 
 For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, 
 To think that now our hfe is only drest 
 For show ; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, 
 Or groom ! — We must run ghttering like a brook 
 In the open sunshine, or we are unblest : 
 The wealthiest man among us is the best : 
 No grandeur now in nature or in book 
 Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, 
 This is idolatry : :^nd 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. 
 
 XIL— LONDON, 1802. >. 
 
 1802. — 1807. \ 
 
 Milton ! thou should 'st be living at this hour : 
 England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
 Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, 
 Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
 Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
 .Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 
 Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; 
 And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 
 Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : 
 Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea : 
 Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free. 
 So didst thou travel on life's common way. 
 In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
 The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 305 
 
 XIII. 
 
 1802. — 1807. 
 
 Great men have been among us ; hands that penned 
 
 And tongues that uttered wisdom — better none : 
 
 The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, 
 
 Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend. 
 
 These moralists could act and comprehend : \ 
 
 They knew how genuine glory was put on ; 
 
 Taught us how rightfully a nation shone 
 
 In splendor : what strength was that would not bend \ 
 
 But in magnanimous meekness. France, 't is strange, 
 
 Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. \ 
 
 Perpetual emptiness ! unceasing change ! f 
 
 No single volume paramount, no code, 
 
 No master spirit, no determined road ; 
 
 But equally a want of books and men ! \ 
 
 XIV. 
 1802. — 1807. 
 
 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 
 Armory of the invincible Knights of old : 
 We must be free or die, who speak the tongue 
 That Shakespeare spake ; the faith and morals hold 
 Which Milton held. — In everything we are sprung 
 Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold. 
 20 
 
3o6 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 XV. 
 
 1802. — 1807. 
 
 When I have borne in memory what has tamed 
 
 Great Nations, how ennobHng 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, 
 
 Qf those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 XVI. — COMPOSED AT CASTLE. 
 
 1803. — 1807. 
 Degenerate Douglas ! oh, the unworthy Lord 
 Whom mere despite of heart could so far please. 
 And love of havoc (for with such disease 
 Fame taxes him), that he could send forth word 
 To level with the dust a noble horde, 
 
 A brotherhood of venerable Trees, 
 Leaving an ancient dome, d;nd towers like these. 
 Beggared and outraged ! — Many hearts deplored 
 The fate of those old Trees ; and oft with pain 
 The traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze 
 On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed ; 
 For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays, 
 And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed, 
 And the green silent pastures, yet remain. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 307 
 
 XVII. 
 1803. — 1807. 
 There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear 
 Than his who breathes, by roof, and floor, and wall, 
 Pent in, a Tyrant's solitary Thrall : 
 'T is his who walks about in the open air. 
 One of a Nation who, henceforth, must wear 
 Their fetters in their souls. For who could be, 
 Who, even the best, in such condition, free 
 From self-reproach, reproach that he must share 
 With Human nature ? Never be it ours 
 To see the sun how brightly it will shine, 
 And know that noble feelings, manly powers, 
 Instead of gathering strength, must droop and pine ; 
 And earth with all her pleasant fruits and flowers 
 Fade, and participate in man's decline. 
 
 XVIII. — OCTOBER, 1803. 
 1803. — 1807. 
 These times strike monied worldlings with dismay : 
 Even rich men, brave by nature, taint the air 
 With words of apprehension and despair : 
 While tens of thousands, thinking on the affray, 
 Men unto whom sufficient for the day 
 And minds not stinted or untilled are given, 
 Sound, healthy, children of the God of heaven, 
 Are cheerful as the rising sun in May. 
 What do we gather hence but firmer faith 
 That every gift of noble origin 
 Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath ; 
 That virtue and the faculties within 
 Are vital, — and that riches are akin 
 To fear, to change, to cowardice, and death? 
 
3o8 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 1803. — 1807. 
 England ! the time is come when thou should'st wean 
 Thy heart from its emasculating food ; 
 The truth should now be better understood ; 
 Old things have been unsettled ; we have seen 
 Fair seed-time, better harvest might have been 
 But for thy trespasses ; and, at this day, 
 If for Greece, Egypt, India, Africa, 
 Aught good were destined, thou would'st step between. 
 England ! all nations in this charge agree : 
 But worse, more ignorant in love and hate, 
 Far — far more abject, is thine Enemy : 
 Therefore the wise pray for thee, though the freight 
 Of thy offences be a heavy weight : 
 Oh, grief that Earth's best hopes rest all with Thee ! 
 
 XX. — TO THE MEN OF KENT. 
 
 1803. — 1807. 
 Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent, 
 Ye children of a Soil that doth advance 
 Her haughty brow against the coast of France, 
 Now is the time to prove your hardiment ! 
 To France be words of invitation sent ! 
 They from their fields can see the countenance 
 Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering lance, 
 And hear you shouting forth your brave intent. 
 Left single, in bold parley, ye, of yore, 
 Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath ; 
 Confirmed the charters that were yours before ; — 
 No parleying now ! In Britain is one breath ; 
 We all are with you now from shore to shore : • — 
 Ye men of Kent, 't is victory or death ! 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 309 
 
 XXL — IN THE PASS OF KILLICRANKY. 
 
 1803. — 1807. 
 Six thousand veterans practised in war's game, 
 Tried men, at Killicranky were arrayed 
 Against an equal host that wore the plaid, 
 Shepherds and herdsmen. — Like a whirlwind came 
 The Highlanders, the slaughter spread like flame ; 
 And Garry, thundering down his mountain-road, 
 Was stopped, and could not breathe beneath the load 
 Of the dead bodies. — 'T was a day of shame 
 For them whom precept and the pedantry 
 Of cold mechanic battle do enslave. 
 Oh for a single hour of that Dundee 
 Who on that day the word of onset gave ! 
 Like conquest would the Men of England see ; 
 And her Foes find a like inglorious grave. 
 
 xxn. 
 
 1806. — 1807. 
 
 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, 't was 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. 
 
310 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 XXIIL — BY THE SIDE OF GRASMERE LAKE. 
 
 1806. — 1 8 19. 
 Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars 
 Through the gray west ; and lo ! these waters, steeled 
 By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield 
 A vivid repetition of the stars ; 
 Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars 
 Amid his fellows beauteousfy revealed 
 At happy distance from earth's groaning field, 
 Where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars. 
 Is it a mirror ? — or the nether Sphere 
 Opening to view the abyss in which she feeds 
 Her own calm fires ? But list ! a voice is near ; 
 Great Pan himself low-whispering through the reeds, . 
 " Be thankful, thou ; for, if unholy deeds 
 Ravage the world, tranquillity is here ! " 
 
 XXIV. 
 1806. — 1807. 
 The world is too much with us : late and soon. 
 Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : 
 v^Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
 We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
 This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
 The winds that will be howlmg 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 ; , 
 Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. ' 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 311 
 
 XXV. — PERSONAL TALK. 
 1806.-1807. 
 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 neighbors, 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 P'orms with chalk 
 Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night. 
 Better than such discourse doth silence long, 
 Long, barren silence, square with my desire ; 
 To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, 
 In the loved presence of my cottage-fire, 
 And listen to the flapping of the flame. 
 Or kettle whispering its faint undersong. 
 
 XXVL — CONTINUED. 
 
 1806. — 1807. 
 
 " Yet life," you say, " is life ; we have seen and see, 
 
 And with a living pleasure we describe ; 
 
 And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe 
 
 The languid jnind 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 ! 
 
312 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 XXVII. — CONTINUED. 
 1806. — 1807. 
 Wings have we, — and as far as we can go 
 We may find pleasure : wilderness and wood, 
 Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood 
 Which with the lofty sanctifies the low. 
 Dreams, books, are each a world ; and books, we know, 
 Are a substantial world, both pure and good : 
 Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, 
 Our pastime and our happiness will grow. 
 There find I personal themes, a plenteous store, 
 Matter wherein right voluble I am. 
 To which I listen with a ready ear ; 
 Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear, — 
 The gentle Lady married to the Moor ; 
 And heavenly Una, with her milk-white Lamb. 
 
 XXVIIL — CONCLUDED. 
 
 1806. — 1807. 
 Nor can I not believe but that hereby 
 Great gains are mine ; for thus I live remote 
 From evil-speaking ; rancor, 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 harbor, lodging peaceably. 
 Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, 
 Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares — 
 The Poets who on earth have made us heirs 
 Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays ! 
 Oh ! might my name be numbered among theirs, 
 Then gladly would I end my mortal days. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 313 
 
 XXIX. — TO SLEEP. 
 1806. — 1807. 
 
 GENTLE SLEEP ! do they belong to thee, 
 These twinklings of oblivion ? Thou dost love 
 To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove, 
 
 A captive never wishing to be free. 
 
 This tiresome night, O Sleep ! thou art to me 
 
 A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove 
 
 Upon a fretful rivulet, now above. 
 
 Now on the water vexed with mockery. 
 
 1 have no pain that calls for patience, no ; 
 Hence am I cross and peevish as a child : 
 Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe, 
 Yet ever willing to be reconciled : 
 
 gentle Creature ! do not use me so, 
 But once and deeply let me be beguiled. 
 
 XXX. — CONTINUED. 
 1806. — 1807. 
 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 ; — 
 
 1 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 ! 
 
314 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 XXXI. — CONCLUDED. 
 
 1806. — 1807, 
 Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep ! 
 And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names ; 
 The very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames, 
 When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep ! 
 Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep 
 In rich reward all suffering ; Bahii that tames 
 All anguish ; Saint that evil thoughts and aims 
 Takest away, and into souls dost creep, 
 Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone, 
 I surely not a man ungently made, 
 Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost? 
 Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown. 
 Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed, 
 Still last to come where thou art wanted most ! 
 
 XXXIL — TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY CALVERT. 
 1806. — 1807. 
 Calvert ! it must not be unheard by them 
 Who may respect my name, that I to thee 
 Owed many years of early hberty. 
 This care was thine when sickness did condemn 
 Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem — 
 That I, if frugal and severe, might stray 
 Where'er I liked ; and finally array 
 My temples with the Muse's diadem. 
 Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth; 
 If there be aught of pure, or good, or great, 
 In my past verse ; or shall be, in the lays 
 Of higher mood which now I meditate. 
 It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived Youth ! 
 To think how much of this will be thy praise. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 3^5 
 
 XXXIIL — NOVEMBER, 1806. 
 1806. — 1807. 
 Another year ! — another deadly blow ! 
 Another mighty Empire overthrown ! 
 And We are left, or shall be left, alone ; 
 The last that dare to struggle with the Foe. 
 'T is well ! from this day forward we shall know 
 That in ourselves our safety must be sought ; 
 That by our own right hands it must be wrought ; 
 That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low. 
 O dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer ! 
 We shall exult, if they who rule the land 
 Be men who hold its many blessings dear, 
 Wise, upright, valiant ; not a servile band, 
 Who are to judge of danger which they fear, 
 And honor which they do not understand. 
 
 XXXIV. —ADMONITION. 
 1806. — 1807. 
 Well mayst thou halt — and gaze with brightening eye ! 
 The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook 
 Hath stirred thee deeply ; with its own dear brook, 
 Its own small pasture, almost its own sky ! 
 But covet not the Abode ; — forbear to sigh, 
 As many do, repining while they look ; 
 Intruders — who would tear from Nature's book 
 This precious leaf, with harsh impiety. 
 Think what the home must be if it were thine, 
 Even thine, though few thy wants ! — Roof, window, door, 
 The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, 
 The roses to the porch which they entwine : 
 Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day 
 On which it should be touched, would melt away. 
 
3l6 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 XXXV. — ON THE SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND 
 
 1807.— 1807. 
 Two Voices are there ; one is of the sea, 
 One of the mountains ; each a mighty Voice : 
 In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, 
 They were thy chosen music. Liberty ! 
 There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee 
 Thou fought'st against him ; but hast vainly striven : 
 Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, 
 Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 
 Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft : 
 Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left ; 
 For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be 
 That Mountain floods should thunder as before, 
 And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore. 
 And neither awful Voice be heard by thee ! 
 
 XXXVL — TO THOMAS CLARKSON. 
 1807.— 1807. 
 Clarkson ! it was an obstinate hill to climb : 
 How toilsome — nay, how dire — it was, by thee 
 Is known ; by none, perhaps, so feelingly : 
 But thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime, 
 Didst first lead forth that enterprise sublime, 
 Hast heard the constant Voice its charge repeat, 
 Which, out of thy young heart's oracular seat. 
 First roused thee. — O true yoke-fellow of Time, 
 Duty's intrepid liegeman, see, the palm 
 Is won, and by all Nations shall be worn ! 
 The blood-stained Writing is forever torn ; 
 And thou henceforth wilt have a good man's calm,. 
 A great man's happiness ; thy zeal shall find 
 Repose at length, firm friend of human kind ! 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 3i7 
 
 XXXVII. 
 1811. — 1815. 
 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 ; 
 From hope, the paramount duty that Heaven lays, 
 For its own honor, 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 
 For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt, 
 And justice labors in extremity — 
 Forget thy weakness, upon which is built, 
 O wretched man, the throne of tyranny ! 
 
 XXXVIIL — TO B. R. HAYDON. 
 1815. — 1816. 
 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 ! 
 
3l8 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 XXXIX.— TO CATHERINE WORDSWORTH. 
 1815.— 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. 
 
 XL. — OXFORD, MAY 30, 1820. 
 1820. — 1820. 
 Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth ! 
 In whose collegiate shelter England's Flowers 
 Expand, enjoying through their vernal hours 
 The air of liberty, the light of truth ; 
 Much have ye suifered from Time's gnawing tooth : 
 Yet, O ye spires of Oxford ! domes and towers ! 
 Gardens and groves ! your presence overpowers 
 The soberness of reason ; till, in sooth, 
 Transformed, and rushing on a bold exchange, 
 I slight my own beloved Cam, to range 
 Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet ; 
 Pace the long avenue, or glide adown 
 The stream-like windings of that glorious street — 
 An eager Novice robed in fluttering gown ! 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 319 
 
 XLI. 
 
 1820. — 1820. 
 Sole listener. Duddon ! to the breeze that played 
 With thy clear voice, I caught the fitful sound 
 Wafted o'er sullen moss and craggy mound — 
 Unfruitful solitudes, that seemed to upbraid 
 The sun in heaven ! — but now^ to form a shade 
 For Thee, green alders have together wound 
 Their foliage ; ashes flung their arms around ; 
 And birch-trees risen in silver colonnade. 
 And thou hast also tempted here to rise, 
 'Mid sheltering pines, this Cottage rude and gray ; 
 Whose ruddy children, by the mother's eyes 
 Carelessly watched, sport through the summer day, 
 Thy pleased associates : — light as endless May 
 On infant bosoms lonely Nature Hes. 
 
 XLII. — SEATHWAITE CHAPEL. 
 1820. — 1820. 
 
 Sacred Religion ! "mother of form and fear," 
 
 Dread arbitress of mutable respect, 
 
 New rites ordaining when the old are wrecked, 
 
 Or cease to please the fickle worshipper : 
 
 Mother of Love ! (that name best suits thee here) 
 
 Mother of Love ! for this deep vale, protect 
 
 Truth's holy lamp, pure source of bright effect. 
 
 Gifted to purge the vapory atmosphere 
 
 That seeks to stifle it ; — as in those days 
 
 When this low Pile a Gospel Teacher knew 
 
 Whose good works formed an endless retinue : 
 
 A Pastor such as Chaucer's verse portrays ; 
 
 Such as the heaven-taught skiU of Herbert drew ; 
 
 And tender Goldsmith crowned with deathless praise ! 
 
320 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 1820. — 1820. 
 
 Return, Content ! for fondly I pursued, 
 
 Even when a child, the Streams — unheard, unseen ; 
 
 Through tangled woods, impending rocks between ; 
 
 Or, free as air, with flying inquest viewed 
 
 The sullen reservoirs whence their bold brood — 
 
 Pure as the morning, fretful, boisterous, keen, 
 
 Green as the salt-sea billows, white and green — 
 
 Poured down the hills, a choral multitude ! 
 
 Nor have I tracked their course for scanty gains ; 
 
 They taught me random cares and truant joys, 
 
 That shield from mischief and preserve from stains 
 
 Vague minds, while men are growing out of boys ; 
 
 Maturer Fancy owes to their rough noise 
 
 Impetuous thoughts that brook not servile reins. 
 
 XLIV. 
 1820. — 1820. I 
 
 Who swerves from innocence, who makes divorce 
 
 Of that serene companion — a good name, 
 
 Recovers not his loss : but walks with shame, 
 
 With doubt, with fear, and haply with remorse : 
 
 And oft-times he, who, yielding to the force 
 
 Of chance-temptation, ere his journey end. 
 
 From chosen comrade turns, or faithful friend — 
 
 In vain shall rue the broken intercourse. 
 
 Not so with such as loosely wear the chain 
 
 That binds them, pleasant River ! to thy side : — 
 
 Through the rough copse wheel thou with hasty stride ; 
 
 I choose to saunter o'er the grassy plain. 
 
 Sure, when the separation has been tried. 
 
 That we, who part in love, shall meet again. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 321 
 
 XLV. — AFTERTHOUGHT. 
 
 1820. — 1820. 
 
 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 
 
 The elements, must vanish ; — be it so ! 
 
 Enough, if something from our hands have power 
 
 To live, and act, and serve the future hour ; 
 
 And if, as toward the silent tomb we go. 
 
 Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, 
 
 We feel that we are greater than we know. 
 
 XLVI.— INTRODUCTION TO ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 1821. — 1822. 
 
 I, WHO accompanied with faithful pace 
 Cerulean Duddon from his cloud-fed spring, 
 And loved with spirit ruled by his to sing 
 Of mountain-quiet and boon nature's grace ; 
 I, who essayed the nobler Stream to trace 
 Of Liberty, and smote the plausive string 
 Till the checked torrent, proudly triumphing, 
 Won for herself a lasting resting-place ; 
 Now seek upon the heights of Time the source 
 Of a Holy River, on whose banks are found 
 Sweet pastoral flowers, and laurels that have crowned 
 Full oft the unworthy brow of lawless force ; 
 And, for delight of him who tracks its course, 
 Immortal amaranth and palms abound. 
 21 
 
322 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 XLVII. — SECLUSION. 
 1821. — 1822. 
 Lance, shield, and sword relinquished, at his side 
 A bead-roll, in his hand a clasped book, 
 Or staff more harmless than a shepherd's crook, 
 The war-worn Chieftain quits the world — to hide 
 His thin autumnal locks where Monks abide 
 In cloistered privacy. But not to dwell 
 In soft repose he comes. Within his cell. 
 Round the decaying trunk of human pride. 
 At morn, and eve, and midnight's silent hour, 
 Do penitential cogitations cling ; 
 Like ivy, round some ancient elm, they twine 
 In grisly folds and strictures serpentine ; 
 Yet, while they strangle, a fair growth they bring. 
 For recompense — their own perennial bower. 
 
 XLVIII. — MUTABILITY. 
 1821. — 1822. 
 
 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, 
 
 Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care. 
 
 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. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 323 
 
 XLIX. — INSIDE KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE. 
 1821. — 1822. 
 Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, 
 With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned — 
 Albeit laboring for a scanty band 
 Of white-robed Scholars only — this immense 
 And glorious Work of fine intelligence ! 
 Give all thou canst ; high Heaven rejects the lore 
 Of nicely-calculated less or more ; 
 So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense 
 These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof 
 Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells. 
 Where light and shade repose, where music dweUs 
 Lingering, and wandering on as loath to die ; 
 Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof 
 That they were born for immortality. 
 
 L. — CONTINUED. 
 1821. — 1822. 
 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 1 O list ! 
 The music bursteth into second life ; 
 The notes luxuriate, every stone is kissed 
 By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife ; 
 Heart- thrilling strains, that cast, before the eye 
 Of the devout, a veil of ecstasy ! 
 
\ 
 
 324 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 LI. — CONCLUDED. 
 
 1821. — 1822. 
 
 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. 
 
 LIL 
 
 1823. — 1827. 
 Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell 
 Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change. 
 Nor Duty struggling with afllictions strange — 
 Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell ; 
 But where untroubled peace and concord dwell. 
 There also is the Muse not loath to range. 
 Watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange, 
 Skyward ascending from a woody dell. 
 Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavor. 
 And sage content, and placid melancholy ; 
 She loves to gaze upon a crystal river — 
 Diaphanous because it travels slowly ; 
 Soft is the music that would charm forever ; 
 The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 325 
 
 LIIL — TO ROTHA Q. 
 
 1827. — 1827. 
 
 RoTHA, my Spiritual Child ! this head was grey 
 
 When at the sacred font for thee I stood : 
 
 Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood, 
 
 And shalt become thy own sufficient stay : 
 
 Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan ! was the day 
 
 For steadfast hope the contract to fulfil ; 
 
 Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still, 
 
 Embodied in the music of this Lay, 
 
 Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain Stream 
 
 Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's ear 
 
 After her throes, this Stream of name more dear 
 
 Since thou dost bear it, — a memorial theme 
 
 For others : for thy future self, a spell 
 
 To summon fancies out of Time's dark cell. 
 
 LIV. — TO IN HER SEVENTIETH YEAR. 
 
 1827. — 1827. 
 
 Such age how beautiful ! O Lady bright, 
 
 Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined 
 
 By favoring Nature and a saintly Mind 
 
 To something purer and more exquisite 
 
 Than flesh and blood ; where'er thou meet'st my sight, 
 
 When I behold thy blanched unwithered cheek. 
 
 Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white, 
 
 And head that droops because the soul is meek, 
 
 Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare ; 
 
 That child of winter, prompting thoughts that climb 
 
 From desolation toward the genial prime ; 
 
 Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty air, 
 
 And filling. more and more with crystal light 
 
 As pensive Evening deepens into night. 
 
326 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 IN. 
 
 1827. — 1827. 
 Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned, 
 Mindless of its just honors ; 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 Camoens soothed an exile's grief; 
 The Sonnet glittered a gay myrde leaf 
 Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned 
 His visionary brow ; a glow-worm lamp, 
 It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land, 
 To struggle 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 ! 
 
 LVL — TO THE AUTHOR'S PORTRAIT. 
 1830. -1835. 
 Go, faithful Portrait ! and where long hath knelt 
 Margaret, the saintly Foundress, take thy place ; 
 And, if Time spare the colors for the grace 
 Which to the work surpassing skill hath dealt, 
 Thou, on thy rock reclined, though kingdoms melt 
 And states be torn up by the roots, wilt seem 
 To breathe in rural peace, to hear the stream, 
 And think and feel as once the Poet felt. 
 Whate'er thy fate, those features have not grown 
 Unrecognized through many a household tear 
 More prompt, more glad, to fall than drops of dew 
 By morning shed around a flower half-blown ; 
 Tears of delight, that testified how true 
 To Hfe thou art, and, in thy truth, how dear ! 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 32'J 
 
 LVIL — THE TROSSACHS. 
 1831.-1835. 
 There 's not a nook within this solemn Pass, 
 But were an apt confessional for One 
 Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, 
 That Life is but a tale of morning grass 
 Withered at Eve. From scenes of art which chase 
 That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes 
 Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, 
 Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass 
 Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest. 
 If from a golden perch of aspen spray 
 (October's workmanship to rival May) 
 The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast 
 That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay. 
 Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest. 
 
 LVIII. — THE PIBROCH'S NOTE. 
 1831. — 1835. 
 
 The pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute ; 
 
 The Roman kilt, degraded to a toy 
 
 Of quaint apparel for a half-spoilt boy ; 
 
 The target mouldering like ungathered fruit ; 
 
 The smoking steam-boat eager in pursuit. 
 
 As eagerly pursued ; the umbrella spread 
 
 To weather-fend the Celtic herdsman's head — 
 
 All speak of manners withering to the root. 
 
 And of old honors, too,, and passions high : 
 
 Then may we ask, though pleased that thought should range 
 
 Among the conquests of civility. 
 
 Survives imagination — to the change 
 
 Superior? Help to virtue does she give? 
 
 If not, O •Mortals, better cease to live ! 
 
328 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 LIX. — HIGHLAND HUT. 
 1831. — 1835. 
 See what gay wild-flowers deck this earth-built Cot, 
 Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and how it may, 
 Shines in the greeting of the sun's first ray 
 Like wreaths of vapor without stain or blot. 
 The limpid mountain rill avoids it not ; 
 And why shouldst thou ? — If rightly trained and bred, 
 Humanity is humble, finds no spot 
 Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to tread. 
 The walls are cracked, sunk is the flowery roof, 
 Undressed the pathway leading to the door ; 
 But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor ; 
 Search, for their worth, some gende heart wrong-proof, 
 Meek, patient, kind, and, were its trials fewer, 
 Belike less happy. — Stand no more aloof 1 
 
 LX. — TO THE RIVER DERWENT. 
 1819. — 1819-35. 
 
 Among the mountains were we nursed, loved Stream ! 
 
 Thou near the eagle's nest, — within brief sail, 
 
 I, of his bold wing floating on the gale, 
 
 Where thy deep voice could lull me ! Faint the beam 
 
 Of human life when first allowed to gleam 
 
 On mortal notice. — Glory of the vale. 
 
 Such thy meek outset, with a crown, though frail, 
 
 Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam 
 
 Of thy soft breath ! — Less vivid wreath entwined 
 
 Nemaean victor's brow ; less bright was worn. 
 
 Meed of some Roman chief — in triumph borne 
 
 With captives chained ; and shedding from his car 
 
 The sunset splendors of a finished war 
 
 Upon the proud enslavers of mankind ! 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 329 
 
 LXL — IN SIGHT OF THE TOWN OF COCKERMOUTH. 
 1833. — 1835. 
 A POINT of life between my Parents' dust, 
 And yours, my buried Little-ones ! am I ; 
 And to those graves looking habitually, 
 In kindred quiet I repose my trust. 
 Death to the innocent is more than just, 
 And, to the sinner, mercifully bent ; 
 So may I hope, if truly I repent 
 And meekly bear the ills which bear I must : 
 And You, my Offspring ! that do still remain, 
 Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race. 
 If e'er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain 
 We breathed together for a moment's space. 
 The wrong, by love provoked, let love arraign, 
 And only love keep in your hearts a place. 
 
 LXII.— FROM THE SPIRIT OF COCKERMOUTH CASTLK 
 1833.— 1835. 
 
 " Thou look'st upon me, and dost fondly think, 
 
 Poet ! that, stricken as both are by years, 
 
 We, differing once so much, are now Compeers, 
 
 Prepared, when each has stood his time, to sink 
 
 Into the dust. Erewhile a sterner link 
 
 United us ; when thou, in boyish play, 
 
 Entering my dungeon, didst become a prey 
 
 To soul-appalling darkness. Not a blink 
 
 Of light was there ; and thus did I, thy Tutor, 
 
 Make thy young thoughts acquainted with the grave \ 
 
 While thou wert chasing the winged butterfly 
 
 Through my green courts ; or climbing, a bold suitor, 
 
 Up to the flowers whose golden progeny 
 
 Still round my. shattered brow in beauty wave." 
 
33^ SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 LXIIL — MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
 1833.- 1835. 
 Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces vowed, 
 The Queen drew back the wimple that she wore ; 
 And to the throng, that on the Cumbrian shore 
 Her landing hailed, how touchingly she bowed ! 
 And like a Star (that, from a heavy cloud 
 Of pine-tree foliage poised in air, forth darts, 
 When a soft summer gale at evening parts 
 The gloom that did its loveliness enshroud) 
 She smiled ; but Time, the old Saturnian seer, 
 Sighed on the wing as her foot pressed the strand, 
 With step preclusive to a long array 
 Of woes and degradations hand in hand — 
 Weeping captivity, and shuddering fear 
 Stilled by the ensanguined block of Fotheringay ! 
 
 LXIV. 
 1833- -1835. 
 " There ! " said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride 
 Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed, 
 " Is Mosgiel Farm ; and that 's the very field 
 Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy." Far and wide 
 A plain below stretched seaward, while, descried 
 Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran rose ; 
 And, by that simple notice, the repose 
 Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified. 
 Beneath " the random bield of clod or stone " 
 Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower 
 Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour 
 Have passed away ; less happy than the One 
 That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove 
 The tender charm of poetry and love. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 33 1 
 
 LXV. 
 
 1833. -1835. 
 
 Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 
 
 To pace the ground, if path be there or none, 
 
 While a fair region round the traveller hes 
 
 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 inspiration on the humblest lay. 
 
 LXVI. — THE PINE OF MONTE MARIO. 
 
 1837. — 1842. 
 
 I SAW far oif the dark top of a Pine 
 Look like a cloud — a slender stem the tie 
 That bound it to its native earth — poised high 
 'Mid evening hues, along the horizon line, 
 Striving in peace each other to outshine. 
 But when I learned the Tree was living there. 
 Saved from the sordid axe by Beaumont's care, 
 Oh, what a gush of tenderness was mine ! 
 The rescued Pine-tree, with its sky so bright 
 And cloud-like beauty, rich in thoughts of home, 
 Death-parted friends, and days too swift in flight, 
 Supplanted the whole majesty of Rome 
 (Then first apparent from the Pincian Height) 
 Crowned with St. Peter's everlasting Dome. 
 
332 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 LXVII. — COMPOSED ON A MAY MORNING. 
 
 1838. — 1838. 
 
 Life with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun, 
 Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide. 
 Does joy approach? they meet the coming tide ; 
 And sullenness avoid, as now they shun 
 Pale twilight's lingering glooms, — and in the sun 
 Couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied ; 
 Or gambol, — each with his shadow at his side, 
 Varying its shape wherever he may run. 
 As they from turf yet hoar with sleepy dew 
 All turn, and court the shining and the green, 
 Where herbs look up, and opening flowers are seen ; 
 Why to God's goodness cannot We be true ? 
 And so, His gifts and promises between, 
 Feed to the last on pleasures ever new ? 
 
 LXVIIL 
 1838. — 1838. 
 Blest Statesman He, whose Mind's unselfish will 
 Leaves him at ease among grand thoughts : whose eye 
 Sees that, apart from magnanimity. 
 Wisdom exists not ; nor the humbler skill 
 Of Prudence, disentangling good and ill 
 With patient care. What tho' assaults run high, 
 They daunt not him who holds his ministry, 
 Resolute, at all hazards, to fulfil 
 Its duties ; prompt to move, but firm to wait ; 
 Knowing, things rashly sought are rarely found ; 
 That, for the functions of an ancient State — 
 Strong by her charters, free because imbound, 
 Servant of Providence, not slave of Fate — 
 Perilous is sweeping change, all chance unsound. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 333 
 
 LXIX. — TO A PAINTER. 
 1 841. — 1842. 
 All praise the Likeness by thy skill portrayed ; 
 But 't is a fruitless task to paint for me, 
 Who, yielding not to changes Time has made, 
 By the habitual light of memory see 
 Eyes unbedimmed, see bloom that cannot fade, 
 And smiles that from their birthplace ne'er shall flee 
 Into the land where ghosts and phantoms be \ 
 And, seeing this, own nothing in its stead. 
 Could'st thou go back into far-distant years, 
 Or share with me, fond thought ! that inward eye, 
 Then, and then only. Painter ! could thy Art 
 The visual powers of Nature satisfy. 
 Which hold, whate'er to common sight appears, 
 Their sovereign empire in a faithful heart. 
 
 LXX. — TO THE SAME. 
 1 841. — 1842. 
 Though I beheld at first with blank surprise 
 This Work, I now have gazed on it so long 
 I see its truth with unreluctant eyes ; 
 O, my Beloved ! I have done thee wrong, 
 Conscious of blessedness, but, whence it sprung 
 Ever too heedless, as I now perceive : 
 Morn into noon did pass, noon into eve, 
 And the old day was welcome as the young, 
 As welcome, and as beautiful, — in sooth 
 More beautiful, as being a thing more holy : 
 Thanks to thy virtues, to the eternal youth 
 Of all thy goodness, never melancholy ; 
 To thy large heart and humble mind, that cast 
 Into one vision, future, present, past. 
 
334 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 1842. — 1842. 
 
 A Poet ! — He hath put his heart to school, 
 
 Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff 
 
 Which Art hath lodged within his hand ; must laugh 
 
 By precept only, and shed tears by rule. ■ 
 
 Thy Art be Nature ; the live current quaff, 
 
 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 httle 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. 
 
 i>^ 
 
NOTES. 
 
CHRONOLOGICAL AND ITINERARY. 
 
 1770 
 1778 
 1787 
 1790 
 1791 
 1792 
 1793 
 1794 
 1795 
 1797 
 
 1798 
 1799 
 
 1802 
 1803 
 1805 
 1808 
 1811 
 1813 
 1814 
 1820 
 1 83 1 
 
 1833 
 1837 
 
 1839 
 1842 
 1850 
 
 Birth. 
 
 At Hawkshead School. 
 
 At Cambridge. 
 
 Vacation Tour through France, Switzerland, and Italy. 
 
 Graduation ; visits London, Wales, and France. 
 
 Return to London. 
 
 At Isle of Wight. 
 
 At Penrith, with Calvert. 
 
 Settles at Racedown. 
 
 Removes to Alfoxden. 
 
 Visits Germany (Goslar). 
 
 Leaves Goslar ; begins Prelude ; settles at Dove Cottage, 
 
 Town-End, Grasmere. 
 Marriage. 
 Tour in Scotland. 
 Death of John Wordsworth. 
 
 Removes to Allan Bank, Grasmere; The Excursion, 
 Removes to the Parsonage, Grasmere. 
 Removes to Rydal Mount. 
 Second Visit to Scotland. 
 Visits the Continent. 
 Visits Abbotsford. 
 Last Visit to Scotland. 
 Italian Tour. 
 Oxford Degree. 
 Poet Laureate. 
 Death. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 1785-1797. 
 
 Extract from the Conclusion of a Poem. 
 
 Written at Hawkshead during Wordsworth's school-days. The im- 
 age with which the poem concludes suggested itself to the Poet while 
 he was resting in a boat on Coniston Lake under the shadow of the 
 sycamores which stood on the promontory near Coniston Hall. 
 
 " The first verses I wrote were a task imposed by my master. I 
 was called upon to write verses upon the completion of the second 
 centenary of the school (1785). These were much admired — far 
 more than they deserved — for they were but a tame imitation of 
 Pope's versification, and a little in his style." Cf. Prelude^ v. 553-577. , 
 
 The Poet was thy nursling; here he drank 
 His first boy thoughts of Nature and her will : 
 How often fresh from school he clomb this hill, 
 And stretched in sun upon the heathy bank, 
 Endowed with life the mountains, rank on rank, 
 Or, in the time of earliest daffodil, 
 Watched April storm the valley fill. 
 
 From Sonnet on Hawkshead by H. D. Rawnsley. 
 
 Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree. 
 
 Written in part as a school exercise at Hawkshead. — W. W. 
 
 Wordsworth and his sister began house-keeping at Racedown Lodge, 
 near Crewkerne, Dorsetshire, in the autumn of 1795. Coleridge, then 
 living at Nether Stowey in Somersetshire, first met Wordsworth at 
 Racedown in June, 1797. The pleasure of this meeting and succeeding 
 ones made the poets desirous of being nearer each other ; and in July 
 the Wordsworths removed to Alfoxden, within a few miles of Nether 
 Stowey. Here was formed the idea of a joint literary production, 
 which gave us the Ancient Marinh-e and the Lyrical Ballads. See 
 Prelude, Prefatory Note, and xiv. 3S8-407. 
 
 22 
 
33S *. NOTES TO PAGES 2-4. 
 
 Alfoxden was a large mansion, beautifully located on a slope of 
 the Quantock Hills, in sight of Bristol Channel. Woods of old oaks 
 and large hollies, with abundant fern and foxglove, stretch in every 
 direction, broken here and there by pleasant downs and valleys 
 through which the brooks run singing to the sea. Dorothy wrote : 
 " The deer dwell here, and the sheep, so that we have a lively pros- 
 pect ; walks extend for miles over the hill-tops." This was the Poet's 
 spring-time of energy and imaginative insight. 
 
 I. The yew-tree stood on the eastern side of the *lake about ten 
 minutes' walk from Hawkshead. At the present time a yew-tree mis- 
 named " Wordsworth's yew " stands near the spot. 
 
 12^ The individual spoken of was educated at tl^ University and 
 •was a man of talent and learning. — W. W. 
 
 31, 32. Wordsworth never finds the gloom of Nature a reflection of 
 his own. She is never to him, — 
 
 "Calm as to suit a calmer grief." 
 She exerts herself to cure the chronic disease of egotism, despond- 
 ency, and misanthropy. Cf. TinUrtt Abbey and Prelude, xii. 88-151. 
 
 50-64. Wordsworth's sympathy for men was so deep and sincere 
 that while he had an uncompromising hatred of evil, he did not extend 
 the hatred to the doer of evil ; he could see the " soul of goodness 
 m all things," and thus distinguish between weakness and wickedness. 
 The moral teaching of this poem would seem to be the voice of 
 age, and yet the Poet was but twenty-five at this time. Aubrey De 
 Vere says that the passion of the poem is not personal, but intel- 
 lectual and imaginative, and thence derives its power to arouse emo- 
 tion ; the moral was not thought out beforehand, but was produced 
 by the quickening of thought during composition. In few poets do 
 we find such tenderness and delicacy of feeling united with such 
 strength and independence. 
 
 For an exceedingly interesting account of the Alfoxden and Stowey 
 days, see Mrs. Sandf ord's Thomas Poole and His Friends. 
 
 1798. 
 
 We are Seven. 
 
 Composed while walking in the grove at Alfoxden in the spring 
 of 1798. Five years before, Wordsworth had met the little girl in 
 the area of Goodrich Castle. When the poem was completed, with 
 the exception of the introductory stanza, and the fact mentioned to 
 Coleridge, he immediately threw off, — 
 
 *' A simple child, dear brother Jem,^^ 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 4-1 1. 339 
 
 iind this verse stood at the head of the poem until 181 5. Popular as 
 this little poem has become in virtue of its un withering beauty, it can- 
 not be fully appreciated until it is placed in its proper relation to 
 the great Ode. 
 
 Wherever Wordsworth deals with the subject of Death it is with ' 
 calmness and childlike simplicity. Wisely does he rest the solution 
 of the great question of Immortality, not upon the dicta of the wise 
 and prudent, but upon the heaven-taught wisdom of the child, before 
 its ideas are corrupted by the senses, and the "trailing clouds of 
 j glory " disappear. The necessity of__^ possessing the, child-spirit, in 
 order t o en ter the kingdom of. troth lies at the root of Wordsworth's 
 philosophy, while its revelations const^utejor hiin the Intijnations 
 of Imniortality. In this ballad we have, in the simplest language, 
 tEe " contemplative contrast " between the buoyant health, the joy- 
 ous beauty of the child-life, and what we call Death ; this contrast 
 is maintained by that form of art the perfection of which is self- 
 concealment. 
 
 Simon Lee. 
 
 The incident which suggested this poem occurred at Alfoxden; the 
 old man had been huntsman to the squires of Alfoxden. — W. W. 
 
 24. The expression, " I dearly love their voice," was word for word 
 from the old man's lips. — W. W. 
 
 Wordsworth's lack of dramatic power has often been insisted upon, 
 and not without reason, for he frequently fails when dealing with a 
 variety of incidents ; hence he uses for the most part the simplest 
 /narratives, as in this poem, and treats them "with a plain, first- 
 hand, almost austere naturalness." This peculiarity is eminently char- 
 acteristic of him, whether he is dealing with landscape or anecdote. 
 
 65,66. The result of such "silent thpught" is to stimulate our 
 sympathy so that it may be called forth by every common incident 
 of ])leasure or of pain, and thus build up our moral being. 
 
 93-96. In this power of opening up rich veins of feeling by the 
 simplest incident, Wordsworth is unsurpassed. This is what Matthew / 
 Arnold means when he says : " The greatness of Wordsworth lies in ] 
 
 his powerful and beautiful application of ideas to life." ^ 
 
 Lines Written in Early Spring. 
 
 A chosen resort of the two poets and Dorothy, while at Alfoxden, 
 was a grove, and a pool made by a brook which ran down from the 
 Comb. 
 
340 NOTES TO PAGES 11-14. 
 
 8. Cf. Prelude, xi. 206-209. 
 
 9, 10. Across the pool a tree had fallen ; and the leaves, for want of 
 sun-light, were almost white, while from this sylvan bridge depended 
 beautiful tresses of ivy. — W. W. ,„^^ 
 
 13-24. Wordsworth has shown us in the Prelude the steps by ^ 
 which he rose to the idea of Divine Life in Nature. While viewing 
 Nature as a personality, having thoughts, plans, emotions, and pleas- 
 ures, he avoids the extreme of idealism, for he never robs Nature of 
 her qualities by making them depend upon the thought of man ; nor, 
 on the other hand, does he give aid to the materialist by making man 
 a creature of necessity. This view of Nature, as ever expressing the 
 joy and pleasure of God in his own work, fills his poetry with sweet- 
 ness and light, and gives it the power to heal and cleanse. 
 
 It was through this little poem that Wordsworth won the love and 
 admiration of the late Dr. Hudson. 
 
 To My Sister. 
 
 Composed in front of the house at Alfoxden, where, between two 
 large elms overlooking the park and the sea, the Poet used to read 
 and compose. 
 
 9-16. This picture of happy rural life does one good. The Poet, 
 sauntering on the lawn while the " gladsome choristers " are singing, 
 is thrilled with the life and the joy of Nature, but cannot enjoy it to 
 the full except the Sister be sharer, and so he sends her these lines ere 
 her morning task be done. 
 
 Of the relation of Wordsworth to his sister much will be said in 
 connection with the poems descriptive of her. 
 
 The following is from Mr, E. Paxton Hood : " Not Laura with 
 Petrarch, nor Beatrice with Dante, nor the fair Geraldine with Sur- 
 rey, are more really connected than is Wordsworth with his sister 
 Dorothy." 
 
 25-28. Nature refuses to reveal her secrets to those who " pore and 
 dwindle as they pore," lacking the spirit of reverence. To those who 
 approach her in the spirit of humility she reveals her beauty and her 
 majesty ; of all our seeing this is the Master Light. 
 
 It seems the duty of the naturalist to be a poet in his severest 
 analysis to make the naturalist subordinate to the man. — Emerson. 
 
 Expostulation and Reply. 
 This poem and the following were composed in front of the house 
 at Alfoxden. 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 14-17. 341 
 
 15. The "Matthew "of this poem and other poems was William 
 Taylor, Wordsworth's schoolmaster at Hawkshead, 
 
 21-32. Wordsworth, when making " rigorous inquisition " to ascer- 
 tain his qualifications for a poet, found that he possessed the first 
 great gift, a vital soul: this he can develop in us so that by it the prod- 
 ucts of the senses and the intellect will be transmuted into moral 
 and spiritual power. In the periods of " wise passiveness," those 
 thoughts and emotions which in our busy hours have almost escaped 
 from our consciousness, are collected, brought home, and become 
 truths which perish never. 
 
 To a mind fretted with analysis and a heart breaking against the 
 hard problems of existence, this "divine philosophy" comes with 
 healing power. 
 
 The Tables Turned. 
 
 21-28. The Poet does not here teach a life of emotion rather than a 
 life of action, but he insists upon a truth which all moral teachers 
 inculcate, — that the mind requires periods of repose in which to 
 gather up the crumbs of thought which otherwise in the whirl of our 
 life would be lost. 
 
 Though his poetry reads so transcendental, and is so meditative, 
 there never was a poet so little of a dreamer as Wordsworth. — 
 
 HUTTON. 
 
 28-32. If a narrow interpretation finds here a hatred of science, it is 
 of that form of science which insists that the intellect is the only organ 
 of truth : the Poet has no words of condemnation for that larger 
 science represented by Newton, Faraday, and Agassiz, — a science 
 which recognized the truths of the imagination as well as those of 
 experiment. He everywhere condemns the tendency to consider 
 animal comforts the end of being. 
 
 Mr. Myers says : " It is hardly too much to say that if these two 
 poems, to the careless eye so slight and trifling, were all that had re- 
 mained from Wordsworth's hand, they would have ' spoken to the 
 comprehending ' of a new individuality as distinct and unmistakable 
 in its way as that which Sappho has left engraven on the world for- 
 ever in words even fewer than these." 
 
 Tintern Abbey. 
 
 No poem of mine was composed under circumstances more pleasant 
 for me to remember than this. I began it upon leaving Tintern after 
 crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was entering Bristol dur- 
 ing the evening, after a ramble of four or five days with my sister. 
 
342 NOTES TO PAGES 17-22. 
 
 Not a line of it was altered, and not any part of it written down till 
 I reached Bristol.— Lyrical Ballads. 
 
 This was the last poem of that remarkable volume of 1798. 
 
 22-65. That spiritualization of Nature which was noticed in the 
 former poems is here carried to its highest point of sublimity. In the 
 Poet's idea of human life those instincts, impulses, and emotions of 
 youth — those momentary visions — have a divine origin; he teaches 
 that the mature reason, instead of treating these as illusions, should 
 regulate and cherish them as means of ennobling the character. The 
 poetry of our advancing years will be derived from these " emotions 
 recollected in tranquillity," 
 
 65-110. The three periods in the Poet's experience up to this time 
 were — 
 
 (i) When the love of Nature was supreme. (2) When the love of 
 Nature was secondary to the love of Man. (3) When the marriage 
 of Man and Nature had taken place through the strength of spiritual 
 vision. 
 
 Cf. Prelude, ii. 419-451 ; ix. 501-552; xi. 321-369. These "au- 
 thentic tidings of invisible things " which fortify us to do or to endure 
 can be perceived only by spiritual contemplation. 
 
 111-159. The tribute which the Poet paid to his sister is the highest 
 which one soul can pay to another : he was never weary of singing 
 her praise, nor was she ever tired of trying to make herself worthy of 
 his praise. Endowed with faculties capable of gaining distinction in 
 the same sphere of work, she nevertheless chose to let him sing of 
 what she felt and saw. To those familiar with the close of her life 
 these words seem prophetic ; for she lingered a few years after her 
 brother's death, and her chief solace seemed to be the remembrance 
 of days passed in his companionship. More has been written of this 
 poem than of any other of his unless it be the " Platonic Ode." 
 
 It is the seed-thought of all the poetry of the first half of the eigh- 
 teenth century. — E. P. Whipple. 
 
 The soul of the poet here comes in contact with Him who is the 
 author and upholder of Nature and of man. — Prof. Shairp. 
 
 His imagination was of too spiritual an order to shape itself into 
 material divinities, and his conscience bore witness to a Personal God, 
 the Creator of all things. . . . Had he lost his hold of Religion he 
 would have lost Nature also, — for to him she would have been Na- 
 ture no longer. — De Vere. 
 
 This poem has become the locus classicus, or consecrated formulary 
 of Wordsworthian faith. — Myers. 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 22-28. 343 
 
 To those who are strangers to this state of impassioned contempla- 
 tion, Wordsworth's poetry, or all that is highest in it, is a sealed 
 
 book. — DOVVDEN. 
 
 Cf. Bryant's Thatiatopsis. 
 
 The Old Cumberland Beggar. 
 
 Observed, and with great benefit to my own heart, when I was a 
 child. Written at Racedown and Alfoxden. The Political Econo- 
 mists were about that time beginning their war upon mendicity in 
 all its forms, and by implication, if not directly, upon alms-giving 
 also.— W. W. 
 
 The " Growth of a Poet's Mind " as Wordsworth has revealed it to 
 us in the Prelude shows the means which Nature used to educate him 
 into the poet of humanity. Humble men and women, the village 
 dames, the thrifty dalesmen, and the hardy shepherds — 
 " Of these, said I, shall be my song, of these 
 Will 1 record the praises, 
 That justice may be done, obeisance paid 
 Where it is due." 
 
 For this work his early associations and the inspiration of the 
 great Peasant Poet of Scotland had predisposed him. 
 
 In order to see what a giant stride these poems took in advance of 
 the age, we need to compare them with the poems which preceded. 
 Of man as found in the abodes of wealth and refinement, preceding 
 poetry had been mindful ; and Wordsworth was too broad not to rec- 
 ognize that from hence had proceeded much that was pure and un- 
 worldly, yet he believed that rich veins of poetic feeling lay hidden in 
 the lives of homely men and women. This was, as Robertson says, a 
 " high and holy work," and for it both the rich and the poor praise him. 
 
 1-66. Plain imagination and severe could hardly produce a more 
 distinct picture of one who, to the eye of the economist, had outlived 
 all usefulness. 
 
 His is the poetry of intellect and of feeling — of humanity in the ab- 
 stract chiefly ; and yet what is more human than The Old Cumberland 
 Beggar? — Author of " Rab and His Friends." 
 
 67-87. See notes on Lines Left upon a Seat in a Yew- Tree. 
 
 87-170. While the apparent usefulness of the old man has ceased, 
 the Poet, by his penetrative insight, reaches essential elements and 
 recognizes a sphere of passive usefulness. Those who are unable to 
 enter into any of the more elaborate schemes of philanthropy find 
 here a field for the exercise of that form of charity which sounds no 
 
344 NOTES TO PAGES 28-30. 
 
 trumpet before it ; here the poor dame learns that " it is more blessed 
 to give than to receive," and that unselfishness dignifies life. It is in 
 such lessons as this that the manifold wisdom and truth ofWords- 
 worth's poetry consists, — a wisdom not of demonstration and the 
 schools, but of those "sweet counsels of head and heart." 
 
 Wordsworth's genius did not grasp many things, but it grasped 
 much ; like one of his own bees, he can murmur by the hour in fox- 
 glove bells. — R. H. HuTTON. 
 
 Aubrey de Vere has done the student of Wordsworth signal service 
 in showing that he is pre-eminently the poet of Passion, and in refer- 
 ence to the exhibition of it in this poem he says : " Before a poet can 
 afford such sympathy as this ... he requires to possess not only a 
 happy temperament but a strong one. The weak sympathize but 
 with the weak, and weaken them more by such sympathy. . . . 
 Wordsworth's poetry delights to graft the softer virtues on the hard- 
 ier stock." 
 
 In the treatment of characters like " The Old Cumberland Beggar " 
 Wordsworth's art resembles that of Turner : the central idea in the 
 work of each is its healing power, while their plainness of style is due 
 to contempt for artifice. 
 
 Animal Tranquillity and Decay. 
 If I recollect right these verses were an overflow from The Old 
 Cumberland Beggar. — W. W. 
 
 1799. 
 
 Having completed the Lyrical Ballads, which secured for them the 
 necessary funds, the three friends, in September, 1798, set out for Ger- 
 many with the intention of studying the language. At Hamburg they 
 met the aged Klopstock, — the "German Milton," — and here Cole- 
 ridge left them and passed on to Gottingen, where he studied metaphys- 
 ics. Wordsworth and his sister settled for the winter at Goslar, an old 
 imperial town in Hanover, and it was here that the following poems 
 were written. They show that although the Poet was in a strange 
 land his heart was with the scenes of his youth. Of the poems writ- 
 ten in Germany Wordsworth says : — 
 
 " A bitter winter it was when these verses were composed by the 
 side of my sister in our lodgings, at a draper's house, in the romantic 
 imperial town of Goslar, on the edge of the Hartz forest. . . . With 
 the protection of a pelisse lined with fur and a dogskin bonnet such 
 as was worn by the peasants, I walked daily on the ramparts." 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 30-32. 345 
 
 Nutting. 
 
 Written in Germany; intended as a part of a poem on my own 
 life, but struck out as not being wanted there. Like most of my 
 school-fellows I was an impassioned nutter. For this pleasure the 
 vale of Esthwaite, abounding in coppice wood, furnished a very wide 
 range. These verses arose out of the remembrance of feelings I had 
 often had when a boy. — W. W, See Prelude, i. 301-339. 
 
 In but few instances does Wordsworth deal with Nature alone ; as 
 a rule Nature is but the setting for the subject Man, and has its sig- 
 nificance in relation to him. In this poem, so largely descriptive, we 
 have an illustration of the subtle connection of Nature with the mind 
 of man, — a connection which is not easy for some minds to grasp ; 
 by them the attitude of mind in which we here see the Poet is 
 brusquely labelled Pantheism. Yet Wisdom is justified of her chil- 
 dren, and every work of art, in so far as it is appreciated by us, must 
 appeal to the artist in us. 
 
 This form of impassioned imagination views Nature as a manifesta- 
 tion of the life of God, and is unlike any which had before appeared in 
 poetry. The classic or ideal imagination which we find in the Greeks 
 and in the poetry which followed, viewed Nature under the aspect of 
 several wills working through Nymphs, Dryads, and Satyrs ; to recog- 
 nize to what an extent these ideas governed English poetry we have 
 but to consult any characteristic poems of Pope, Dryden, Shelley, or 
 Keats. Wordsworth expunged all these stock words from his poeti- 
 cal vocabulary ; and although he was at times too stern in his realism, 
 and needlessly incurred the anathemas of the critics, yet here natural 
 good taste and sense prevailed over the foibles of false aestheticism. 
 In this method of viewing Nature the Poet makes common cause with 
 modern science, which teaches that all the forms of force are varieties 
 of one primal force ; and if it does not affirm personality of this, yet it 
 does not deny it. 
 
 " Strange Fits of Passion Have I Known." 
 It is fortunate for us that Wordsworth was not absorbed in German 
 philosophy, else we never would have possessed these exquisite 
 poems on Lucy, — pearls gathered upon a golden thread. Five short 
 poems are all we have of her whom we know not, save as she is here 
 enshrined with an " artlessness which only art can know." In these 
 poems the artist has risen to the highest and completest realization 
 of that creed in which is written, — 
 
 " Thy art be nature." 
 
346 NOTES TO PAGES 32-39. 
 
 To analyze such poems as these is almost a sin ; as well might one 
 attempt to ascertain by the microscope the source of beauty in the 
 flower. 
 
 They are genuine love-poems, and yet how far removed from that 
 species of love-poetry which encourages vulgar curiosity, or the pa- 
 rade of the inmost sanctuary of the heart. All that is given us is 
 that Lucy once lived, is now no more. 
 
 The pathos in this record of anxious foreboding, profound sorrow, 
 and calm despair, is holy. Of it Mrs. Oliphant says : " Never were 
 words more simple, more every-day ; and yet it is hard to read them 
 without tears ; impossible if the reader's life has ever held a Lucy of 
 its own." Many have wondered why one who could write such love- 
 poems as these wrote so few. Aubrey de Vere says : " This question 
 was once put to the Poet by myself; and a part of the reply was this, 
 — ' Had I been a writer of love-poetry it would have been natural to 
 me to write it with a degree of warmth which could hardly have been 
 approved by my principles.' " In his stanzas The Poet and the Caged 
 Turtle Dove we find this additional answer, — 
 
 " Love, blessed love, is everywhere 
 The SPIRIT of my song." 
 
 A Poet's Epitaph. 
 
 During these walks (about Goslar) I composed the poem that 
 follows. — W. W. 
 
 37-56. In this portrait of Wordsworth's ideal poet we find clearly 
 marked those characteristics which he himself possessed, and which 
 rendered it impossible for the world to listen to him until it had 
 learned that the sphere of poetry was not limited to the extraordinary 
 in the life of man and Nature. 
 
 In the use of Wordsworth as a text-book in school we find that his 
 poetry makes no sudden conquests, — it is too homely in its nature for 
 that ; it is only as the pupil comes to love it, that it seems worthy of 
 his love. Again, its deepest truths do not reach the pupil by being 
 made the subject of recitation, but in that afterthought which every 
 exercise with poetry ought to produce. The highest lesson of his 
 poetry is learned when we find that enjoyment is not a product of the 
 understanding, but that the truest understanding comes from enjoy- 
 ment, — from sympathy. 
 
 F. W. Robertson says: "And here lies the great difficulty of our 
 age; that it is an age of cant without love, of criticism without re- 
 verence. . . . What we want is the old spirit of our forefathers ; the 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 39-52. 347 
 
 firm conviction that not by criticism, but by sympathy, we must under- 
 stand; what we want is more reverence, more love, more humanity." 
 Cf . Thomson's Castle of IndolencCy Canto ii. 33. 
 
 Address to the Scholars of the Village School of . 
 
 The school was that of Hawkshead, where the Poet spent nine 
 years; the " Friend and Father " (the " Matthew " of the three follow- 
 ing poems) was Rev. William Taylor, the third of the four masters dur- 
 ing those years. Not long before his death he summoned ^he upper 
 boys of the school (Wordsworth being one) and gave them his part- 
 ing blessing. He was buried in Cartmell church-yard. See Prelude^ 
 X. 532- 
 
 Matthew. 
 
 Hawkshead school was founded by Archbishop Sandys in 1585, 
 and is now very much as it was in the Poet's time. Cut in one of the 
 oaken benches is the name, William Wordsworth, which is covered 
 with glass to protect it from the vandalism of tourists. A tablet on 
 the wall of the room contains the names of the masters. 
 
 The Two April Mornings, and The Fountain. 
 
 The sketch given in these four Matthew poems is worthy of a place 
 beside that other of the unknown Lucy. If these are not poems 
 in a style at once unique and perfect, our language has no such 
 poems. — Prof. Shairp. 
 
 Lucy Gray. 
 
 Written at Goslar, in Germany, in 1799. ^^ ^^.s founded on a cir- 
 cumstance told me by my sister, of a little girl who not far from Hali- 
 fax, in Yorkshire, was bewildered in a snow-storm. Her footsteps 
 were tracked by her parents to the middle of a lock of a canal, and no 
 other vestige of her, backward or forward, could be traced. — W. W. 
 
 1800. 
 
 In the spring of 1799 the Wordsworths left Goslar and visited their 
 relatives, the Hutchinsons, at Sockburn-on-Tees, County Durham ; 
 there they remained until autumn. In September Wordsworth, his 
 brother John, and Coleridge made an excursion through the Lake 
 District. They were greatly pleased with the vale of Grasmere and 
 the cottage at Town-End which bore the sign of The Dove and Olive 
 Bough. Wordsworth took up his abode here in December, 1799. 
 
348 NOTES TO PAGES 52-54. 
 
 See Prelude i. 1-131. These poems of 1800- 1805 seem to have 
 been written as recreations while the Poet was at work upon the 
 Prelude. 
 
 "On Nature's Invitation do I Come." 
 
 The date of composition of this and the following poem is not 
 known, — they are fragments from the Recluse. Compare this de- 
 scription of the vale with that of Gray . — 
 
 " Not a single red tile, no flaring gentleman's house, or garden 
 walls break in upon the repose of this little unsuspected paradise , but 
 all is peace, rusticity, and happy poverty in its neatest and most be- 
 coming attire." 
 
 " Bleak Season was it, Turbulent and Wild." 
 Wordsworth and his sister left Sockburn on the 19th of December, 
 1799, ^"^^ after a journey of three days over snow and ice, turning 
 aside to see the frozen waterfalls and watch the changing aspect of 
 cloud and sunshine, they reached Dove Cottage on the 21st. During 
 the years of residence here, by dint of " plain living and high think- 
 ing," was produced that poetry which placed Wordsworth among the 
 Immortals. Dove Cottage is perhaps more often thought of in con- 
 nection with the Poet than is Rydal, the home of his later years. 
 
 The situation was beautiful for prospect, being on the right of the 
 road over White Moss Common as you approach Grasmere from 
 Ambleside. The garden, so often alluded to in his poetry, slopes up- 
 ward to the wooded heights, and has not suffered much alteration 
 since 1800. Here still bloom the primroses and daffodils. From the 
 terrace, approached by stone steps cut by Wordsworth himself, one 
 gets a beautiful view across the lake to Silver How, Red Bank, 
 and Loughrigg, on the west and south : while to the east and north 
 the eye ranges from Fairfield, Helvellyn, and Dunmail Raise, to 
 Helm Crag and Easdale. The view from the front of the house has 
 become obstructed by cottages and a pretentious modern hotel. The 
 description given in the following poem refers to this abode. 
 
 Hart-Leap Well. 
 
 Written at Town-End, Grasmere. The first eight stanzas were 
 composed extempore one winter evening in the cottage. When 
 Wordsworth and his sister were making the memorable journey 
 from Sockburn to Grasmere, they met a peasant who told them the 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 54-62. 349 
 
 story of the Hart. In 1887 I visited the scene here described and 
 found a desolate spot indeed. 
 
 " More doleful place did never eye survey." 
 
 The aspens and stone pillars are no more, but the stone basin still 
 remains. A wall has been built where it is possible that the " pillars " 
 stood. Rev. Mr. Hutchinson, who visited the place in 1S83, thinks 
 the stone in the wall, which shows signs of having been hammer- 
 dressed, may be one of the "pillars." 
 
 99, 100. I never list presume on Pamasse hill, 
 
 But piping low in shade of lowly grove, 
 I play to please myself, all be it ill. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 161-168. Here we have an illustration of what Mr. Matthew Arnold 
 calls Wordsworth's chief excellence, — the way in which he deals with 
 the question How to live. 
 
 " In common things that round us lie, 
 Some random truths he can impart." 
 
 We are sharers not only of animal but of vegetable life ; sharers 
 with the higher brute animals in common instincts and feelings and 
 affections. ... I fancy that human beings maybe more humane when 
 they realize that, as their dependent associates live a life in which 
 man has a share, so they have rights which man is bound to respect. — 
 Prof. Asa Gray, Natural Science and Religion. 
 
 See notes on Lines Left upon a Seat in a Yew-Tree. 
 
 The Brothers. 
 
 This poem was composed in a grove at the northeastern end of 
 Grasmere Lake, which grove was in a great measure destroyed by 
 turning the highroad along the side of the water. The few trees that 
 are left were spared at my intercession. 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. The abruptness with which the poem begins is accounted 
 for by the fact that it was intended to be a concluding poem of a 
 series of pastorals, the scene of which is laid among the mountains 
 of Cumberland and Westmoreland. — W. W. 
 
 This exquisite idyl — the most dramatic of the Poet's works — 
 possesses all the beauty and grandeur of the grand and beautiful vale 
 in which the scene is laid. Ennerdale surpasses, in its chaotic gran- 
 
3SO NOTES TO PAGE 62. 
 
 deur, any other vale in the district ; it is guarded by steep and lofty 
 mountains which seem to force the little community of dalesmen into 
 closer unity and affection. It is a fitting framework for a healthy 
 social order. 
 
 The localizations are exact, save when allusion is made to the 
 " Pillar Rock " as the point from which James had fallen. Pillar 
 Mountain evidently is meant, s\XiQ& Pillar Rock is the most difficult 
 bit of climbing in the district. 
 
 The little hamlet, in its solemnity and peacefulness, is especially 
 attractive to one whose life during most of the year is passed in the 
 rush and roar of the city. Reading Wordsworth with this prospect 
 before one renders the poem and the scene almost sacred. 
 
 " Full many a spot 
 
 Of hidden beauty have I chanced to espy 
 
 Among the mountains ; never one like this, 
 
 So lonesome and so perfectly secure ; 
 
 Peace is here or nowhere." 
 
 In the conception and execution of this poem Wordsworth is at 
 his best. It was a subject characteristic of him as a man and a poet. 
 In it the two great interests, Man and Nature, — the sphere of which 
 he contributed so much to enlarge in literature, — find especial develop- 
 ment. The picture with which the poem begins is one native to the 
 soil of Cumberland and Westmoreland, and had peculiar charm for 
 the Poet of " plain living and high thinking ; " he delighted in this 
 world of equality and ancient homeliness, where attention and respect 
 rested not upon claims of wealth or blood, but upon worth and strenu- 
 ous industry. The congratulations which the Vicar says would meet 
 the returning sailor lad show to what an extent a Christian socialism 
 prevailed in the happy vale. The process by which the Vicar is made 
 at one time to alarm, at another to encourage, the stranger in his timid 
 questionings, and to persist in talking about Leonard as of more 
 interest now to the little community than is the dead brother, until 
 at last the solemn truth is grasped, disproves all assertions that 
 Wordsworth had no dramatic power. 
 
 The part, too, which the aspect of Nature is made to play by the 
 narration of the sudden disappearance of one of the becks on the 
 hillside, is consummate ; for Leonard is about to conclude that the ap- 
 parent change is due to himself rather than to Nature. By this rev- 
 elation that he is not deceived, he first enters the shadows. The 
 terrible blow is however delayed, and the faintest gleams of hope are 
 revived by that exquisitely beautiful picture of the adoption of James 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 62-79. 35 ^ 
 
 as " the child of all the dale," at the time when, on the departure of 
 his brother, " the little color that he had " was stealing from his cheek. 
 The quiet and measured tones of the concluding words of the Vicar 
 linger with us ; while the pathos of the exclamation " My Brother ! " 
 and the feeling of Leonard that the place is one in which he can no 
 longer bear to live, is almost tragic. 
 
 46-48. For a discussion of Wordsworth's use of sound see the 
 notes to Yew-Trees, 1803. 
 
 "It was an April Morning: Fresh and Clear." 
 
 This and the two following poems belong to a class, On the Naming 
 of Places, written to record incidents which happened in connection 
 with some of the Poet's friends. To one familiar with the Lake-land 
 the evidence of attachments for localities where little incidents have 
 taken place is seen in the names there preserved. All lovers of the 
 Poet delight in identifying places especially dear to him. 
 
 The scene of this poem is in Easdale, a half-hour's walk from Dove 
 Cottage. Leaving Grasmere village we soon cross Goody Bridge and 
 Easdale beck, by the side of which the Poet said he had composed 
 thousands of verses. Following this beck from the bridge, we soon 
 come to a deep pool, with a " single mountain cottage " not far distant. 
 Dr. Cradock and Professor Knight conclude that this is the scene of 
 the poem ; yet there are other places along the beck which answer the 
 description equally well. It is certain that the winding path along 
 this beck to the tarn was a chosen resort of Wordsworth and his 
 sister. On the opposite side of the valley is the mountain terrace, 
 Lancrigg, where the Prelude was composed. 
 
 The Poet's sister is frequently referred to as " Emma," or 
 " Emmeline." 
 
 Cf . Bryant's Evening Reverie. 
 
 To Joanna (Hutchinson). 
 The scene is laid on the Rotha, the river which flows by the Gras- 
 mere churchyard (where the Poet is buried), and empties into the 
 lake ; thence it flows into Rydal Water. 
 
 Keep fresh the grass upon his grave, 
 O Rotha, with thy living wave. 
 Sing him thy best ! for few or none 
 Hear thy voice right now he is gone. 
 
 Matthew Arnold. 
 
352 NOTES TO PAGES 79-82. 
 
 The " lofty firs " are those in the churchyard by the Lich gate, Th^ 
 tall rock is probably on the side of Helm Crag which overlooks the 
 Vale from the north. Hammar-scar, Silver-How, Loughrigg, Fairfield, 
 and Helvellyn are the mountains which surround the Vale; while 
 Skiddaw, Glaramara, and Kirkstone are at a considerable distance on 
 the north and east. 
 
 "There is an Eminence." 
 
 The " eminence " is Stone-Arthur, on the east of the road leading 
 over Dunmail Raise, and is between Green Head Ghyll and Tongue 
 Ghyll. It is not, however, visible from the " orchard seat." 
 
 Father of English Heroes, Knight of Knights, 
 Here Arthur sat, Pendragon newly-made. 
 
 H. D. Rawnsley. 
 The last verses refer to his sister. 
 
 See Tintern Abbey, The Sparrow's Nest, and Prelude, xi. 333. 
 One of the most interesting memorials of the Poet and his friends 
 is the Pock of Names, which is on the right of the road to Keswick, by 
 Thirlmere ; it is 
 
 " An upright mural block of stone 
 Moist with pure water trickling down." 
 
 Being about half-way between Grasmere and Keswick, it was the 
 favorite meeting-place of Wordsworth and Coleridge. On it are 
 carved the initials of Wordsworth, Mary Hutchinson, Dorothy, Cole- 
 ridge, John Wordsworth, and Sara Hutchinson. Thanks to Rev. Mr. 
 Rawnsley, Crosthwaite, Keswick, the rock is to be removed to higher 
 ground. This is necessitated by the fact that the City of Manchester 
 is about to convert Thirlmere into a reservoir. 
 
 " Rock of Names I 
 
 We worked until the Initials took 
 Shapes that defied a scornful look. — 
 Long as for us a genial feeling 
 Survives, or one in need of healing, 
 The power, dear Rock, around thee cast, 
 Thy monumental power, shall last 
 For me and mine ! O thought of pain, 
 That would impair it or profane ! 
 And fail not Thou, loved Rock ! to keep 
 Thy charge when we are laid asleep." 
 
NOTES TO PAGE 82. 353 
 
 Michael. 
 
 Written at Town-End, Grasmere, about the same time as The 
 Brothers. . . . 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 woodlands on 
 the eastern shore of Grasmere. — W. W. 
 
 Your teachers are wisest when they make you content in quiet vir- 
 tue; and that literature and art are best for you which point out, in 
 common life and familiar things, the objects for hopeful labor and 
 for humble love. — RusKiN. ^ 
 
 To one familiar with the youth and education of Wordsworth it' 
 seems but natural that he should become the poet of humble life. 
 The lives of such men as composed the peasantry of the district 
 were dear to him, because in them he found (instead of smooth pre- 
 cepts of morality) robust dignity, loyalty to truth, devotion to duty, 
 and genial human-heartedness, together with a spirit of independence 
 and stern liberty ; hence every such life had a profound lesson for 
 him. 
 
 " Love he had found in huts where poor men lie." 
 
 The incident upon which this robust northern pastoral is built forms 
 an important chapter in the history of the settlement of the region ; 
 in the Antiquities of Furness it is related that when the Abbots of 
 Furness enfranchised their villains they allowed the land to be divided 
 into tenements, each of which was to furnish, in addition to the rent, 
 one man armed for the king's service. By degrees the population 
 crept toward the north. Later, when the Border Wars ceased, and 
 the quota f)f armed men was no longer needed, the land passed into 
 absolute ownership ; hence the attachment of these dalesmen, or 
 statesmen, as they are called, to these hereditary estates, and the sac- 
 rifices which they would undergo to avoid parting with them, Mr. 
 Myers says of them that " they have afforded as near a realization as 
 human fates would allow of the rural society which statesmen desire 
 for their country's welfare." In " Michael " we have a portrait of one 
 of these Westmoreland statesmen. 
 
 The scene of this pastoral is Green-Head Ghyll, not far from Dove 
 Cottage. Turning to the right from the highway by the *' Swan Inn," 
 and following the beck, one will, without much difficulty, find where 
 the "Evening Star" was situated; and a little farther up the beck 
 sheepfolds, which are now used. Probably Michael's fold was still 
 higher up ; on the right of the beck there is a large oak-tree which 
 may be the "Clipping tree." A visit to the Ghyll and the pasture 
 
 23 
 
354 NOTES TO PAGES 82-105. 
 
 land on the side of Fairfield is of great assistance to the appreciation 
 of the spirit of the poem. 
 
 It has been said that Wordsworth was an optimist, and this is true 
 if by it is meant that he teaches us to transmute even an " agonizing 
 sorrow " into a source of strength ; this is an optimism which never 
 attempts to solve the problem of suffering that is in no sense retribu- 
 tive, but endeavors to present to us 
 
 " Soothing thoughts that spring 
 Out of human suffering." 
 
 In the matter of style this is the most perfect of all Wordsworth's nar- 
 rative poems ; perhaps in no poem of his is there such complete subor- 
 dination of language to the thought ; the two are related in such a 
 way as to illustrate a style which conserves the mental economy of the 
 reader. The theme and the language are equally simple ; there is no 
 attempt to heighten the effect by artifices of " poetic diction." This be- 
 ing so, what is there in the poem that renders it the delight of all who 
 are familiar with it.? It is its sympathy, its sincerity, its vigor — that 
 tone which comes from living and thinking close to the heart of things. 
 
 Nature herself seems to take the pen out of his hand and to write 
 for him with her bare, sheer, penetrating power. — Matthew^ Arnold. 
 
 Emerson warns us against acquiring the false doctrine that there is 
 anything else in style than the "transparent medium through which 
 ■we should see new and good thoughts." 
 
 See Wordsworth's letter to Thomas Poole, in vol. ii. of Thomas Poole 
 and his Friends ; also Scott's Marmion, introduction to Canto iv. 
 55-105- 
 
 The Waterfall and the Eglantine. 
 
 There are three roads from Grasmere to Rydal : one, a footpath 
 under Nab Scar, which Dr. Arnold called " Old Corruption ; " a sec- 
 ond over White-moss Common, which he called " Bit by Bit Reform ;" 
 and a third, the coach-road by the lake-side, " Radical Reform." It 
 is by the first of these roads that the scene of this poem is laid. Eg- 
 lantines still grow there, though not abundantly. 
 
 The Oak and the Broom. 
 
 Suggested on the mountain pathway \Bit by Bit Reform]. The pon- 
 derous block of stone which is mentioned in the poem remains, I be- 
 lieve, to this day, a good way up Nab Scar. — W. W. 
 
 The above note helps us to determine the locality. There is still 
 a large stone far up on the side of the mountain, and it may be the 
 " lofty stone " of this poem. 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 105,106. 355 
 
 1801. 
 
 This year the Excursion was begun. 
 
 The Sparrow's Nest. 
 
 Written in the orchard, Town-End, Grasmere. At the end of the 
 garden of my father's house at Cockermouth was a high terrace that 
 commanded a fine view of the river Derwent and Cockermouth Castle. 
 This was my favorite playground. The terrace wall, a low one, 
 was covered with closely-clipt privet and roses, which gave an almost 
 impervious shelter to birds who built their nests there. The latter of 
 these stanzas alludes to one of these nests. — W. W. 
 
 Cockermouth, the birthplace of the Poet, is situated at the junction 
 of the Cocker and the Derwent. It is an old market town and par- 
 liamentary borough of Cumberland. The old manor house, with its 
 garden and terrace in the rear, remains very much as it was in the 
 Poet's time. The present owner, R. Mitchell, Jr., Esq., shows great 
 kindness to all those who visit the place. 
 
 Wordsworth lived at Cockermouth until the family was broken up 
 by the death of his mother in 1778, when he and his brother went to 
 Hawkshead to school, and Dorothy went to live with maternal rela- 
 tives at Penrith. William and Dorothy were together but little after 
 this, until that crisis of his life, and then by her ministrations she led 
 him back — 
 
 " To those sweet counsels between head and heart 
 
 Whence grew that genuine knowledge fraught with peace." 
 
 Cf. Prelude, i. 269 ; xi. 333. 
 
 y 1802. 
 
 Alice Fell. 
 
 Written to gratify Mr. Graham, of Glasgow, brother of the author 
 of The Sabbath. He was a zealous coadjutor of Mr. Clarkson, and a 
 man of ardent humanity. The incident had happened to himself, and 
 he urged me to put it into verse. — W. W. 
 
 This was one of the poems which was game for the critics. It well 
 illustrates Wordsworth's poetic creed. However far below his best 
 work it maybe, it is a great advance upon that of the artificial school. 
 All lovers of Wordsworth can afford to acknowledge that at times he 
 worked his theory too hard, and that in his attempts to avoid artifi' 
 
356 NOTES TO PAGES 106-114. 
 
 ciality he fell into versifying ; his instincts were correct, but his deduc- 
 tions from them were at times faulty. We should not forget, however, 
 that these lapses are a necessary feature of the man Wordsworth. 
 See Preface to Matthew Arnold's Selections from Wordsworth, 
 
 Beggars. 
 
 Written at Town-End, Grasmere. Met and described to me by my 
 sister near the quarry at the head of Rydal Lake — a place still a 
 chosen resort of vagrants travelling with their families. — W. W. 
 
 In this poem we have a realization of — 
 
 " She gave me eyes, — she gave me ears." 
 
 It was a singular coincidence when, in August, 1888, on passing the 
 quarry and discussing this poem, we met a party of beggars. — Ed. 
 Cf. Sequel, 18 1 7. 
 
 Written in March. 
 
 Extempore. This little poem was a favorite of Joanna Baillie. — 
 W. W. 
 
 In Dorothy Wordsworth's diary is a beautiful description of the 
 occasion of this poem ; it was a walk from Patterdale, over Kirkstone 
 Pass to Ambleside : — 
 
 " When we came to the foot of Brother's Water I left William sit- 
 ting on the bridge, and went along the path on the right side of the 
 lake through the wood. When I returned I found him writing a 
 poem. . . . William finished his poem before we got to the foot of 
 Kirkstone." 
 
 " My Heart Leaps Up." . 
 
 Written at Town-End, Grasmere. — W. W. 
 
 This poem is the key-note of all Wordsworth's poetry: it is the 
 Prelude condensed into a lyric. " 
 
 The Redbreast Chasing the Butterfly. 
 
 This and the two poems following were written in the orchard, 
 Town-End, Grasmere. 
 
 The second refers to Cockermouth, where the Poet and Emmeline 
 (Dorothy) spent their childhood. 
 
 See note to The Sparrotv's Nest. 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 115-119. 357 
 
 To the Small Celandine.^ 
 
 Written at Town-End, Grasmere. It is remarkable that this flower, 
 coming out so early in the spring as it does, and so bright and beauti- 
 ful, and in such profusion, should not have been noticed earlier in 
 English verse. What adds much to the interest that attends it is its 
 habit of shucting itself up and opening out according to the degree of 
 light and temperature of the air. — W. W. 
 
 In Dorothy's Journal we have the following: — 
 
 " We came into the orchard directly after breakfast, and sat there. 
 The lake vvao calm, the sky cloudy. W. began to write the poem of 
 the Celandine. ... I walked backward and forward with William. 
 He repeated his poem to me." 
 
 To the Same Flower. 
 
 In Dorothy's Journal, May i, 1802, is the following: — 
 
 " Wm. wrote the Celandine, second part." 
 
 The buoyancy and vivacity, the spontaneity, grace, and harmony 
 resulting from a perfect adaptation of the language to the idea, render 
 these poems the delight of all who joy in the life of Nature. Nature — 
 
 '* Which never was the friend of one, 
 Nor promised love it could not give, 
 But lit for all its generous sun, 
 And lived itself and made us live." 
 
 The Leech-Gatherer. 
 
 Written at Town-End, Grasmere. This old man I met a few hun- 
 dred yards from my cottage ; and the account of him is taken from 
 his own mouth. I was in the state of feeling described in the begin- 
 ning of the poem, while crossing over Barton Fell from Mr. Clark- 
 son's at the foot of Ullswater, towards Askham. The image of the 
 hare I then observed on the ridge of the Fell. — W. W. 
 
 When Wm. and I returned from accompanying Jones, we met an 
 old man almost double. . . . His trade was to gather leeches. ... It 
 was late in the evening. — Journal. 
 
 We see from these notes that the elements which were gathered to- 
 gether in this poem were from various sources. The mental mood 
 and the " hare running races in her mirth " are brought from the walk 
 
 1 Common Pile-wort. See Brvant's /^rme^c? G^«/?a«, Emerson's ^/?£'<a?<7rar, 
 and Tennyson's Flower in the Crannied Wall. 
 
S$S NOTES TO PAGES 1 19-124. 
 
 over Barton Fell. The "lonely moor" with the "pool" is White 
 Moss Common, which one crosses by the middle road to Rydal. 
 
 After the storm and the tumult of Nature — "the roaring of the 
 wind," and the driving of the floods — there came the calm, the 
 singing of the birds^ the music of the becks, the fresh, clear atmos- 
 phere, and " the hare running races." One would think that — 
 
 " A poet could not but be gay 
 In such a jocund company." 
 
 A kindred mood is awakened in the Poet, but it is soon beclouded 
 with " fears and fancies " which arise from the contrast existing be- 
 tween the free, happy, careless life of all the unoffending creatures of 
 God's love, and the life of man, burdened with care for the morrow, 
 obliged to sow beiEore he can reap, "looking before and after." 
 Strong as he is, he is nevertheless made weak by such dejection ; and 
 in this weakness there appears the figure of an old man, by conversa- 
 tion with whom strength is imparted, power is given, a new motive 
 ^for living is supplied, life is made a happier and a diviner thing. 
 
 As to style, we might almost say there is none. By the simplest 
 language, in the absence of all color, with no complexity of incident, 
 we have one of the most harmonious and determined of sketches, — 
 the beauty and the strength of repose. 
 
 In its ethical bearing the poem makes common cause with all of 
 the Poet's best work, the message of which is — " Waste not ! " That 
 Wordsworth's philosophy in this respect is not theoretical but practi- 
 cal, we will let one who has made trial of it testify. 
 
 John Stuart Mill, in a time of disappointment at the failure of cher- 
 ished hopes, and when life seemed nothing but a struggle against cruel 
 necessity, went to Wordsworth's poetry, and of the result says : — 
 
 " What made Wordsworth's poems a medicine for my state of 
 mind, was that they expressed, not mere outward beauty, but states 
 of feeling, under the excitement of beauty. They seemed to be the 
 very culture of the feelings which I was in quest of. In them I 
 seemed to draw from a source of inward joy, of sympathetic and im- 
 aginative pleasure, which could be shared in by all human beings, 
 which had no connection with struggle or imperfection, but would be 
 made richer by every improvement in the physical or social condition 
 of mankind. From them I seemed to learn what would be the peren- 
 nial sources of happiness, when all the greater evils of life shall have 
 been removed. And I felt myself at once better and happier as I 
 came under their influence." 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 125-130. 359 
 
 A Farewell. 
 
 Composed just before my sister and I went to fetch Mrs. Words- 
 worth from Gallow-hill, near Scarborough. — W. W. 
 
 The local allusions in this poem are to Dove Cottage and its sur- 
 roundings. See On Nature s Invitation do I Come. 
 
 In 1802 the Earl of Lonsdale died. He had refused to repay the 
 Wordsworth family the money which had been borrowed from their 
 father ; his successor at once discharged the debt with interest. By 
 this Wordsworth and his sister received ;^i,8oo each. With this ad- 
 dition to the Poet's income, he was enabled to marry Mary Hutchin- 
 son, with whom he had been at school at Penrith, and who had been 
 the long-time friend of himself and his sister Dorothy. He was mar- 
 ried on Oct. 4, 1802, at Brompton Church near Scarborough, and they 
 returned to Grasmere on the evening of the 6th. See She Was a 
 Phantom of Delight, To Mary Wordsworth, Afterthought, Prelude, 
 xiv. 266-275. 
 
 55, 56. Cf. The Sparrow's Nest. 
 
 Stanzas Written in Thomson's Castle of Indolence. 
 
 Composed in the orchard, Town-End, Grasmere, Coleridge living 
 with us much at this time ; his son Hartley has said that his father's 
 character and habits are here preserved in a livelier way than in any- 
 thing that has been written about him. — W. W. 
 
 The characters alluded to in the poem are Wordsworth and Cole- 
 ridge ; there is some difficulty, however, in assigning the stanzas. The 
 editor of the Memoirs concludes that the allusions in the first four 
 stanzas are to Wordsworth, and those in the last three to Coleridge. 
 Professor Dowden thinks that Coleridge is referred to in the first, 
 and William Calvert in the last verses. There is much to sustain this 
 idea. Mr. Ainger says that Wordsworth here describes Coleridge 
 and Thomas Poole. 
 
 "The Sun has Long been Set." 
 
 This impromptu appeared many years ago, among the author's 
 poems, from which, in subsequent editions, it was excluded. It is re- 
 printed at the request of the Friend in whose presence the lines were 
 thrown off. — W. W. 
 
 The PViend alluded to was his sister. 
 
360 NOTES TO PAGES 131, 132. 
 
 To H. C. 
 
 Hartley Coleridge, the eldest son of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
 This poem was singularly prophetic of that life of dreamy wayward- 
 ness, of lonely wanderings, of lofty hopes and deep despair. 
 
 The gift of continuous conversation which distinguished his father 
 was his no less, and it won for him hosts of friends. The following 
 sonnet of his supplements Wordsworth's poem : — 
 
 " Long time a child, and still a child when years j 
 
 Had painted manhood on my cheek, was I : 
 
 For yet I lived like one not born to die, 
 
 A thriftless prodigal of smiles and tears ; 
 
 No hope I needed, and I knew no fears. 
 
 But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep ; and waking, 
 
 I waked to sleep no more, at once o'ertaking 
 
 The vanguard of my age, with all arrears 
 
 Of duty on my back. Nor child, nor man. 
 
 Nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is gray, 
 
 For I have lost the race I never ran ; 
 
 A rathe December blights my lagging May; 
 
 And still I am a child, tho' I be old ; 
 
 Time is my debtor for my years untold." 
 
 His body lies in Grasmere Church-yard, near that of his friend and 
 benefactor, Wordsworth. 
 
 Nab Cottage, where Hartley lived and died, is on the coachroad from 
 Rydal to Grasmere, and faces Rydal Water. It is now a favorite lodg- 
 ing house in the Lake District. The following lines on Nab Cottage 
 are from a sonnet by H. D. Rawnsley : — 
 
 " Unchanged the scene, and still the sycamore 
 Flutters its seed-wings to the Poet's door ; 
 But those gay flowers, whose garden home he planned, 
 Have strayed abroad to please the wand'rer's hand : 
 How like himself, the Muse's delicate child, 
 Whose life was of the wind, rejoicing to be wild." 
 See Hartley Coleridge's Sonnet on Wordsworth. 
 
 To the Daisy. 
 
 This and the other poems addressed to the same flower were com- 
 posed at Town-End, Grasmere, during the earlier part of my residence 
 there. . . . The last two were overflowings of the same mood. — W. W. 
 
 The product of Wordsworth's impassioned and illumined gaze which 
 we have in these three poems shows us in what special sense he was 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 132-139. 361 
 
 the poet of Nature. His imagination is both creative and perceptive, 
 and is the result of habitual communion with Nature, and constant 
 reflection upon her impressions. He comes to her as a priest to 
 whom she would confide her secrets; his communion is holy, and 
 hence he inspires his disciples with an enthusiasm which is calm and 
 deep, rather than tumultuous. 
 
 Although English literature is not wanting in admirable descrip- 
 tions of Nature, yet the idea of Nature as having ''a function apostoli 
 cal," as ministering both to moral and to spiritual power — to console, 
 inspire, reward, and recreate — does not appear in poetry prior to this 
 time; not even in Scotland, where the love of Nature was wellnigh 
 universal. The view of Nature as organically agreeable and as tend- 
 ing to physical comfort was then prevalent ; the idea of Nature as 
 Zurnishing helps to a pure contemplative pleasure which is above mere 
 sensation was almost unknown. Wordsworth's method does not fur- 
 ther the spirit that would " peep and botanize," but that which would 
 " see into the life of things." 
 
 The maxims of Wordsworth's form of natural religion were uttered 
 before Wordsworth only in the sense in which the maxims of Christi- 
 anity were uttered before Christ. — F. W. Myers. 
 
 To Shelley a flower is a thing of light and of love, — bright with its 
 yearning, pale with its passion. To Thomson a flower is an object 
 which has a certain shape and color. To Wordsworth a flower is a 
 living partaker of the common spiritual life and joy of being. — 
 
 DOWDEN. 
 
 1803. 
 
 The Green Linnet. 
 
 Composed in the orchard, Town-End, Grasmere, where the bird was 
 often seen as here described. — W. W. 
 
 The " orchard seat " was upon the terrace at the rear of the garden, 
 and was reached by stone steps cut by the Poet himself. At the 
 present time an arbor stands there. 
 
 In none of the Lyrics is there to be found such natural magic, such 
 felicity of interpretation, such complete abandonment of all the facul- 
 ties in the thrill of the soul entering into the life of Nature. In all 
 respects this exquisite poem conforms to Milton's canon — 
 
 " Simple, sensuous, impassioned." 
 When a poet can interpret by "natural magic," as here, and by 
 " moral profundity," as in Tintern Abbey, he performs for us the high- 
 
362 NOTES TO PAGES 139, 140. 
 
 est and holiest service which is ever in the power of man to perform. 
 For — 
 
 " With an eye made quiet by the power 
 
 Of harmony and the deep power of joy, 
 
 We see into the life of things." 
 
 Coleridge, in his Biographia Literaria, chap, xxii., cites this poem as 
 an illustration of " The perfect truth of Nature in his [Wordsworth's] 
 images and descriptions as taken immediately from Nature, and prov- 
 ing a long and genial intimacy with the very spirit which gives the 
 physiognomic expression to all the works of Nature." 
 
 Yew-Trees. 
 
 Written at Grasmere. In no part of England, or of Europe, have 
 I ever seen a yew-tree at all approaching this in magnitude. — W. W. 
 At this time Wordsworth was at work upon the Prelude and the 
 Excursioit. The one — 
 
 " An Orphic song indeed, — 
 A song divine, of high and passionate thoughts, 
 To their own music chanted." 
 
 The other the spousal hymn for the 
 
 *' Discerning intellect of man 
 When wedded to this goodly universe 
 In love and holy passion." 
 
 The result of this union, this commerce of the mind of man and the 
 external world, was such an ideal creation as we have here : ideal 
 and yet true, for the outcome of the " light " and the " gleam " of 
 poetic imagination is not fancy, but truth. Its revelation is of essen- 
 tial, not of accidental, relations. 
 
 Professor Shairp, in alluding to the natural idealism of Wordsworth, 
 says : " In this, I conceive, lies his transcendent power, that the ideal 
 light he sheds is a true light; and the more ideal it is, the more 
 true." 
 
 Coleridge, in challenging for Wordsworth the gift of imagination 
 (and citing this poem), says : '* In imaginative power he stands nearest 
 of all modern writers to Shakespeare and Milton, and yet in kind per- 
 fectly unborrowed and his own." 
 
 Ruskin, alluding to this poem, in Modern Painters^ says : " I consider 
 it the most vigorous and solemn bit of forest landscape ever painted." 
 
 The " Pride of Lorton Vale " has lost its beauty and its grandeur, 
 and in 1883 the " Fraternal Four " were visited by a whirlwind 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 140,141. 3^3 
 
 which uprooted and despoiled them. The largest yews in the district 
 are now those of Yewdale. See Prelude, i. 306. 
 
 The following sonnet by H. D. Rawnsley is the third in his trilogy 
 on the Yews of Borrowdale : — 
 
 " 111 could we spare the tree St. Patrick knew.^ 
 When first for Christ to these rude vales he spoke; 
 And better far had fallen the Rydal Oak,2 
 Or — Time's vast hollow monument — the Yew 3 
 Which stands in sight of Wetherlam : Ah, few 
 The souls who then had felt that tempest's stroke, 
 So many bonds about the heart had broke, 
 And breaking, swept old memories from view. 
 For to this grove, by storm in ruins hurled, 
 Had Glaramara down the centuries seen 
 Hope and mute Prayer and Love and Mystery throng ; 
 And since our Wordsworth murmured out his song, 
 Its dark four-pillared vault of evergreen 
 Was Temple for the music of the world." 
 
 One of the most marked features of Wordsworth's poetry shown in 
 the closing verses of this poem, is due to his exquisite sensibility to 
 sound: he seems to have possessed, together with "an eye practised 
 like a blind man's touch," the " inevitable ear." Those recollections 
 in tranquillity which are the fundamental processes of his mind are as 
 often directed to the reproduction of sounds as of sights ; and in his 
 study of Nature "to lie and listen" was as essential as to look abroad 
 and gaze. One of the most touching of these allusions is in the 
 Brothers : — 
 
 " Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard 
 
 The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds 
 
 Of caves and trees." 
 
 Memorials of a Tour in Scotland. 
 
 The year 1803 was made memorable by the visit of the Poet, his 
 sister, and Coleridge, to Scotland. He had been born and reared in 
 sight of "the land of song," yet not until this year had he set foot 
 upon her soil. Dorothy's Journal is a record of this journey, and is 
 hardly less poetical than the immortal poems. In visiting Scotland 
 in 1887, I found the Journal the best guide to these localities. 
 
 1 The Patterdale Yew, — destroyed in the same storm. 
 
 2 In the grounds of Rydal are some of the oldest forest-trees. 
 
 3 The Great Yew of Yewdale. 
 
364 NOTES TO PAGES 141-147. 
 
 At the Grave of Bums. 
 
 The party left Keswick on Monday morning, August 15, and reached 
 Dumfries on the evening of the 17th. Under date of Thursday, the 
 i8th, Dorothy wrote : " Went to the churchyard where Burns is buried. 
 ... He lies at a corner of the churchyard, and his son Francis Wal- 
 lace beside him. . . . We looked at the grave with melancholy and 
 painful reflections, repeating to each other his own verses : — 
 
 * Is there a man whose judgment clear 
 Can others teach the course to steer, 
 Yet runs himself life's mad career 
 
 Wild as the wave ? — 
 Here let him pause and through a tear 
 Survey this grave.' " 
 
 Thoughts suggested the Day Following On the Banks of the Nith. 
 
 The Journal continues : — 
 
 " We were glad to leave Dumfries, which is no agreeable place to 
 them who do not love the bustle of a town which seems to be rising 
 up to wealth. In our road to Brownhill we passed Ellisland at a 
 little distance on our right. . . . Travelled through the vale of Nith, 
 here little like a vale it is so broad, with irregular hills rising up on 
 each side. . . . Left the Nith about a mile and a half and reached 
 Brownhill, a lonely inn." 
 
 To the Sons of Burns. 
 
 *' I cannot take leave of the country which we passed through to- 
 day (iSth) without mentioning that we saw the Cumberland Mountains. 
 . ... Drayton has prettily described the connection which this neigh- 
 borhood has with ours when he makes Skiddaw say : — 
 
 * Scurfree,! from the sky, 
 That Anadale 2 doth crown with a most amorous eye, 
 Salutes me every day.' 
 
 These lines occurred to William's memory, and we talked of Burns 
 and of the prospect he must have had, perhaps from his own door, of 
 Skiddaw and his companions. . . . We talked of Coleridge's children 
 and family, then at the foot of Skiddaw, and our own new-born John 
 a few miles behind it, while at the grave of Burns's son, which we 
 had just seen by the side of his father ; and some stories heard at 
 
 1 Criffel. 2 Annandale. 
 
NOTES TO PAGES I47-I49. 3^5 
 
 Dumfries respecting the dangers his surviving children were exposed 
 to filled us with a melancholy concern which had a kind of connection 
 with ourselves. In recollection of this William long afterwards wrote 
 the following address to the sons of the ill-fated poet. — Journal. 
 
 What could be more fitting than that the first-fruits of this visit to 
 Scotland should be dedicated to the memory of that poet who had 
 taught Wordsworth 
 
 " How verse may build a princely throne 
 On humble truth " ? 
 
 These poems written in Burns's favorite metre are the finest tribute 
 ever paid to that " darling of the Muses." 
 
 To a Highland Girl. 
 
 The tourists had the usual experience with Scottish weather, and 
 when they left Loch Kettrine for Loch Lomond it rained almost con- 
 tinually ; the Journal for the 28th has the following ; — 
 
 " When beginning to descend the hill toward Loch Lomond we over- 
 took two girls, who told us we could not cross the ferry until evening, 
 for the boat was gone with a number of people to church. One of 
 the girls was exceedingly beautiful : and the figures of both of them, 
 in gray plaids falling to their feet, their faces only being uncovered, 
 excited our attention before we spoke to them. I think I never heard 
 the English language sound more sweetly than from the mouth of the 
 elder of these girls, as she stood at the gate answering our inquiries, 
 her face flushed with the rain." They waited at the ferry-house until 
 the return of the boat in the afternoon, when they crossed and walked 
 to Tarbet. Long after his return Wordsworth wrote this poem in 
 recollection of the experience at the ferry-house. 
 
 In the Fenwick note to this poem Wordsworth says : ** The sort 
 of prophecy with which the verses conclude has, through God's good- 
 ness, been realized; and now approaching the close of my seventy- 
 third year I have a most vivid remembrance of her and the beautiful 
 objects with which she was surrounded." 
 
 It is in such poems as this that we see illustrated what Mr. Bagehot 
 calls the/«r<r, as distinguished from the ornate^ in poetic st3de. The 
 pure style depends for its efficacy upon penetrating at once to the 
 heart of scene or character, and using only such accessories of im- 
 agery and dress as are essential to a grasp of the spirit of the whole ; 
 while the ornate depends upon the number of striking allusions, the 
 wealth of figure, and abundance of drapery. By most readers, per- 
 
366 NOTES TO PAGES 149-154- 
 
 haps, the ornate style is preferred, because it ministers to their love 
 of mannerism, artificiality, and display ; so that, as Mr. Bagehot says, 
 " A dressy literature, an exaggerated literature, seem to be fated to 
 us. These are our curses, as other times had theirs." 
 
 That the influence of Wordsworth, wherever it has free course, is 
 powerful in eliminating this vicious tendency, is the testimony of all 
 who come under his power. To intrust the young to the guardian- 
 ship of this " Friend of the wise and teacher of the good " is to put 
 them in possession of a source of health and happiness which will 
 prove inexhaustible. See Hudson's Studies in Wordsworth, p. 22. 
 
 " The first step towards a revolution in our state of society," says 
 Emerson, "would be to impress men's minds with the fact that the 
 purest pleasures of life are at hand unknown to them." 
 
 See Emerson in Concord. 
 
 Address to Kilchurn Castle. 
 
 Not long after leaving Loch Lomond, Coleridge parted with the 
 Wordsworths, and they passed on to Inverary and by Loch Awe to 
 Dalmally. 
 
 The first three lines were impromptu^ and the rest written a long 
 time after. Not far from the spot where Wordsworth poured out these 
 verses is now to be seen a monument of rude unhewn stones cemented 
 together. This monument has been erected to the memory of Dun- 
 can Maclntyre, the Bard of Glenorchy — Fair Duncan of the Songs. 
 He lived on the lands of the Earl of Breadalbane, by whose family 
 Kilchurn Castle had been built. 
 
 See Shairp's Aspects of Poetry, chap. x. 
 
 43. The tradition is that the Castle was built by a Lady during the 
 absence of her Lord in Palestine. 
 
 This piece is, to me, one of the author's grandest displays of im- 
 aginative power ; hardly inferior to the Yew-trees. — Hudson. 
 
 Qlen-Almain. 
 
 On leaving Dunkeld for Callander they concluded to go by Crieff, 
 as the " Sma' Glen " would be on their way. 
 
 September 9. We entered the glen at a small hamlet at some dis- 
 tance from the head, and turning aside a few steps ascended a hillock 
 which commanded a view to the top of it, — a very sweet scene, a green 
 valley, not very narrow, with a few scattered trees and huts, almost 
 invisible in a misty gleam of afternoon light. At this hamlet we 
 crossed a bridge, and a road led us down the glen, which had become 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 154-156. 3^7 
 
 exceedingly narrow, and so continued to the end : the hills on both 
 sides heathy and rocky, very steep, but continuous ; there are no trees, 
 no houses, no traces of civilization, not one outstanding object. It is 
 truly a solitude. The following poem was written by William on 
 hearing a tradition relating to it. — Journal. 
 
 Dorothy gives us the physical features of the place, while in the 
 poem we have the moral emotion which the scene awakens ; each 
 is the counterpart of the other. A close study of the work of the 
 " Sister " will reveal the truth of the lines, — 
 
 " She gave me eyes, she gave me ears." 
 
 Stepping Westward. 
 
 From Callander they went to Loch Kettrine, revisiting the Tros- 
 sachs, of which Dorothy writes : " I can add nothing to my former 
 description of the Trossachs, except that we departed with our old 
 delightful remembrances endeared, and many new ones." Passing on 
 to the head of Loch Kettrine, she continues : " We have never had a 
 more delightful walk than this evening. Ben Lomond and the three 
 pointed-topped mountains of Loch Lomond were very majestic under 
 the clear sky, the lake perfectly calm, and the air sweet and mild. 
 The sun had been set for some time, when our path having led us 
 close to the shore of the calm lake, we met two neatly dressed 
 women, without hats, who had probably been taking their Sunday 
 evening's walk. One of them said to me in a friendly, soft tone of 
 voice, 'What! are you stepping westward ? ' I cannot describe how 
 affecting this simple expression was in that remote place, with the 
 western sky in front, yet glowing with the departing sun. William 
 wrote the following poem long after, in remembrance of his feelings 
 and mine." 
 
 In making the accidental interrogation reveal the soul of the scene, 
 while being itself exalted by it, Wordsworth transfigures the whole. 
 By his wonderful aptness in selecting the points of vantage, and by 
 his conciseness, he produces the maximum of power. 
 
 The Solitary Reaper. 
 
 Having crossed Loch Lomond they continued their journey through 
 Glenfalloch and Glengyle, along the side of Loch Voil between the 
 braes of Balquidder and Stratheyer, and returned to Callander. Of 
 the scenery by Loch Voil Dorothy says : " As we descended, the scene 
 became more fertile, our way being pleasantly varied, — through cop- 
 
\/ 
 
 368 NOTES TO PAGES 156-158. 
 
 pice or open fields, and passing farm-houses, though always with an 
 intermixture of uncultivated ground. It was harvest-time, and the 
 fields were quietly — might I say pensively ? — enlivened by small com- 
 panies of reapers. It is not uncommon in the more lonely parts of 
 the Highlands to see a single person so employed. The folloAving 
 poem was suggested to William by a beautiful sentence in Thomas 
 Wilkinson's Toiir in Scotland." 
 
 What poet ever produced such beauty and power with so simple 
 materials 1 The maiden, the latest lingerer in the field, is the medium 
 through which the romance of Highland scenery, and the soul of soli- 
 tary Highland life is revealed to us ; even her voice seems a part of 
 Nature, so mysteriously does it blend with the beauty of the scene. 
 It is to such influences as this that the Poet refers in the lines, — 
 
 *' And impulses of deeper birth 
 Have come to him in solitude." 
 
 In solitude were these poems conceived, and in solitude only can 
 they be fully appreciated. 
 
 Yarrow Unvisited. 
 
 On returning from the Highlands they spent a day in Edinburgh 
 and then went to Roslin. On the morning of September 17 they 
 walked to Lasswade, and met, for the first time, Walter Scott, who was 
 living there. In the afternoon Scott accompanied them to Roslin and 
 left them with the promise to meet them at Melrose two days after. 
 Passing on to Peebles they travelled down the Tweed, past Neid- 
 path Castle. (See ?>oxm&t, Degenerate Douglas.) 
 
 The Journal has the following : " September 18. We left the Tweed 
 when we were within about a mile and a half or two miles of Cloven- 
 ford, where we were to lodge. Turned up the side of a hill and went 
 along the sheep-grounds till we reached the spot, — a single stone 
 house. On our mentioning Mr. Scott's name the woman of the house 
 showed us all possible civility. Mr. Scott is respected everywhere ; I 
 believe that by favor of his name one might be hospitably entertained 
 throughout all the borders of Scotland. 
 
 " At Clovenford, being so near to Yarrow, we could not but think of 
 the possibility of going thither, but came to the conclusion of reserv- 
 ing the pleasure for some future time, in consequence of which, after 
 our return, William wrote the poem which I shall here transcribe." 
 
 The three poems upon the Yarrow, written in the metre of the old 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 158-163. 369 
 
 Yarrow ballads, should be read as a trilogy, and the Poet's earlier 
 and later styles compared. 
 
 In the blending of thought with sensation and emotion Wordsworth 
 resembles Shakespeare ; while in respect of spiritual thrift, as whei 
 in the apparent indifference to the wishes of his companion he prefer.- 
 to abide in the wealth of anticipation, we have a trait which is dis- 
 tinctly Wordsworthian. 
 
 He hoarded his joys and lived upon the interest which they paid ir 
 the form of hope and expectation. — R. H. Hutton. 
 
 35. Cf. Hamilton's Ballad, The Braes of Yarrow^ 1. 50. 
 
 The Matron of Jedborough and Her Husband. 
 
 After leaving Clovenford they proceeded to Gala Water and on to 
 Melrose, where they were met by Scott, who conducted them to the Ab- 
 bey. The next day they went to Jedborough, where Scott, as " Shirra," 
 was attending the Assizes. The inns being full, they secured lodg- 
 ings in a private house. The Journal continues : " We were received 
 with hearty welcome by a good woman who though above seventy 
 years old moved about as briskly as if she were only seventeen. The 
 alacrity with which she guessed at and strove to prevent our wants 
 was surprising. Her husband was deaf and infirm, and sat in a 
 chair with scarcely the power to move a limb, — an affecting contrast I 
 The old woman said they had been a very hard-working pair ; they 
 had wrought like slaves at their trade,— ^ her husband had been a cur- 
 rier ; she told me they had portioned off their daughters with money, 
 and each a feather bed. 
 
 " Mr. Scott sat with us an hour or two, and repeated a part of the 
 Lay of the Last Minstrel. When he was gone, our hostess came to 
 see if we wanted anything, and to wish us good-night. William long 
 afterward thought it worth while to express in verse the sensations 
 which she had excited." 
 
 This poem exhibits Wordsworth's habit of finding 
 
 " Tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
 Sermons in stones, and good in everything." 
 
 On Approaching Home. 
 
 This was composed the last day of our Tour, between Dalston and 
 Grasmere. — W. W. 
 
 The next day, Scott being busy at the courts, William Laidlaw, who 
 lived in the dale of Yarrow, and who had been delighted with some 
 
37° NOTES TO PAGES 163-166. 
 
 of Wordsworth's poems, accompanied them to the vale of Jed. Doro- 
 thy says of him : " At first meeting he was as shy as any of our Gras- 
 mere lads, and not less rustic." On the following day Scott was glad 
 to leave the Judge and his retinue and travel with them through the 
 vale of Teviot to Hawick, from which place they had an extensive 
 view of the Cheviot Hills. Here they were obliged to part, as Scott 
 had to return to his duties. Two days later the Journal has the fol- 
 lowing: "Arrived home between eight and nine o'clock, where we 
 found Mary in perfect health, Joanna Hutchinson with her, and 
 little John asleep in the clothes-basket by the fire." 
 
 1804. 
 
 This year much of the Prelude was written. 
 
 To the Cuckoo. 
 Composed in the orchard at Town-End, Grasmere, 1804. — W. W. 
 Of all Wordsworth's illustrations of the effect of sound upon the 
 spiritual nature this is the finest. "Of all his poems," Mr. Hutton 
 says, " the Cuckoo is Wordsworth's own darling." Early in life he 
 had a firm assurance that the life of the soul was more real than the 
 external world; in the Prelude, Bk. ii., referring to his school-days he 
 says — 
 
 " 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." 
 
 It is this which makes Wordsworth, as Dr. Hudson says, the most 
 spiritual and spiritualizing of all the English poets. 
 
 "She Was a Phantom of Delight." 
 
 Written at Town-End, Grasmere. The germ of this poem was four 
 lines composed as apart of the verses on the Highland Girl. Though 
 beginning in this way, it was written from my heart, as is sufficiently 
 obvious. — W. W. 
 
 That so trivial an incident as the meeting of this Highland maid 
 should have been thus cherished by the Poet, and reproduced here, 
 and in the Three Collage Girls, vintttn nearly twenty years after, shows 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 166-168. 3 71 
 
 us how he valued his experiences, and what use he made of them. 
 " The portraiture of woman," said Coleridge, '* should be character- 
 less," meaning that the chief excellence is a well-balanced nature. 
 
 In this exquisite portrait of womanly beauty we have, not that which 
 Is the specialty of any one, but that which is the characteristic of all 
 true womanly nature. " Exquisite Tightness," Ruskin says, " distin- 
 guished the author of this poem." It is hardly necessary to say that 
 the subject of the poem is Mrs. Wordsworth. Allusions are also made 
 to her in the Prelude, Bk. vi. 224 ; xii. 1 51 ; xiv. 266 ; and in O dearer 
 far than light and life are dear ( 1824). 
 
 The Daffodils. 
 
 Town-End, 1804. The two best lines in it are by Mary. — W. W. 
 The incident upon which this poem was founded occurred during 
 a walk in Patterdale. Miss Wordsworth's Journal says : " 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. 
 ... I never saw daffodils so beautiful . . . they tossed and reeled 
 and danced as if they verily laughed with the wind that blew upon 
 them over the lake." 
 
 How truly does Wordsworth here illustrate his doctrine that the 
 origin of poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity! He is con- 
 tinually opening to us hidden springs of joy, and teaching that life 
 will be serene and bright if kept pure by the holy forms of young 
 imagination. 
 
 The violet by its mossy stone, 
 
 The primrose by the river's brim, 
 
 And chance-sown daffodils have found 
 
 Immortal life through him. 
 
 Wordsworth, by J. G. Whittier. 
 
 2T, 22. These lines were suggested by Mrs. Wordsworth. Daffo- 
 dils still grow abundantly about Ullswater. 
 
 The Affliction of Margaret. 
 
 "Written at Town-End, Grasmere. This was taken from the case of 
 a poor widow who lived in the town of Penrith. Her sorrow was 
 
372 NOTES TO PAGES 168-174. 
 
 well known to Mrs. Wordsworth, to my sister, and, I believe, to the 
 whole town. She kept a shop, and when she saw a stranger passing 
 by, she was in the habit of going out into the street to inquire of him 
 after her son. — W. W. 
 
 No poet could have drawn this portrait until he had lived close to 
 the realities of the humblest lives. As an old dalesman has said, " He 
 was a kind mon, there 's no two words about that ; if any one was 
 sick i' the plaace he wad be off to see til 'em." Thus it was that he 
 entered into the mystery of suffering, and became — 
 
 " Convinced at heart, how vain 
 A correspondence with the talking world 
 Proves to the most." 
 
 This is a companion picture to the Story of Margaret in the Excur- 
 sion, the purpose of both being to awaken in us a responsive chord 
 to the sufferings of those about us, — in a word, to further the culture 
 of the finer feelings. 
 
 " Others will teach us how to dare 
 And against fear our breast to steel ; 
 Others will strengthen us to bear ; 
 But who, ah ! who will make us/*?^/?" 
 
 See Mr. Myers's analysis of this poem in Wordsworth^ English Men 
 of Letters. 
 
 Address to My Infant Daughter Dora. 
 
 Of Wordsworth's strong and deep love for his children we have 
 frequent evidence in his poems. For Dora he seems to have had the 
 most intense affection, loving her as his own soul. The Longest Day, 
 written in 1817, is addressed to her. After the sad illness of the Dear 
 Sister, Dora became his comforter and stay, and occupied in his later 
 life the same position which Dorothy had in his earlier. So depend- 
 ent upon her did he become, that her marriage was a severe trial for 
 him ; and when, in 1847, death came to her, Sir Henry Taylor says : 
 " A silence as of death fell upon him. ... I believe his genius never 
 again broke into song." 
 
 The Small Celandine. 
 See pp. 1 1 5-1 19 and notes. 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 175-177. 373 
 
 1805. 
 
 This year the Prelude was completed. 
 Ode to Duty. 
 
 This Ode is on the model of Gray's Ode to Adversity, which is copied 
 from Horace's Ode to Fortuiu. Many and many a time have I been 
 twitted by my wife and sister for having forgotten this dedication of 
 myself to the stern law-giver. Transgressor indeed I have been from 
 hour to hour, from day to day; I would fain hope, however, not more 
 flagrantly, or in a worse way than most of my tuneful brethren. But 
 these last words are in a wrong strain. We would be rigorous to 
 ourselves, and forbearing, if not indulgent, to others ; and if we make 
 comparison at all, it ought to be with those who have morally ex- 
 celled us.— W. W. 
 
 We have here the essential and eternal distinction between the 
 ethics of cold abstinence and of warm sympathy. " Thou shalt not '* 
 gives place to the " Thou shalt ; " love, not fear, is the impelling mo- 
 tive to righteousness. A man's worth to God measures his real worth, 
 " there is no shuffling there ; there offence's gilded hand " cannot 
 "shove by justice." 
 
 In Wordsworth's ideal of human life the " genial sense of youth " 
 is strengthened and confirmed by mature reason ; the truths of early 
 intuitions become the fixed principles of later life. Says Dr. Hud- 
 son : *' Man's ripest wisdom does its best, when it draws him back to 
 the purity and whiteness of the nursery." 
 
 Wordsworth teaches that there is a noble bondage — a " manly 
 dependence ; " that freedom rightly understood is unlimited license 
 — to do good, and that duty dignifies and ennobles life. It is at this 
 point that the influence of his poetry makes common cause with the 
 spirit of Christianity ; the work of the true poet and the true preacher 
 is one, as seen in the history of the nineteenth century ; men have 
 gone to Wordsworth and Newman, Coleridge and Robertson, Carlyle 
 and Maurice, Stanley and Browning, for moral quickening. 
 
 I would rather a child of mine should know and feel the high, im- 
 aginative teachings of Wordsworth's Ode to Duty, than any piece of 
 uninspired prose morality in the language. — Prof. Henry Reed. 
 
 Cf . Clough's Hope Evermore and Believe. 
 
 To a Skylark. 
 Of all Wordsworth's poems this seems the most inevitable ; it is as 
 spontaneous as the lark's own song. The idea that the life of Nature 
 
374 NOTES TO PAGES 177-184- 
 
 is one of enjoyment, of love and praise to the Almighty Giver, charae* 
 terizes that spirit of religious awe in which the Poet always walked 
 with Nature. The beauty of all such work as this consists in its deep 
 poetic rapture, and its high moral purpose, yet free from any taint of 
 didacticism. He looks upon Nature with the eye of the Psalmist and 
 sings his Master's praise. 
 
 " Only that is poetry," says Emerson, " which cleanses and mans 
 me." 
 
 See Shelley's To a Skylark. 
 
 Fidelity. 
 " The young man whose death gave occasion to this poem was 
 named Charles Gough, and had come early in the spring to Patterdale 
 for the sake of angling While attempting to cross over Helvellyn 
 to Grasmere, he slipped from a steep part of the rock where the ice 
 was not thawed, and perished. His body was discovered as described 
 in this poem. Walter Scott heard of the accident, and both he and I, 
 without either of us knowing that the other had taken up the subject, 
 each wrote a poem in admiration of the dog's fidelity. His contains 
 a most beautiful stanza : — 
 
 *' How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber ? 
 When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start ? " — W. W. 
 
 The traveller who ascends Helvellyn and wishes to go to Patterdale, 
 by passing along Striding Edge will see the monument erected there 
 to commemorate this act. 
 
 See Lockhart's Life of Scott, ed. 1871. 
 
 Incident Characteristic of a Favorite Dog. 
 
 This dog I knew well. It belonged to Mrs. Wordsworth's brother. 
 — W. W. 
 
 Tribute to the Memory of the Same Dog. 
 
 The dog " Music " died, aged and blind, by falling into a draw-well 
 at Gallow Hill. — W. W. 
 
 " When to the Attractions of a Busy World." 
 The grove was a favorite hajmt with us all, while we lived at Town- 
 End.— W. W. 
 
 In the year 1800 the brothers spent eight months together at the 
 Grasmere home ; they had seen but little of each other since child- 
 hood, and at this time the Poet found in his brother an intense and 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 184-188. 375 
 
 delicate appreciation of his poetry. In the Fir Grove, now called 
 John^s Grove, they spent many hours discussing what would be the 
 future of the Lyrical Ballads ; John Wordsworth confidently believed 
 that they would in time become appreciated, and hence he determined 
 to assist his brother in all possible ways. As captain of a merchant 
 vessel he had acquired some means, and he looked forward to the 
 time when he could settle at Grasmere, and enjoy the home in com- 
 pany with Dorothy and William. 
 
 The fir-grove is not far from the Wishing-Gate on the road over 
 White Moss Common toward Rydal. It is one of the most interest- 
 ing of the localities connected with the Poet and his brother. 
 
 Of. Prelude, vii. 43. 
 
 Stanzas on Peele Castle. 
 
 When in September, 1800, John left Grasmere, the brother and sister 
 accompanied him as far as Grisedale Tarn, on the way to Patterdale. 
 They then little thought it was to be his farewell to Grasmere, but so 
 it proved. Soon he was appointed captain of the " Abergavenny," an 
 East Indiaman; and on Feb. 5, 1805, when setting sail from Ports- 
 mouth, through the incompetence of the pilot, she struck the reefs of 
 the Bill of Portland, and was lost. Wordsworth says : — 
 
 "A few minutes before the ship went down my brother was seen 
 talking to the first mate with apparent cheerfulness ; he was standing 
 at a point where he could overlook the whole ship the moment she 
 went down, — dying, as he had lived, in the very place and point where 
 his duty called him." 
 
 The Poet soon after composed the following verses near the parting 
 place at the foot of Grisedale Tarn : — 
 
 " The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo ! 
 That instant, startled by the shock, 
 The Buzzard mounted from the rock 
 Deliberate and slow : 
 Lord of the air, he took his flight ; 
 Oh ! could he on that woeful night 
 Have lent his wing, my Brother dear, 
 For one poor moment's space to Thee, 
 And all who struggled with the Sea, 
 When safety was so near ! 10 
 
 " Thus in the weakness of my heart 
 I spoke (but let that pang be still) 
 When rising from the rock at will, 
 I saw the Bird depart. 
 
376 NOTES TO PAGES 18S-193. 
 
 And let me calmly bless the Power 
 That meets me in this unknown Flower, 
 Affecting type of him I mourn ! 
 With calmness suffer and believe, 
 And grieve, and know that I must grieve, 
 Not cheerless, though forlorn. 
 
 " Here did we stop ; and here looked round 
 While each into himself descends, 
 For that last thought of parting Friends 
 That is not to be found. 
 Hidden was Grasmere Vale from sight, 
 Our home and his, his heart's delight. 
 His quiet heart's selected home. 
 But time before him melts away. 
 And he hath feeling of a day 
 Of blessedness to come. 
 
 " Full soon in sorrow did I weep, 
 Taught that the mutual hope was dust. 
 In sorrow, but for higher trust, 
 How miserably deep ! 
 All vanished in a single word, 
 A breath, a sound, and scarcely heard ; 
 Sea — Ship — drowned — Shipwreck — so it came, 
 The meek, the brave, the good, was gone ; 
 He who had been our living John 
 Was nothing but a name. 
 
 " That was indeed a parting ! oh. 
 Glad am I, glad that it is past ; 
 For there were some on whom it cast 
 Unutterable woe. 
 
 But they as well as I have gains; — 
 From many a humble source, to pains 
 Like these, there comes a mild release ; 
 Even here I feel it, even this Plant 
 Is in its beauty ministrant 
 To comfort and to peace. 
 
 ** He would have loved thy modest grace, 
 Meek Flower ! To Him I would have said, 
 * It grows upon its native bed 
 Beside our Parting-place ; 
 There, cleaving to the ground it lies. 
 With multitude of purple eyes, 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 188-193. 377 
 
 Spangling a cushion green like moss ; 
 
 But we will see it, joyful tide 1 
 
 Some day, to see it in its pride, 
 
 The mountain will we cross.' «• 
 
 " — Brother and friend, if verse of mine 
 Have power to make thy virtues known, 
 Here let a Monumental Stone 
 Stand — sacred as a Shrine ; 
 And to the few who pass this way. 
 Traveller or Shepherd, let it say, 
 Long as these mighty rocks endure, — 
 Oh, do not thou too fondly brood, 
 Although deserving of all good, 
 On any earthly hope, however pure ! " TO 
 
 In execution of the Poet's wish, — 
 
 " Here let a Monumental Stone 
 Stand — sacred as a Shrine," — 
 
 the Wordsworth Society has caused lines 21-24, 61-64 of this poem to 
 be engr^^red upon a stone near the tarn. 
 
 In 18&7 I found the Meek Flower, Moss Campion, still growing 
 " upon its native bed." Cf. Prelude, xiv. 414. 
 
 Wordsworth in the letter from which I have quoted above con- 
 tinues : " I never wrote a line without the thought of giving him pleas- 
 ure; my writings were his delight, and one of the chief solaces of his 
 long voyages. But let me stop. I will not be cast down ; were it only 
 for his sake I will not be dejected." 
 
 Some have found, or think they have found, in this poem an illus- 
 tration oi pathetic fallacy, as Ruskin calls it, — the imposition upon 
 Nature of the Poet's own feeling. Let us see ; in the first part of the 
 poem the Poet sees the Sea at rest, not as a reflection of his own calm» 
 but because he has been familiar with it, not in storm but in calm ; he 
 knows its nature as manifested in repose, and hence cannot appreci- 
 ate the work of art which is at variance with his strongest impression. 
 In the closing part of the poem, he does not violate his philosophy, 
 for now having experienced what the storm at sea can do, the impres- 
 sion of calm is replaced by that of storm, and hence he can supply 
 what before was wanting, and appreciate the artist's work. The 
 truth which is here brought out is one which lies at the foundation 
 of all creation, as well as of all criticism — sympathy. This refining 
 influence of sorrow helps us to the solution of one of the deepest 
 problems of human existence. 
 
378 NOTES TO PAGES 188-193. 
 
 " Perhaps," says Mr. Myers, " in computing the fortune of any one 
 whom we hold dear, it may seem more needful to inquire, not whether 
 he has had enough of joy, but whether he has had enough of sorrow/' 
 
 Peele Castle is on the Isle of Man, and was once a residence oi 
 the Princes of Mona. 
 
 One of the two pictures of " Peele Castle in a Storm " is now in the 
 gallery of Sir George Beaumont at Coleorton Hall. — Professor 
 Knight. 
 
 See the succeeding poem. 
 
 To A Young Lady. 
 
 This poem was addressed to Dorothy Wordsworth. Also the fol- 
 lowing, which was written at the same time : — 
 
 Louisa.— After accompanying her on a Mountain Excursion. 
 
 I met Louisa in the shade, 
 
 And having seen that lovely maid, 
 
 Why should I fear to say 
 
 That nymph-like, she is fleet and strong, 
 
 And down the rocks can leap along 
 
 Like rivulets in May ? 
 
 She loves her fire, her cottage home ; 
 Yet o'er the moorland will she roam 
 In weather rough and bleak ; 
 And when against the wind she strains, 
 Oh ! might I kiss the mountain rains 
 That sparkle on her cheek 
 
 Take all that 's mine " beneath the moon," 
 
 If I with her but half a noon 
 
 May sit beneath the walls 
 
 Of some old cave, or mossy nook, 
 
 When up she winds along the brook 
 
 To hunt the waterfalls. 
 
 The following is from a letter by Dorothy : — 
 
 " He was never tired of comforting his sister ; he never left her in 
 anger; he always met her with joy; he preferred her society to every 
 other pleasure." 
 
 See Dorothy Wordsworth, by Edmund Lee. 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 194-198. 379 
 
 1806. 
 
 Character of the Happy Warrior. 
 
 Wordsworth's experience in connection with the French Revolution 
 made him a close observer of the effect of war upon character. In 
 the ninth book of the Prelude we have his description of the patriot 
 Beaupuis ; while in the Sonnets to Liberty we have a gallery of illustri- 
 ous portraits. Wordsworth's poetry is a great store-house of political 
 and patriotic eloquence, for although the homely Poet was as " retired 
 as5 noontide dew" he had a nature which was capable of manifesting a 
 Roman fortitude. The devotion which he paid to his ideal, in morals, 
 in poetry, and in politics, finds few parallels. 
 
 The death of Nelson, at the moment of victory, touched the whole 
 English nation. Occurring as it did so soon after the death of the 
 Poet's brother, in giving voice to his emotion he weaves together their 
 memories in a eulogy which for simplicity and power has no equal in 
 the language. 
 
 In this poem we have the purest and noblest manifestation of that 
 faith in God and Immortality which characterized Wordsworth as a 
 man and a poet. It is this truth, revealed not so much to the eye of 
 reason, as to the eye of the soul, which renders the life of men and 
 of nations divine. 
 
 " Perhaps he alone," says Mr. Hutton, " of all the great men of that 
 day, had seen the light of the countenance of God shining clear in the 
 face of Duty." 
 
 " Other poetry becomes trifling," says Leslie ^Stephen, " when we 
 are making our inevitable passages through the Valley of the Shadow 
 of Death." 
 
 See Whittier's poem on the Washington Centennial, April 30, 1889. 
 
 Stray Pleasures. 
 
 Suggested on the Thames, by the sight of one of those floating mills 
 that used to be seen there. This I noticed on the Surrey side be- 
 tween Somerset House and Blackfriar's Bridge. Charles Lamb was 
 with me at the time ; and I thought it remarkable that I should have 
 to point out to him^ an idolatrous Londoner, a sight so interesting as 
 the happy group dancing on the platform. — W. W. 
 
 "Yes, it was the Mountain Echo." 
 
 Written at Town-End, Grasmere. The echo came from Nab-Scar, 
 when I was walking on the opposite side of Rydal Mere. I will here 
 
380 NOTES TO PAGES 198-203. 
 
 mention for my dear sister's sake, that, while she was sitting alone 
 one day high up on this part of Loughrigg Fell, she was so affected by 
 the voice of the Cuckoo heard from the crags at some distance that 
 she could not suppress a wish to have a stone inscribed with her name 
 among the rocks from which the sound proceeded. On my return 
 from my walk I recited these verses to Mrs. Wordsworth. — W. W. 
 
 Often while on the Fells have I heard the voice of the Cuckoo from 
 across Rydal Mere. The terrace along the side of Loughrigg is one 
 of the favorite walks. No stone is to be found bearing Dorothy's 
 name, and it is well that it is safe from the hand of the Philistine who 
 has marred so many of these memorials. The relative position of the 
 mountains in the district renders the production of echoes a common 
 one. To one rowing upon Grasmere or Rydal Lake the voice is re- 
 peated with great variety ; while the echoes from the blasting at the 
 quarries remind one of the cannonading effect of thunder in our own 
 Catskills. 
 
 Lines on the Death of Mr. Fox. 
 
 The fact that Fox had sympathized with Wordsworth in the posi- 
 tion which he took in regard to the principles of the French Revolu- 
 tion, doubtless increased the Poet's sadness at his death. 
 
 The description in the first stanza is extremely accurate, for in any 
 of the vales of the district the effect of a sudden shower even, is such 
 as to produce a unison of voices from the becks, while the position 
 of the mountains causes the sounds to be reverberated, as mentioned 
 in a previous note. 
 
 See Scott's Marmion, Introduction to Canto I. 126-165. 
 
 Power of. Music. 
 
 Taken from life. — W. W. 
 
 In the seventh book of the Prelude the Poet gives us a view of 
 London as it appeared to him in 1791. In the spring of 1806 he spent 
 two months in the same city ; and if this poem was suggested by scenes 
 in this visit we see that he still carried with him the "watchful eye." 
 We have in this poem a refutation of the oft-repeated assertion that 
 Wordsworth had no appreciation of humor. See Reminiscences of 
 Wordsworth, in volume second of Essays on Poetry, by Aubrey de Vere. 
 
 Ode on Intimations of Immortality. 
 Two years, the Poet tells us, elapsed between the writing of the first 
 four stanzas and the remainder of the poem; "and," he continues, 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 203-210. 381 
 
 •* nothing was more difficult for me in childhood than to admit the 
 notion of death as a state applicable to my own being. But it was 
 not so much from feelings of animal vivacity that my difficulty came, 
 as from a sense of the indomitableness of the spirit within me. I was 
 often unable to think of external things as having external existence. 
 Many times while going to school I have grasped at a wall or tree to 
 recall myself from this abyss of idealism to the reality. In later pe- 
 riods of my life I have deplored, as we have all reason to do, the sub- 
 jugation of an opposite character." In regard to the belief in a prior 
 state of existence, he says : " I think it right to protest against a con- 
 clusion which has given pain to some good and pious persons, that I 
 meant to inculcate such a belief. It is far too shadowy a notion to 
 be recommended to faith, as more than an element in our instincts of 
 immortality. A pre-existent state has entered into the popular creeds 
 of many nations, and it is known as an ingredient in Platonic philoso- 
 phy. . . . When I was impelled to write this poem I took hold of the 
 notion of pre-existence as having sufficient foundation in humanity 
 for authorizing me to make for my purpose the best use of it I could 
 as a poet." 
 
 To those familiar with Wordsworth's work before this date, the 
 philosophy of this Ode will seem what in truth it is, — " the breath and 
 finer spirit of all knowledge." The two moods in which the Poet is 
 represented are but a reflection of what we have so often seen in his 
 poetry, — the relation of the soul to sense, and the possibility that 
 the former may forget its celestial birth. The subject of the poem — 
 the origin, development, and destiny of the human soul — has seldom 
 been absent from his poetry, while in treatment we find the same 
 gathering from his former methods. The total effect is perhaps the 
 grandest in the literature of the century, so that the term " in- 
 spired " is not forced when applied to the Poet who could produce 
 such a result. 
 
 Emerson says : " I am a better believer, and all serious souls are 
 better believers, in immortality than we can give grounds for. The 
 real evidence is too subtle, or is higher than we can write down in 
 propositions, and therefore Wordsworth's Ode is the best modern 
 essay on the subject." 
 
 The chief value of the poem arises from the fact that it never de- 
 scends to the plane of mere argument; it ever keeps on the high 
 ground of the essential identity of our childish instincts and our en- 
 lightened reason. The deepest truths of the soul cannot be argued, 
 they must be lived. In the first four stanzas we have the ^xperi- 
 
382 NOTES TO PAGES 210-211. 
 
 ence of our common humanity. Doomed as we are to go in company 
 with fear and sorrow, — " miserable train," — how are we to prevent 
 ourselves from "wronging " the joy of the life that is about us ? The 
 Poet, in the next four stanzas, answers the question by reviewing the 
 history of the soul, and tracing the steps by which it reached that 
 stage. He finds that it is because the soul has become centred in 
 the seen and the temporal, and has thus lost its glory and its beauty ; 
 it has wellnigh destroyed its spiritual vision. In the concluding 
 stanzas he shows us that this may be regained, and that the melan- 
 choly fear may be subdued by a return to those simple ways in which 
 our childhood walked. We must become as little children in this life 
 of the soul, and by blending early intuition and mature reason we 
 shall be able to see into the life of things. Thus it is that the Poet 
 teaches better science than the Scientist, better philosophy than the 
 Philosopher, and better religion than the Priest. Every line of the 
 poem is worthy of the closest study. 
 
 See Browning's Rabbi Ben Ezra ; Theism of Wordsworth^ by Pro* 
 fe«sor Veitch, in Wordsworth Society Transactions^ viii. 
 
 1807. 
 
 "O Nightingale! thou surely art—" 
 
 Written at Town-End, Grasmere. (Mrs. W. says in a note — "At 
 Coleorton.") 
 
 In 1803 Wordsworth's friendship for Sir George Beaumont, of Cole- 
 orton Hill, Leicestershire, began. Beaumont was a descendant of the 
 dramatist of that name, and was distinguished for his ability as an 
 artist. This friendship was advantageous for both the painter and the 
 poet. Wordsworth's quick discernment of the beauty of Nature made 
 him a critic of the art of landscape gardening, and when Beaumont 
 was laying out the grounds of Coleorton Hall the Poet was of great 
 assistance to him. 
 
 In 1806 the Wordsworths went to Coleorton to spend the winter, 
 and it is probable that this poem was written there. 
 
 The following is from an inscription written by Wordsworth and 
 engraved on a stone in the grounds at Coleorton : — 
 
 " The embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine 
 Will not unwillingly their place resign, 
 If but the Cedar thrive that near them stands, 
 Planted by Beaumont's and by Wordsworth's hands. 
 
NOTES TO PAGE 211. 383 
 
 One wooed the silent art with studious pains ; 
 These groves have heard the other's pensive strains ; 
 Devoted thus their spirits did unite 
 By interchange of knowledge and delight." 
 
 Wordsworth was pre-eminently the poet of the home ; his interests 
 clustered around the cottage hearth. 
 
 " To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts " 
 was his delight. Into the region of romance he seldom ventured, 
 preferring to deal with " Nature's unambitious underwood." Can it 
 be that in the contrast which he here draws between the nightingale 
 and the stock-dove he intends to indicate the difference between his 
 sphere and that of some other poets } 
 
 See Keats's Ode to a Nightingale. For details in regard to Coleor- 
 ton, see Memories of Coleorton, Knight. 
 
 Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle. 
 
 This poem was composed at Coleorton while I was walking to 
 and fro along the path which led from Sir George Beaumont's farm- 
 house, where we resided, to the Hall, which was building at that 
 time. — W. W. 
 
 The Saxon kingdom of Deira (Northumberland) included what is 
 now Lancashire, Yorkshire, Westmoreland, Cumberland, and Durham. 
 The division into counties was made by Egbert (825) when he ap- 
 pointed for each a Comes to rule in temporal, and a Bishop to rule in 
 spiritual, things. Lonkeshire was named from Loncaster, the castle 
 on the Lone. Alfred had allowed the Danes to settle in these regions, 
 and they were a source of great trouble until William subdued them. 
 He built the stronghold, Lancaster Castle, and appointed Ivo Tail- 
 bois, of the house of Anjou, Baron of Kendal. This is the beginning 
 of the House of Lancaster. 
 
 The history of WestW(?rdand — the country of the Western lakes — 
 is closely connected with that long and illustrious line which began in 
 Roger de Clifford. The eighth in the line was John Lord Clifford, 
 who espoused the cause of the Lancastrians. After the battle of 
 Wakefield he slew the son of the Duke of York, in revenge for the 
 death of his father at the hands of the Yorkists, and was himself 
 slain at Ferrybridge the day before the battle of Towton (1461). The 
 family were deprived of their estates, and Henry, the subject of the 
 poem, was obliged to live in concealment for twenty-four years, dur- 
 ing which time he lived the life of a shepherd. After the battle of 
 Bosworth Field the Shepherd Lord was restored to his own by 
 
384 NOTES TO PAGES 21 1-2 14. 
 
 Henry VII. He spent his time in peaceful pursuits until I5i3,when, 
 at the age of sixty, he was appointed to a command over the army 
 which fought at Flodden. He died at the age of seventy, and was 
 buried at Bolton Priory. 
 
 1-4. Brougham Castle is situated on the river Emont, about one 
 mile and a half from Penrith. It is now in ruins. During the last 
 half of the sixteenth century the castle was neglected, and it suffered 
 much as Furness Abbey has suffered, — the stone of which has been 
 used for dwellings. " Brave and bonny " Cumberland during the 
 Border Wars and the Wars of the Roses erected castle after castle, 
 many rums of which now stand, grim historians of the political life 
 of those days. See Prelude^ vi. 190-220. 
 
 7. From first battle of St. Albans, 1455, to battle of Bosworth, 
 
 1485. 
 
 13. The marriage of Henry VII. with Elizabeth of York. 
 
 27. From Battle of Bosworth Field, by Sir John Beaumont, and al- 
 ludes to the many murders committed by Richard III. 
 
 36. Castle in Yorkshire comprised in the estates of the Cliffords, 
 deserted while the Peasant Lord was attainted. When the disso- 
 lution of the Monasteries was followed by insurrection the dis- 
 possessed Heads were finally repulsed at Skipton by the Earl of 
 Northumberland. 
 
 40. Another of the castles of the Cliffords, near the source of 
 the river Eden, Cumberland, destroyed in 1685. Its origin is ascribed 
 to Uther Pendragon, the mighty Briton who withstood so long the 
 ravages of the ruthless Saxons. Tradition says he tried to alter the 
 course of the river to better fortify this castle, but failed. 
 
 *' Let Uther Pendragon do what he can, 
 The river Eden will run as it ran." 
 
 44, 45. Brough Castle, on the Hillbeck stream, which flows into the 
 Eden, and is probably older than the Norman Conquest. 
 
 46, 47. Appleby Castle, a ruin since 1565. 
 
 54. The mother of Henry Lord Clifford was Margaret, daughter of 
 Lord Vesci. 
 
 73. Carrock-fell, not far from Castle Sowerby, Cumberland. 
 
 89-92. The vale of Mosedale is north of Blencathara (Saddleback), 
 a mountain not far from Keswick. Glenderamakin rises on the high 
 ground not far from Saddleback. 
 
 94-100. Sir Lancelot Threlkeld concealed the boy on his estates in 
 Cumberland. 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 214-217. 385 
 
 In the Waggoner we have : — 
 
 " And see beyond that hamlet small 
 The ruined towers of Threlkeld Hall. 
 There at Blencathara's rugged feet, 
 Sir Lancelot gave a safe retreat 
 To noble Clifford." 
 
 The hall is now a ruin, save one portion used as a farmhouse. 
 
 123. It was a belief, in the olden time, that there were two im- 
 mortal fish in this tarn. It is not far from Blencathara. 
 
 142-145. These lines have a genuine epic ring, and reflect the life 
 of the time — a time filled with the prejudices, the passions, and the 
 pomp of war. The Northern Heights seem to have contributed their 
 full share toward all these. In 1584 we find that Cumberland and 
 Westmoreland furnished " Eight thousand three hundred and fifty 
 horsemen, archers, and billmen." The Kendal men are mentioned 
 with honor at the battle of Flodden — 
 
 " There are the bows of Kentdale bold 
 Who fierce will fight and never flee." 
 
 Wordsworth's Muse loves to range 
 
 " Where untroubled peace and concord dwells," 
 
 and seldom does she lead him into the fields of chivalry and romance. 
 In but two instances do we have subjects which would permit of the 
 full epic treatment. 
 
 In this poem he does not dwell, as Scott would have done, upon the 
 mustering of the forces, the description of the leaders, the shock of 
 battle, and the deeds of prowess, but upon those qualities of the Shep. 
 herd Lord which distinguish him as a man and by which he was en- 
 deared to all. The treatment is subjective rather than objective, and 
 in its rapid movement from t\it jubilate at the opening, through the 
 various phases of family fortune, to the slowly moving, meditative 
 stanzas at the close, the poem is representative of the variety of form 
 and feeling of which Wordsworth was master. This is, I take it, 
 what Coleridge means when he says : — 
 
 " From no contemporary writer could so many lines be quoted, with- 
 out reference to the poem in which they are to be found, for their own 
 independent weight and beauty." 
 
 The Force of Prayer. 
 
 Written as an appendage to the White Doe of Rylstone, and in the 
 advertisement to that poem Wordsworth says that in 1807 he visited 
 
 . 25 
 
386 NOTES TO PAGES 217-220. 
 
 for the first time the beautiful country that surrounds Bolton Priory in 
 Yorkshire. It was with the Canons of Bolton that the good Lord Clif- 
 ford is said to have followed the pursuit of astronomy and alchemy. 
 Bolton Priory is situated in the picturesque valley of the Wharf. 
 About half a mile above the Priory the valley narrows and the jut- 
 ting rocks almost meet above the river. This chasm is called the Strid. 
 The teaching of this poem is to be found expanded in the Excursion : 
 " The darts of anguish^;*; not where the seat 
 
 Of suffering hath been thoroughly fortified 
 
 By acquiescence in the Will supreme 
 
 For time and for eternity." 
 
 Of this poem Lamb says : — 
 
 " Young Romilly is divine ; the reasons of the mother's grief being 
 remediless. I never saw parental love carried up so high, towering 
 above the other loves. Shakespeare had done something for the filial 
 in Cordelia, and by implication for the fatherly too, in Lear's resent- 
 ment ; he left it for you to explore the depths of the maternal grief." 
 
 1814. 
 
 Most of the poems written between 1807 and 18 14 were sonnets, while 
 at the same time the Excursion was being written. In 1808, Dove Cot- 
 tage being too small for the family, they removed to Allan Bank, on the 
 western side of the lake, where they lived for three years ; then they 
 moved to the Parsonage near the Church. In 1813 Rydal Mount be- 
 came their home. 
 
 Laodamia. 
 
 1814 marks an era in the poetical life of Wordsworth. In the 
 /)reparation of his eldest son for the University, he was drawn more 
 closely to the classic writers, especially Virgil, and this Country-loving 
 Poet had new delights for him., The picture in the sixth ^neid sug- 
 gested to him this loftiest and most pathetic of his poems. 
 
 The hero and heroine are taken from Homer and Ovid, and the 
 whole tone of the poem is the finest and richest expression of classic 
 beauty and finish. It is in marked contrast to the severe ruggedness 
 of Michael, and the magical smoothness of the Solitary Reaper, yet it 
 is like them in the perfect harmony of theme and the expression. 
 Thus it may be said that the Poet had as many styles as the nature 
 of his subjects required. 
 
 Sacrifice is the crowning attribute of that "blessed love" which 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 220-231. 387 
 
 had always been the subject of his song, and this poem is the amplest 
 of his utterances upon this divine quality in man. It is the favorite 
 of the critics. Hazlitt wrote : " It breathes the pure spirit of the 
 finest fragments of antiquity. It is a poem that might be read aloud 
 in Elysium, and the spirits of departed heroes and sages would gather 
 round to listen to it." Landor pronounced Laodamia to be " a com- 
 position such as Sophocles might have exulted to own." 
 
 Aubrey de Vere says : " After I had read Laodamia (which was 
 his introduction to Wordsworth), some strong calm hand seemed to 
 have been laid on my head ; a new world opened itself out. I was 
 translated into another planet of song." 
 
 Dion. 
 
 Another product of this revival of interest in the classics was Dion. 
 In language as majestic as it is transparent he weaves a wreath for 
 the dead philosopher, and teaches that the only real failure for a man 
 is the retreat from his high ideals. This is the lesson of Qidipus, of 
 Hamlet, and of Brutus — the failure of the idealist in a positive world. 
 For those who measure success by our present standards of material- 
 ism such lives present but little of interest, while for those who be- 
 lieve that nothing but real worth can succeed in the end, they bring 
 consolation and strength ; for — 
 
 " Right is right, since God is God, 
 And Right the day must win." 
 
 Lamb wrote : " The story of Dion is divine — the genius of Plato fall- 
 ing on him like moonlight, the finest thing ever expressed." 
 See Plutarch. 
 
 Composed at Cora Linn.i 
 
 On the i8th of July, 1814, Wordsworth, in company with his wife 
 and Sara Hutchinson, left Rydal for a tour in Scotland. Only four 
 poems were the product of this visit. 
 
 In the first book of the Prelude, Wordsworth tells us that "when an 
 earnest longing rose to brace himself to some determined aim," among 
 the various subjects which suggested themselves was the following ; 
 
 " How Wallace died for Scotland; left the name 
 Of Wallace, to be found, like a wild flower, 
 All over his dear country ; left the deeds 
 
 1 Water-fall. 
 
388 NOTES TO PAGES 231-236. 
 
 Of Wallace, like a family of Ghosts 
 
 To people the steep rocks and river banks.** 
 
 See Burns's Scots wha hae wf Wallace Bled. 
 6. The Castle of Corra, near the water-fall. 
 
 Yarrow Visited. 
 
 In his first visit to Scotland Wordsworth was fortunate in having 
 made the acquaintance of Walter Scott ; now he meets him whom 
 Scott, while gathering the Border Minstrelsy, had discovered on the 
 hills of Ettrick — James Hogg. Having spent the night at Traquair, 
 on the following morning the Ettrick Shepherd met them and became 
 their guide to the " bonny holms of Yarrow." They were now in the 
 one spot of all that "singing country " toward which they had looked 
 with the fondest anticipation. The spontaneous interrogation, min- 
 gled with surprise and perhaps disappointment, bursts forth, — 
 ** And is this — Yarrow ? " 
 
 There is no place in the Highlands so rich in tender associations 
 and natural beauty as the vale of Yarrow. It has been the subject of 
 those nameless singers whose ballads were first caught and given to 
 the world by Scott in his Border Minstrelsy. One who visits this 
 scene should be familiar with such ballads as The Douglas Tragedy, 
 The Dowie Dens of Yarrow, Lament of the Border H'idow, The Song 
 of Outlaw Murray, and Auld Maitland, all of which belong to Yar- 
 row and Ettrick. On an early morning in August, 1887, I went alone 
 on my first visit to these vales. The sun was just beginning to scatter 
 the clothing of mist and reveal the braes and bens with their grace- 
 ful flowing outline, the clear streams winding through the fern and 
 heather, the mouldering towers of Dryhope, where the Border chief- 
 tains came to woo the lovely Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow, and 
 clear St. Mary's Loch visibly delighted with her exquisite setting of 
 emerald and purple. Then it was that I appreciated these lines — 
 
 " Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 
 A softness still and holy " — 
 
 such was the pensive loveliness of the scene. 
 
 In purity, sweetness, and pathos ; in inimitable ease and grace of 
 metre ; in intense realization of the secret of Nature, — these Yarrow 
 poems are simply perfect. It is no wonder that with such weapons 
 Wordsworth could put to flight the literary gladiators who could not 
 distinguish poetry from verse. 
 
 Cf. Introduction to Canto i. of Scott's Marmion^ 1-36. 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 236-240. 389 
 
 1816. 
 
 To . 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. The lady was Miss Blackett, then resid- 
 ing with Mr. Montagu Burgoyne at Fox-Ghyll. We were tempted 
 to remain too long upon the mountain ; and I, imprudently, with the 
 hope of shortening the way, led her among the crags and down a steep 
 slope which entangled us in difficulties that were met by her with 
 much spirit and courage. — W. W. 
 
 29. Cf. Paradise Lost, Book iii. 736-742. 
 
 1817. 
 
 Ode to Lycoris. 
 
 This poem was written in front of Rydal Mount, and in connection 
 with it Wordsworth says : " Surely one who has written so much in 
 verse as I have done may be allowed to retrace his steps in the re- 
 gions of fancy which delighted him in his boyhood, when he first 
 became acquainted with the Greek and Roman poets. Before I read 
 Virgil I was strongly attached to Ovid. As to Homer, I was never 
 weary of the scenes through which he led me." The following lines 
 of the poem To the Same show that these poems were addressed to 
 his wife or his sister : — 
 
 " Dearest Friend ! 
 We too have known such happy hours together 
 That, were power granted to replace them (fetched 
 From out the pensive shadows where they lie) 
 In the first warmth of their original sunshine, 
 Loath should I be to use it : passing sweet 
 Are the domains of tender memory ! " 
 
 Pass of Kirkstone. 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. Thoughts and feelings of many walks in 
 all weathers, by day and night, over this Pass, alone and with beloved 
 friends. — W. W. 
 
 If one is staying at Grasmere a pleasant tramp of two days may be 
 made by crossing Helvellyn by Grisdale Tarn to Patterdale, and re- 
 turning by way of Kirkstone Pass and Ambleside. From Patterdale 
 one passes Brother's Water, the scene of the Daffodils, and near the 
 summit of the Pass on the right the Kirk stones. The famous inn is 
 said to be the highest inhabited house in England. The views on 
 
390 NOTES TO PAGES 240-248. 
 
 the route are of surpassing beauty, although all is so desolate there. 
 From the inn to Ambleside the scenery is in marked contrast to the 
 ruggedness and desolation of the ascent. Wansfell and Red Screes 
 are near at hand as guardians of the Vale, while below lies Winder- 
 mere, her islands and her gleaming bays beautiful in the dark frame- 
 work of wooded hills, 
 
 " Magnificent and beautiful and gay." 
 
 Wordsworth's inspiration in the closing lines of this poem is indica- 
 tive of those spiritual heights from which at times this " Prophet of 
 the moral depths of the human soul " viewed the world. 
 
 41-48. Among the evidences of Roman occupation in these regions 
 are the roads. In Hodgson's History of Northumberland Kirkstone 
 Pass is mentioned as one of the roads by which Agricola led his two 
 columns into Westmoreland. 
 
 Sequel to the Beggars. 
 See note to the Beggars, 1802. 
 
 1818. 
 
 Composed upon an Evening of Extraordinary Splendor and Beauty. 
 
 Felt and in great part composed upon the little mount in front of 
 our abode at Rydal. — W. W. 
 
 61-80. Cf. Ode on Intimations of Immortality. 
 
 After the production of the immortal Ode (1806) Wordsworth's in- 
 spiration did not again reach that lofty height, unless upon this occa- 
 sion, when the glory and splendor, the " intermingling of heaven's 
 pomp," was witnessed during a sunset among the Westmoreland hills. 
 Surely the purity, the sublimity, the grace, and simplicity of the Ode 
 are here reproduced with an element of " peace supreme " which is 
 the product of Christian faith. Cf. Bryant's Rivulet. 
 
 Near the Spring of the Hermitage. 
 
 This poem is one of a series of Inscriptions supposed to be found in 
 or near a Hermit'' s Cell. Written at Rydal. 
 Cf. My Heart Leaps Up, 1802. 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 249-254. 39 ^ 
 
 1819. 
 
 September, 1819. 
 Composed in front of Rydal Mount and during my walks in the 
 neighborhood. — W. W. 
 
 In the Ode to Lycoris we have ; — 
 
 " When Nature marks the year's decline 
 Be ours to welcome it." 
 
 It is true that Wordsworth when young wrote with a seriousness 
 which was almost premature. Now the experiences of sorrow have 
 brought the "philosophic mind," and a mood more serene, more 
 " sweetly gracious," succeeds. The optimism of the first four stanzas 
 is a reflection from the Ode to Duty. 
 
 " Serene will be our days and bright " 
 when love has been the motive of our lives, for then " the least of 
 things seem infinite." 
 
 29, 30. " He serves the Muses erringly and ill 
 
 Whose aim is pleasure, light and fugitive." 
 
 36. Cf. Horace, Ode Ad Lollium. 
 40. Sappho, Ode to Aphrodite. 
 
 1820. 
 
 The River Duddon. 
 To the Rev. Dr. Wordsworth. 
 
 At this time Dr. Christopher Wordsworth was rector of Lambeth 
 parish ; he afterward became Master of Trinity. 
 
 49-54. Cf. Sonnet, Spirit of Cockermouth Castle, also Prelude, \. 269 
 et seq. 
 
 55-60. Cf. Sonnets XI., XII. 
 
 1823. 
 
 Memory. 
 
 Wordsworth, in the note to Lines Written in Macpherson's Ossian, 
 says that these lines on Memory were suggested by some apprehen- 
 sions of the fate of Hartley Coleridge. 
 
 The even and tranquil course in which the Poet's last years flowed 
 on, notwithstanding the " immeasurable loss " of Dora, is fitly repre- 
 
392 NOTES TO PAGES 254-260. 
 
 sented in the closing stanzas of this poem. Mr. Myers asks : " What 
 touch has given to these lines their impress of unfathomable peace } 
 There speaks from them a tranquillity which seems to overcome our 
 souls; which makes us feel that we are travelling to a region where 
 * immoderate fear shall leave us, and inordinate love shall die.' " 
 
 To the Lady Fleming. 
 
 The Flemings are descended from Sir Michael le Fleming, brother- 
 in-law of William the Conqueror. He came over with William, and 
 in reward for services against the Scots received manors in Lanca- 
 shire and Cumberland, Coningstone Hall being one. See note to 
 Conclusion of a Poem, 1795. 
 
 In the grant to Furness Abbey given by Stephen, nephew of Henry I., 
 in 1 1 27, we find "with all the lands thereof, with sac and soc, tol and 
 team, infangtheof, and everything within Furness, except the lands of 
 Michael le Fleming." 
 
 Rydal estate came to Thomas le Fleming of Coningstone by his 
 marriage with Isabella, co-heir with Sir John de Lancastre, to whose 
 ancestors it had been granted by Margaret, widow of Robert de Ros, 
 1274. Grasmere Church, formerly a chapelry under the mother 
 church of Kendal, was in the time of Elizabeth sold to the Le Flem- 
 ings of Rydal. 
 
 Rydal Mount, more frequently described than any English poet's 
 home except Shakespeare's, belonged to Rydal Hall. 
 
 1824. 
 
 "O dearer far than light and life are dear." 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. To Mrs. W. — W. W. 
 
 The picture of Wordsworth's wedded life is a delight. Every allu- 
 sion that he makes to his wife is full of the deepest love and rever- 
 ence. When processes of logic bring him doubt, her love with its 
 " sober certainties " comes to his relief. She thus, " not too bright or 
 good for human nature's daily food," was able to ** cherish and up- 
 hold " him. 
 
 The following poem to Mrs. Wordsworth was written this year : — 
 
 Let other bards of angels sing. 
 
 Bright suns without a spot ; 
 But thou art no such perfect thing ; 
 
 Rejoice that thou art not ! 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 260-270. 393 
 
 Heed not tho' none should call thee fair: 
 
 So, Mary, let it be 
 If naught in loveliness compare 
 
 With what thou art to me. 
 
 True beauty dwells in deep retreats, 
 
 Whose veil is unremoved 
 Till heart with heart in concord beats, 
 
 And the lover is beloved. 
 
 See Harriet Martineau's Biographical Essays. 
 
 Written on a Blank Leaf of Macpherson's Ossian. 
 The verses — 
 
 "or strayed 
 From hope and promise, self-betrayed " — 
 
 were, I am sorry to say, suggested from apprehensions of the fate of 
 my friend H. C.,i the subject of the verses addressed To H. C. when 
 six years old. The piece to Memory arose out of similar feelings. — 
 W. W. 
 See Modern Gaelic Bards in Professor Shairp's Aspects 0/ Poetry. 
 
 1825. 
 
 To a Skylark. 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. — W. W. 
 
 Cf. the earlier (1805) poem on the same subject; also Shelley's 
 Skylark. 
 
 1826. 
 
 The Pillar of Trajan. 
 
 This was given as the subject for the Newdigate prize poem at 
 Oxford, and Wordsworth wished his son John, who was then an un- 
 dergraduate there, to try for it. On his declining to do so, the Poet 
 wrote this to show him what could be done with the subject. 
 
 The column was set up by the Senate and people in commemora- 
 tion of the conquest of Dacia by Trajan. It was 132 feet high and 
 surmounted by a colossal statue of the Emperor ; it stood in the cen- 
 tre of the Forum Trajanum. The sculptures which covered it pic- 
 ture the Dacian wars. See Merivale's Romans under the Emperors. 
 
 55-60. Cf. Character of the Happy Warrior. 
 
 1 Hartley Coleridge. 
 
394 NOTES TO PAGES 270-276. 
 
 1828. 
 
 The Wishing Gate. 
 Written at Rydal. See alsd Wishing-gate Destroyed. — W. W. 
 A gate still stands in the old place, and from the inscriptions cut/ 
 upon it one would judge that " Hope " still rules there. 
 
 Beside the wishing gate which so they name, 
 Mid northern hills to nie this fancy came, 
 A wish I formed, my wish I thus expressed : 
 Would I could wish my wishes all to rest 
 And know to wish the wish that were the best. 
 
 Arthur Hugh Clough. 
 
 The Wishing-Gate Destroyed. 
 
 In regard to the occasion of the second poem Wordsworth says : 
 " Having been told that this gate had been destroyed, and the opening 
 where it hung walled up, I gave vent immediately to my feelings in 
 these stanzas. But going to the place some time after, I found with 
 much delight my old favorite unmolested." 
 
 " In these Fair Vales hath Many a Tree." 
 Inscription for a Stone in the Grounds at Rydal Mount. 
 
 Engraven during my absence in Italy, upon a brass plate inserted 
 in the stone. — W. W. 
 
 The inscription still remains upon the stone. Rev. Mr. Rawnsley, 
 in his Reminiscences of Wordsworth among the Peasantry, gives the fol- 
 lowing from a dalesman : " He 'ud never pass folks draining, or ditch- 
 ing, or walling a cottage but what he 'd stop and say, ' Eh dear, but it 's 
 a pity to move that stoan, and doant ya think ya might leave that tree ? ' 
 I 'member there was a walling chap just going to shoot a girt stoan to 
 bits wi' powder in the grounds at Rydal, and he came up and saaved 
 it, and wrote summat on it." 
 
 1831. 
 
 The Primrose of the Rock. 
 Written at Rydal Mount. The rock stands on the right hand, a 
 little way leading up the middle road from Rydal to Grasmere. We 
 have been in the habit of calling it the Glow-worm Rock, from the 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 276-278. 395 
 
 number of glow-worms we have often seen hanging on it as described. 
 — W. W. 
 
 We walked in the evening to Rydal. Coleridge and I lingered be- 
 hind. We all stood to look at the Glow-worm Rock — a primrose 
 that grew there, and just looked out on the road from its own shel- 
 tered bower. — Dorothy Wordsworth, 1802. 
 
 The rock still remains. 
 
 No one can fail to notice the contrast between the buoyant charm 
 and natural magic of the Daffodils, and the slower, sweeter, and more 
 reserved style of this poem. Here symbol is everything, reality next 
 to nothing. We must admit that the later style is more in keeping 
 with the truth of human life, for to most of us it is, if not sad, at least 
 a serious thing, and we need such poetry as this, with its "sweet 
 reasonableness," to keep us from becoming disheartened. 
 
 " The Primrose of the Rock,^^ says Aubrey de Vere, " is as distinctly 
 Wordsworthian in its inspiration as it is Christian in its doctrine." 
 
 Yarrow Revisited. 
 
 In the autumn of 1831 Wordsworth and his daughter set out for 
 Scotland to visit once again the old friend. Sir Walter Scott, then in 
 declining health. At Abbotsford they met many of Scott's family 
 and friends — Major Scott, Anne Scott, Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart, and 
 William Laidlaw. 
 
 On the next morning Scott accompanied them to Newark Castle 
 6n the Yarrow. The events of this day are commemorated in the 
 poem. There seems to be a deep significance in the fact that this 
 time the two poets did not linger on the braes and bens, but about 
 the mouldering ruin of Newark ; we can see in it the effect of the 
 thought that this was probably the last meeting of the two. The 
 fear that Scott would not be able to revive his strength, even upon 
 " Warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes," oppresses Wordsworth and colors 
 the whole poem. These forebodings proved too true. This was not 
 only their last meeting, but it was Scott's last visit to the Vale of Yar- 
 row and the scenes he loved so dearly. The poem, although in many 
 respects unequal to the others upon the same subject, is nevertheless 
 a tender and affectionate memorial of the love of two poets differing 
 widely in character and methods. 
 
 "On the 22d," says Mr. Lockhart, "these two great poets, who had 
 through life loved each other and appreciated each others genius 
 more than infirm spirits ever did either of them, spent the morning 
 together in a visit to Newark. Hence the last of the three poems by 
 
39^ NOTES TO PAGES 278-283. 
 
 which Wordsworth has connected his name to all time with the most 
 romantic of Scottish streams. " 
 
 Cf. Remembrance of the Braes of Yarrow^ by Professor Shairp. 
 
 On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott from Abbotsford, for Naples. 
 
 On their return from Newark in the afternoon they crossed the 
 Tweed just above Abbotsford ; as the wheels grated upon the pebbles 
 of the stream Wordsworth noticed the sad light which settled upon 
 the Eildon Hills, and thinking it might be the last time Sir Walter 
 would cross the stream, he was moved to express his feelings, which 
 he did in this sonnet. It is the finest tribute ever paid by one poet 
 to another. 
 
 On the morning of the day upon which Wordsworth left Abbots- 
 ford Sir Walter had written in Dora's album, and on putting the book 
 into her hand he said, " I should not have done anything of this kind 
 but for your father's sake : they are probably the last verses I shall 
 ever write." They were his last. One stanza is as follows : — 
 
 ♦'And meet it is that he who saw 
 The first faint rays of genius burn 
 Snould mark their latest light with awe, 
 Low glimmering from their funeral urn." 
 
 When Wordsworth on parting expressed the hope that he would be 
 restored to health by this visit to Italy, Sir Walter replied in words 
 from Yarrow Unvisited. This incident is recalled in Wordsworth's 
 Musings in Aquapendente : — 
 
 " He said, * When I am there, although 't is fair, 
 'T will be another Yarrow.' Prophecy 
 More than fulfilled, as gay Campania's shores 
 Soon witnessed and the city of the seven hills." 
 
 Wordsworth after his return sent these two poems to Scott 
 
 1832. 
 
 Devotional Incitements. 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. — W. W. 
 
 This poem gives conclusive evidence that in old age Wordsworth 
 still preserved his young love for Nature, and his magical interpre- 
 tive power. The keenness of insight, the lyric rapture, the soothing 
 effect of this poem written at the age of sixty-two, indicate that the 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 283-287. 397 
 
 prayer he uttered for another had been answered for him, and an old 
 age serene and bright had been granted. This Vesper Hymn, in- 
 stinct with that " grace divine," without which there can be no Sab- 
 bath of the heart, should be read in connection with the matins in the 
 Excursion : — 
 
 " Descend, prophetic Spirit ! that inspir'st 
 
 The human Soul. Upon me bestow 
 
 A gift of genuine insight ; that my song 
 
 With star-like virtue in its place may shine, 
 
 Shedding benignant influence." 
 
 "If thou Indeed." 
 
 These verses were written some time after we had become resi- 
 dents of Rydal Mount, and I will take occasion from them to observe 
 upon the beauty of that situation, as being backed and flanked by lofty 
 fells which bring the heavenly bodies to touch, as it were, the earth 
 upon the mountain tops, while the prospect in front lies open to a 
 length of level valley, the extended lake, and a terminating ridge of 
 low hills ; so that it gives an opportunity to the inhabitants of the 
 place of noticing the stars in both positions here alluded to, namely, 
 on the tops of the mountains and as winter lamps at a distance among 
 the leafless trees. — W. W. 
 
 We see from the above what a realist Wordsworth was as regards 
 the origin of his poems, and this makes them exceedingly interesting 
 to a visitor in the Country of the Lakes. 
 
 Cf. Sonnet, To B. R. ffaydon, 1815. 
 
 1833. 
 
 "If this Great World." 
 This poem has reference to the excitement caused by the Reform 
 Bill. 
 
 1834. 
 
 "Not In the Lucid Intervals of Life." 
 
 The lines following " nor do words " were written with Lord Byron's 
 character, as a poet, before me, and that of others, his contemporaries, 
 who wrote under like influences. — W. W. 
 
 Compare sonnet, The world is too much with usy 1806. 
 
398 NOTES TO PAGES 287-293. 
 
 There is no whining, no cynicism here, but the manly utterance of 
 one who knew that better things were near if one had the inclination 
 to reach forth and appropriate them. 
 
 To a Child. 
 
 This quatrain was extempore on observing this image, as I had 
 often done, on the lawn of Rydal Mount. It was first written down 
 in the album of my god-daughter, Rotha Quillinan. — W. W. 
 
 1835. 
 
 Written after the Death of Charles Lamb. 
 
 Mary Lamb was ten years older than her brother, and has survived 
 him as long a time. Were I to give way to my own feelings, I should 
 dwell not only on her genius and intellectual powers, but upon the 
 delicacy and refinement of her manners, which she maintained invio- 
 lable under most trying circumstances. She was loved and honored 
 by all her brother's friends. The death of Charles Lamb was hastened 
 by his sorrow for that of Coleridge. — W. W. 
 
 The story of the lives of Charles and Mary Lamb is one which, 
 while sad and touching, reveals a sweetness and fraternal fidelity 
 unparalleled in history. What a contrast is the companion picture of 
 Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy in their happy lives of health and 
 strength ! Lamb was buried in Edmonton church-yard in a spot 
 selected by himself. 
 
 23. Cf. Lamb's sonnet addressed to his own name. ^ 
 
 See Talfourd's Life of Charles Lamb ; also Wordsworth and Charles 
 Lamb, in Transactions of the Wordsworth Society. 
 
 Extempore Effusion upon the Death of James Hogg. 
 
 These lines were written extempore immediately after reading a 
 notice of the Ettrick Shepherd's death, in a Newcastle paper, to the 
 editor of which Wordsworth sent a copy for publication. In Lock- 
 hart's Life of Scott, an account is given of their first meeting, in 1803. 
 Crabbe he had met in London at Mr. Rogers's, and in rambles upon 
 Hampstead Heath. Mrs. Hemans, who lived at Dovenest on Win- 
 dermere, he knew intimately and loved for her amiable qualities, and 
 her irreproachable conduct during her long separation from an unfeel- 
 ing husband. Of his friendship for Coleridge and Scott his poems 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 293-296. 399 
 
 are a sufficient history. With the exception of Crabbe these poets 
 were younger than Wordsworth. They all died between 1832 and 
 1835. 
 
 1845. 
 
 "So Fair, So Sweet." 
 
 The circumstance which gave rise to this poem was a walk in 
 July, 1844, from Windermere, by Rydal and Grasmere, to Loughrigg 
 Tarn, made by Wordsworth in company with J. C. Hare, Sir William 
 Hamilton, Professor Butler, and others. One of the party writes of 
 it as follows : — 
 
 When we reached the side of Loughrigg Tarn the loveliness of 
 the scene arrested our steps and fixed our gaze. When the Poet's 
 eyes were satisfied with their feast on the beauties familiar to them, 
 they sought relief in search, to them a happy vital habit, for new 
 beauty in the flower-enamelled turf at his feet. There his attention 
 was arrested by a fair smooth stone, of the size of an ostrich's egg, 
 seeming to imbed at its centre, and at the same time to display a 
 dark star-shaped fossil of most distinct outline. Upon closer inspec- 
 tion this proved to be the shadow of a daisy projected upon it. The 
 Poet drew the attention of the rest of the party to the minute but 
 beautiful phenomenon, and gave expression at the time to thoughts 
 suggested by it, which so interested Professor Butler that he plucked 
 the tiny flower, and, saying that " it should be not only the theme but 
 the memorial of the thought they had heard," bestowed it somewhere 
 for preservation. — Professor Knight. 
 
 Ruskin says of the poem : — 
 
 " That is a bit of good, downright, foreground painting, — no mis- 
 take about it ; daisy, shadow, and stone texture and all. Our painters 
 must come to this before they have done their duty." 
 "The child is father of the man," 
 
 for here, at the age of seventy-five, we have the intense love, the clear 
 vision, the rich coloring, of the earlier poems. 
 
 See Aubrey de Vere, Literature in its Social Aspects, 
 
 1797. 
 
 The Reverie of Poor Susan. 
 
 This arose out of my observations of the affecting music of these 
 birds hanging in this way in the London streets during the freshness 
 and stillness of the spring mornings. — W. W. 
 
 See Myers* Wordsworth (English Men of Letters Series), page 16. 
 
400 NOTES. 
 
 THE SONNET. 
 
 Among the Italians there originated a form erf verse combination in 
 which a special rime arrangement prevailed; the name "sonnet" was 
 given to this. It was a short poem limited to the expression of a 
 single idea ; soon fourteen lines became the fixed length, and later 
 these lines were combined according to fixed and intricate rules. 
 According to these rules the ideal sonnet should conform to the fol- 
 lowing conditions : It must consist of fourteen lines divided into two 
 systems — the major system, consisting of the first eight lines, com- 
 plete in themselves ; and then the minor system, with six concluding 
 lines. The major system should contain but two rimes: i, 4, 5.8, 
 and 2, 3, 6, 7, concluding with a pause in the sense. In the minor sys- 
 tem there should be only two rimes: 9, ii, 13, and 10, 12, 14. Other 
 rules were laid down, many of which were merely capricious, but these 
 were insisted upon. 
 
 The earliest forms of the sonnet belong to the thirteenth century. 
 Fra Guittone d'Arrezzo furnished the model for Dante and Petrarch, 
 who perfected this form of writing, the one giving it strength, the 
 other beauty. 
 
 " A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; 
 With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief." 
 
 That period of English literature which was the prelude to the age 
 of Spenser and Shakespeare received its main impulse from Italy. 
 The influence of Chaucer had declined, and intellectual life disap- 
 peared with religious liberty. There remained only a few puerile 
 chroniclers, and imitators of inane French romance. 
 
 Toward the end of the fifteenth century the nobility, possibly 
 shamed by the contrast to the Scottish court, began to give some 
 thought to the education of their children. The literary centre of 
 Europe was at the brilliant court of Lorenzo de Medici, and hither 
 flocked the scholars of all countries. When Englishmen returned 
 filled with enthusiasm, and became tutors, they stimulated their pupils 
 with a desire to visit Italy, the " land of promise." 
 
 It was to this secondary influence of the revival of learning that 
 the new movement in literature was due. The heralds of the dawn 
 were Sir Thomas Wyatt and Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, " who had 
 tasted the sweet and stately measures and style of Italian poesy.** To 
 them belongs the honor of reforming the literature and introducing 
 the sonnet into our language. Petrarch was their model, and love 
 
NOTES. 401 
 
 their iheme. Wyatt followed the Italian model very closely, and his 
 work is characterized by strength and dignity. Surrey introduced 
 some changes into the form of the sonnet : he divided it into three 
 independent quatrains, and closed with a couplet. His work was dis- 
 tinguished for grace and beauty. 
 
 During the last ten years of the sixteenth century and the first ten 
 of the seventeenth there was the most remarkable production of 
 sonnets. The list, headed by Sidney, contains the names of Daniel, 
 Constable, Lodge, Watson, Drayton, Spenser, and Shakespeare. With 
 Shakespeare ends the first form of the English sonnet, composed of 
 three quatrains and a concluding couplet, — 
 
 ab ab cd cd ef ef gg. 
 
 Milton's sonnets, although few in number, are of the finest quality ; 
 in their structure they follow Petrarch's rule, which divides the sonnet 
 into two unequal parts, the major and the minor. This is the second 
 form of the English sonnet, — 
 
 I, 4, 5, 8, 2, 3, 6, 7, II 9, II, 13, 10, 12, 14, or 
 ab ba ab ba || cd cd cd. 
 
 After Milton we see no more of the sonnet in its power until we 
 come to Cowper ; following him is that illustrious company of singers 
 contemporary with the French Revolution, — Wordsworth, Coleridge, 
 Shelley, Byron, and Keats, each of whom made substantial contribu- 
 tions to the sonnet literature. Among these Wordsworth's work is 
 by far the most significant, not only in the nature and variety of the 
 subjects treated, but also in the manner of composition. He restored 
 the sonnet to the place it held in Milton's time. The style of the 
 sonnet was at the farthest remove from the style of the Prelude and 
 the Excursion^ and it is not a little remarkable that one who possessed 
 such wealth of thought and such fluency of language should have been 
 satisfied 
 
 " Within the sonnet's scanty plot of ground." 
 
 But Wordsworth " had the tonic of a wholesome pride ; " he was a 
 most careful writer and was exceedingly frugal in his literary econ- 
 omy ; these were the prerequisites for success with the sonnet. The 
 care which he exercised in pruning, recasting, and correcting his 
 workmanship is seen in the frequent alterations of the text ; many of 
 them cover the period of a lifetime, and preserve for us the changing 
 moods of the Poet's mind. While nearly every poet since Words- 
 worth has occasionally dignified the sonnet, with only two — Elizabeth 
 
 26 
 
402 NOTES TO PAGE 299. 
 
 Barrett Browning and Dante Gabriel Rossetti — has it been a favorite 
 form of expression. Browning, who is master of so many varieties of 
 verse, has, I think, never used the sonnet form. 
 
 1802. 
 
 " I Grieved for Buonaparte." 
 
 We are fortunate in knowing the birthday of the Wordsworthian 
 sonnet. On May 21, 1802, while his sister was reading to him some 
 of Milton's sonnets, his genius was kindled and immediately produced 
 three sonnets : this sonnet is the only one of the three which has been 
 preserved. With this trumpet-call to " a few strong instincts and a 
 few plain rules," opens that magnificent series of Sonnets to Liberty, 
 which Mr. Myers says are worthy of comparison with the noblest 
 passages of patriotic verse or prose which history has inspired. 
 
 The Prelude gives us the character of Wordsworth's early patri- 
 otism ; the Sonnets to Liberty, his later ; the aims and principles are 
 the same in both — the enfranchisement of the individual from the 
 tyranny of a low ideal. His change of opinion as to methods was 
 entirely consistent, and he had a much truer democratic sense of the 
 dignity of man than did those who hastened to pronounce him a de- 
 serter of the cause. 
 
 In this sonnet one hardly knows which to praise the most— the prac- 
 tical wisdom, the lofty conception, or the grave and solemn harmony. 
 Can one confidently affirm that in these respects even Shakespeare's 
 sonnets are superior ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802. 
 
 Wordsworth and his sister left Town-End for the Continent in July, 
 1802. Under date of July 30, we have the following record in his 
 sister's diary : " Left London between five and six o'clock of the 
 morning, outside the Dover coach. A beautiful morning. The city, 
 St. Paul's, the river — a multitude of boats — made a beautiful sight 
 as we crossed Westminster Bridge ; the houses not overhung by 
 their clouds of smoke, and were spread out endlessly ; yet the sun 
 shone so brightly, with such a pure light, that there was something 
 like the purity of one of Nature's own grand spectacles." It was on 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 299-301. 403 
 
 the way to Dover that this sonnet was written, hence the date of the 
 heading is incorrect. This is perhaps the best known of Words- 
 worth's sonnets, as it is certainly one of the noblest. In simplicity I 
 and grace of language, in dignity and purity of sentiment, in unity * 
 and compactness of form, it has no superior. In reference to it 
 Walter Bagehot says: "A better instance of pure style cannot be 
 found. Not a single expression can be spared, yet not a single ex- y 
 pression rivets the attention." The full beauty of this sonnet was re- 
 vealed to me when in July, 1887, after I had spent the night in the 
 House of Commons listening to Gladstone, Harcourt, and Balfour, I 
 crossed Westminster Bridge at early dawn. The contrast between 
 the boisterous scenes of the House of Commons and the beauty and 
 serenity of that July morning was indescribable. 
 
 III. 
 
 Composed by the Seaside near Calais, 1802. 
 
 This sonnet and the six that follow it were composed at Calais in 
 August, 1802. The following is from Dorothy's Journal : " Arrived at 
 Calais at four o'clock in the morning of July 31st. Delightful walks 
 in the evening, seeing far off in the west the coast of England like a 
 cloud, crested with Dover Castle, the evening star, and the glory of 
 the sky. The reflections in the water were more beautiful than the 
 sky itself, — purple waves brighter than precious stones forever melting 
 far away upon the sands." 
 
 IV. 
 
 Calais, August, 1802. 
 Cf. Prelude^ vi. 339-341. 
 
 Composed near Calais, on the Road leading to Andres. 
 
 Robert Jones was a college mate of Wordsworth, and accompanied 
 him upon the pedestrian tour in Switzerland, 1790. Cf. Prelude^ vi. 
 342 et seq., with notes. 
 
 4. July 14, 1790, when the King swore fidelity to the new constitution. 
 
404 NOTES TO PAGES 301-303. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Calais, August 15, 1802. 
 
 3, 1 1. Cf . Prelude, xi. 358-364, and note to previous sonnet. 
 
 VII. 
 Composed on the Beach near Calais. 
 The spirit of adoration, so restful, so calm, so intense, pervading 
 this sonnet, is eminently Wordsworthian. The concluding lines ex- 
 press that belief in the divinity of childish intuition, which is so prom- 
 inent in We are Seven and the Ode. 
 
 VIII. 
 On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic. 
 
 1. The result of the fourth crusade, in which only French and Vene- 
 tians took part, was that the Cyclades, a part of Thessaly, some of the 
 Byzantine cities, and about one half of the city of Constantinople fell 
 to Venice. — Knight. 
 
 2. Venice, in virtue of her naval power, was once mistress of the 
 Mediterranean. The spoils and trade of the East enriched the city. 
 
 4, 5. See Ruskin, Stones of Venice. 
 
 In 452 Attila invaded Venetia and destroyed its capital, Aquileia ; 
 the fugitives from the cities fled to the islands in the lagoons and the 
 Gulf of Venice ; they soon became independent and chose their own 
 consuls ; in 697 they chose their first doge. 
 
 7, 8. In II 77 she gained a great victory over Otho, son of Fred- 
 erick Barbarossa; in gratitude for this the Pope Alexander III. gave 
 the Doge Ziani a ring, and instituted the ceremony of "marrying the 
 Adriatic," by which was signified the supremacy of Venice. In May, 
 1797, the French troops took possession of the city, which no hostile 
 force had ever before entered, and Venice lost her independence. 
 
 Cf. Mrs. Oliphant's Makers of Venice. 
 
 IX. 
 
 To Toussaint L'Ouverture. 
 
 The life of the Hero of St. Domingo is one of the most thrilling in 
 the annals of history. Born of slave parents, having learned to read 
 and write from a fellow slave, he joined the negro army in maintaining 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 303, 304. 405 
 
 their rights, and rose to be brigadier-general ; in 1793 Hayti declared 
 for France, and slaves were freed. In 1796 he was made commander 
 of the French army of St. Domingo, and conquered the English and 
 Spanish armies. When Napoleon attempted to reinstate slavery Tous- 
 saint resisted, and in 1802 he was declared an outlaw and captured by 
 treachejy ; without trial he was cast into the dungeon at the Castle of 
 Joux and left to die of starvation. 
 
 See Toussaint UOuverture, by Whittier. 
 
 In this ** soul-animating strain " passion, with a step as stately as 
 that of Milton, rises into an outburst of noble exultation. A divine 
 sympathy, overleaping the narrow limits of nationality, breathes from 
 every line.- 
 
 X. 
 
 September, 1802, near Dover. 
 
 In Dorothy's Journal we have the following: " On 29th August left 
 Calais at twelve o'clock in the morning for Dover. . . . Bathed and 
 sat on the Dover cliffs, and looked upon France ; we could see the 
 shores almost as plain as if it were but an English lake." 
 
 No man of his time, statesman, philosopher, or poet, saw with such 
 unerring insight into the great moral forces that determine the cur- 
 rents of history. — Hon. George F. Hoar. 
 
 Written in London, September, 1802. 
 
 Wordsworth had a high ideal of his art, because he had a high 
 ideal of man. Perhaps in none of his sonnets are there so many les- 
 sons for us in this mechanical and utilitarian age. 
 
 See Shakespeare, Sonnet CXLVI. 
 
 There tiny pleasures occupy the place 
 
 Of glories and of duties, as the feet 
 
 Of fabled fairies, when the sun goes down, 
 
 Trip o'er the grass where wrestlers strove by day. 
 
 Landor. 
 
 The work Wordsworth did — and I say it in all reverence — was the 
 work which the Baptist did when he came to the pleasure-laden citi- 
 zens of Jerusalem to work a reformation. — Rev. F. W. Robertson. 
 
4o6 NOTES TO PAGES 304-306. 
 
 XII. 
 London, 1802. 
 
 The procession of the verse in this noble sonnet is easy and grace- 
 ful, rising throughout the major part into the full organ tone ; then 
 in the minor falling gently away, calming, regulating, and restrain- 
 ing, with " artlessness which only art commands." For splendor of 
 thought, vigor of style, and beauty of purpose it is unsurpassed. 
 
 XIII. 
 " Great men have been among us." 
 
 Goethe says that the theme of all human history is the contest be- 
 tween belief and unbelief; that periods in which belief prevails are 
 inspiring, while periods in which unbelief predominates furnish but 
 little food for the spirit of man. 
 
 Cf. Prelude, vii. 512-543. 
 
 XIV. 
 " It is not to be thought of that the Flood." 
 
 In this time of an expected invasion by Napoleon, when the heart 
 of England was beating high, and signal beacons were flashing the 
 summons to arms, this calm, clear, triumphant faith in freedom was 
 uttered. 
 
 Cf. Coleridge's Ode on France. 
 
 XV. 
 
 " When I have borne in Memory." 
 
 In the history of Wordsworthian criticism there are to be found three 
 sets of charges against him — Simplicity and Transcendentalism ; 
 Pantheism and High Churchism ; Liberalism and Conservatism; now 
 the truth of the matter is that none of these were well founded. In 
 this sonnet we have a mingling of the aristocratic and democratic, 
 resulting in intense and lofty love of country. 
 
 Cf. Prelude, xi. 105, — " Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive," etc. 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 306, 307. 407 
 
 1803. 
 
 XVI. 
 Composed at Castle* 
 
 The town of Peebles is on the banks of the Tweed. After break- 
 fast walked up the river to Neidpath Castle, about a mile and a half 
 from the town. The castle stands upon a green hill overlooking the 
 Tweed — a strong, square-towered edifice, neglected and desolate 
 though not in ruin, the garden overgrown with grass, and the high 
 wall that fenced it broken down ; but I need not describe the scene, 
 for William has done it better than I could do in a sonnet which he 
 wrote the same day. — Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal^ Sept. 18, 1803. 
 
 See Memorials of a Tour in Scotland^ 1803, and notes; also Intro- 
 duction to Canto I. of Scott's MarmioHy 1-36. 
 
 XVII. 
 "There is a Bondage worse, far worse to bear." 
 
 Napoleon had been elected Consul for life, and was making rapid 
 strides toward absolute power ; by his interference in the affairs of 
 Switzerland, England claimed that he had violated the treaty of 
 Amiens, and in May, 1803, war was declared. 
 
 Wordsworth's moral earnestness never encourages one to break 
 with the world and live in the seclusion of the cloister. He strove to 
 serve his country and mankind by teaching that life is the workshop 
 in which is fashioned the armor of the soul. 
 
 Cf. Horace, Ode XXII., — " Integer vitae scelerisque purus." 
 
 XVIII. 
 October, 1803. 
 
 What a country longs for is personalities, grand persons to counter- 
 act its materialities. — Emerson. 
 
4o8 NOTES TO PAGES 308, 309. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 "England! the Time is come when thou shouldst wean." 
 What moral courage was required to utter the " odious truth " con- 
 tained in the major part of this sonnet ! He was equally undaunted 
 in his Tract on the Convention ofCintra, which Canning declared to be 
 the finest piece of political eloquence since Burke. 
 
 XX. 
 
 To the Men of Kent, October, 1803. 
 
 The " men of Kent " were the inhabitants of that part of the country 
 nearest France. On this coast the Romans landed, and " Cantium " 
 was the recipient of many privileges at their hands. Later the Saxons 
 fought their first battles there. These people could not be conquered 
 by the Normans. The Saxon law of gavelkind is peculiar to this 
 county; by it the estates are inherited equally by all the sons. 
 
 It does the heart good to read these fine and pure and true and 
 manly words, from a man whose every word and every thought and 
 every act were the words and thoughts and acts of manly, true-spirited, 
 high-minded Englishmen. — Rev. F. W. Robertson. 
 
 XXI. 
 V In the Pass of Killicranky. 
 
 An invasion being expected, October ^ 1803. 
 
 Thursday, September 8. — Before breakfast we walked to the Pass 
 of Killicranky. . . . Every one knows that this Pass is famous in 
 military history. When we were travelling in Scotland an invasion 
 was hourly looked for, and one could not but think with some re- 
 gret of the times when from the now depopulated Highlands forty or 
 fifty thousand men might have been poured down for the defence 
 of the country. ... I will transcribe a sonnet suggested to William 
 by this place and written in October, 1803. — Dorothy Wordsworth's 
 Tournal. 
 
 Professor Shairp, alluding to the depopulation of the Highlands 
 which began early in this century, says • " The old native Gael who 
 used to live grouped in hamlets in the glens . . . were dispossessed 
 of their holdings to make way for Lowland farmers. One question 
 only was asked — What shall grow the largest amount of mutton for 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 309, 310. 4^9 
 
 > 
 
 the Glasgow and Liverpool markets ? In the glens which formerly 
 sent forth whole regiments you could not now get a single man to 
 wear her Majesty's uniform." 
 
 See Professor Blackie, The Highlander's Lament. 
 
 The following is from Last Leave-taking of the Mountains^ by Duncan 
 Maclntyre, the Bard of Glenorchy : — 
 
 " Yestreen as I walked the mountain, 
 
 O the thoughts that arose in me ; 
 For the people I loved that used to be there 
 
 In the desert, no more could I see. 
 Ah ! little I dreamed that Ben 
 
 Such changes could undergo, 
 That I should see it covered with sheep. 
 
 And the world would deceive me so I " 
 
 See note to Address to Kilchurn Castle. 
 
 1806. 
 
 "Nuns fret not at their Convent's Narrow Room." 
 
 Wordsworth felt that there existed prejudices against the sonnet, 
 and that it lay under a slight that was undeserved : he therefore de- 
 termined to reinstate it in its former place of dignity and power. 
 
 See note on Personal Talk. 
 
 This is one of those doctrinal poems, abounding in Mr. Words- 
 worth's works, which some persons complain that they cannot under- 
 stand, having read them probably as rapidly as they would any erotic 
 effusion of any glowing gentleman who writes verses. — Sir Henry 
 Taylor. 
 
 Cf. Scorn not the Sonnet , 1827. 
 
 XXIII. 
 Composed by the side of Qrasmere Lak«. 
 Cf. Matthew Arnold's Quiet Work. 
 
410 NOTES TO PAGES 310-312. 
 
 XXIV. 
 "The World is too much with us." 
 
 Wordsworth does not condemn commercial activity in general, but 
 seeing clearly that an inordinate greed for gain often led to specula- 
 tion which was little short of gambling, and in which the entire life 
 was engrossed — man entering into slavery to his passions, — he ut- 
 tered these solemn truths, *' to free, arouse, dilate." 
 
 Nature will not have us fret or fume. When we come out of the 
 caucus, or the bank, or the Abolition convention, or the Transcen- 
 dental Club, into the fields and woods, she says to us, "So hot, my 
 little sir." — Emerson. 
 
 See Browning's Grammarian's Funeral. 
 
 14. Cf. Spenser, Colin Clouts Come Home Again, 1. 245. — Prof. A. 
 S. Cook. 
 
 XXV.-XXVIII. 
 Personal Talk. 
 
 Wordsworth found a new use for the sonnet, and turned its force into 
 fresh channels. While others had addressed several sonnets to the 
 same person, no one until his time had so united a series that, while 
 each sonnet was complete in itself, it at the same time formed a stanza 
 of a larger poem. The four following, entitled Personal Talk, illus- 
 trate this unity, evolution, and completeness. 
 
 The picture of Wordsworth's domestic life is one of the brightest 
 in the history of literary genius. Free, joyous, and contented in their 
 cottage home — which was even less pretentious than that of many of 
 the humble dalesmen — they gave to the world an example of " plain 
 living and high thinking." Living in communion with her who was 
 dearer to him than life and light ; cheered by the loved presence of 
 the "dear, dear sister," with an occasional visit from the sailor brother 
 or Coleridge, what need had he to enter the society of "the world's 
 true Worldlings ! " One whose companions are Spenser and Shake- 
 speare will have no time to make the acquaintance of scandal-mongers, 
 those assassins of character. While the Poet recognizes the neces- 
 sity of themes which are concrete rather than abstract, he would se- 
 Ject such as do not foster the " comment and the gibe," but such as 
 conduct the mind from the " seen and the temporal, to the unseen and 
 the eternal." Who can believe but that " great gains " result from 
 such a life 1 
 
 Lines 9, 10, ii, and 12 of Sonnet XXVIII. are cut upon the pedestal 
 of the Poet's statue in Westminster Abbey. 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 313-315. 4" 
 
 XXIX.-XXXI. 
 To Sleep. 
 
 " The three sonnets to Sleep," says Sara Coleridge, " are very beau- 
 tiful and peculiar ; not Miltonic, or Shakespearean, or Petrarchian, 
 nor like the productions of any later sonnetteers, but entirely Words- 
 worthian and inimitable." 
 
 Cf. Macbeth, ii. 2 ; Midsummer Night's Dream, iii. 2 ; Henry IV., 
 Part II., iii. i ; Archbishop Trench, Ode to Sleep. 
 
 XXXII. 
 To the Memory of Raisley Calvert. 
 
 In 1794, when Wordsworth was unsettled in his plans for the future, 
 his friend Calvert was taken ill, and he went to care for him. 
 Calvert was steward to the Duke of Norfolk, and although " himself 
 no poet," he could appreciate genius in others ; Wordsworth re- 
 mained with him until his death, and on opening his will it was found 
 that ;^90O had been bequeathed him ; this was a turning-point in the 
 Poet's career, and the gift, in its importance, was second only to that 
 earlier " gift of God," Dorothea. It enabled him to have a home, and 
 in 1795 ^^ settled with his sister at Racedown. 
 
 See note to Lines Left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, 1795. 
 
 In the Prelude (xiv. 355-369) Wordsworth has recorded his grati- 
 tude to Calvert for thus " clearing a passage for him." 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 November, 1806. 
 
 Napoleon's victory at Jena, October 14, had completely shattered 
 the power of Prussia, England's sole ally on the Continent; and in 
 November Napoleon issued his declaration of war against this only re- 
 maining fortress of liberty. When many, considering the cause to be 
 hopeless, were ready to yield a base submission, from the solitude of 
 the North there came a voice, clear, loud, and strong, exulting in a 
 sublime faith in the might of right, calling upon England to arouse 
 herself. 
 
412 NOTES TO PAGES 315, 316. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 Admonition. 
 
 Intended more particularly for the perusal of those who may have 
 happened to be enamoured of some beautiful place of retreat in the 
 country of the Lakes. — W. W. 
 
 Qi, Highland Hut, 1831. 
 
 The light which shone and the voice which called from heaven on 
 Saul of Tarsus were not more distinctly influences which uncondition- 
 ally seized and swayed the apostle, than was the Power in the out- 
 ward world which surrounded, revealed itself, and made the poet-seer 
 its own, its daily vassal and its impassioned voice. — Professor 
 Veitch. 
 
 1807. 
 
 XXXV. 
 Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland. 
 
 This was composed while pacing to and fro between the Hall of 
 Coleorton, then rebuilding, and the principal farm-house of the estate, 
 in which we lived for nine or ten months. — W. W. 
 
 See notes to The Nightingale, 1807. 
 
 In 1802 Napoleon crushed out the liberties of Switzerland : in 1807 
 he was master of Europe, and was making gigantic preparations to 
 invade England. 
 
 Here is passion of a great thought taken up in stillness into a great 
 imagination. Passion must indeed burn strongly in the heart before 
 it can fling its glow thus high into the loftier regions of the intelli- 
 gence. That is the reason why such poetry seems cold to readers 
 whose narrower sympathies can recognize passion only in its interjec- 
 tional form. Its white heat is to them snow. — Aubrey de Vere. 
 
 This is what I call perfect workmanship, . . . not an image, not a 
 word, but what helps the vision of the idea. — Dr. Hudson. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 To Thomas Clarkson, on the Final Passing of the Bill for the Abolition of the 
 Slave Trade. 
 
 Clarkson's work began when he selected his subject for his Latin 
 essay at St. John's College, Cambridge: "Anne liceat invitos in 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 316, 317. 4^3 
 
 servitutem dare ? " From that time he devoted himself to the aboli- 
 tion of the slave trade. The most powerful opposition arose against 
 him, and not until the accession of Fox, in 1806, did the cause gain 
 advantage in Parliament ; in March, 1807, the Government declared 
 the slave trade illegal. 
 
 When Wordsworth's soul was stirred with the greater passions 
 of humanity he rises to a height of majestic passion, his words have 
 the stately step of the gods — they burn like the bush on Sinai, white, 
 but unconsumed. — Rev. Stopford Brooke. 
 
 1811. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 "Here Pause: the Poet claims at least this Praise." 
 
 Napoleon's grand march through Europe dazzled the eyes of weak 
 men everywhere, and many seemed to lose the power to discriminate 
 between right and wrong, between greatness and power ; the scales 
 of conscience were tampered with, and admiration for that Enemy of 
 virtue became weightier than virtue itself. Wordsworth felt that such 
 a condition of political morality merited the severest indignation of 
 ^11 true men. The true poet is the true man. 
 
 " The poet in a golden clime was born, 
 With golden stars above ; 
 
 Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, 
 The love of love." 
 
 1815. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 To B. R. Haydon. 
 
 No artist ever had a higher ideal of his calling, or pursued it with 
 more unswerving devotion, than Wordsworth. " It was the main, the 
 serious, the solemn business of his being," He believed that a poet 
 was both born and made ; that poetry was a divine gift, " not to be 
 acquired by labor and learning, but adorned with both." Possessing 
 powers which — had he chosen to use them for that end — would have 
 secured for him immediate popularity, through long years of contempt 
 
414 NOTES TO PAGE 317. 
 
 and ridicule Wordsworth resolutely withstood all temptation. When 
 his few admirers were troubled by the coldness with which his work 
 was received, he replied : " Make yourselves at rest respecting me ; I 
 speak the truths the world must feel at last." Wordsworth's idea of 
 the call and mission of the poet should be contrasted with that of 
 Pope. " Poetry and criticism," says Pope, " are by no means the uni- 
 versal concern of the world, but only the affair of idle men who 
 write in their closets, and of idle men who read there. . . . All the 
 advantages I can think of accruing from a genius for Poetry, are an 
 agreeable power of self-amusement, when a man is idle or alone, — the 
 privilege of being admitted into the best company." 
 
 A more brilliant or a more pathetic career than that of Haydon is 
 hardly to be found. Confessedly a genius of the highest order; with 
 a love for his art which has never been surpassed ; sublimely cour- 
 ageous in his devotion to what he considered to be his duty as a 
 leader of " Historic Painting ; " surrounded by the most steadfast 
 friends and the most subtle enemies ; now upon the highest wave of 
 favor, now lodging in a debtor's jail, and at last driven to despair at 
 being cheated of his deserts ; repeating the wail of Lear — 
 
 " Stretch me no longer on this tough world," — 
 he takes his own life. 
 
 At the time this sonnet was sent him he was suffering a cruel per- 
 secution at the hands of some members of the Royal Academy be- 
 cause he had discomfited them in their attempts to cast doubt upon 
 the genuineness of the Elgin marbles, and had said, " No more sign 
 painting now." The petty spite and jealousy which were exhibited 
 by the authorities in refusing to give his work a fair showing before 
 the public seem hardly credible. Cowper wrote : " I blush for a state 
 of society in which talents and genius such as yours meet with such 
 a reward." 
 
 That Haydon was often indiscreet his friends acknowledge, but even 
 his indiscretions were " born of high-mindedness and a jealousy for 
 good." 
 
 ** His singleness of aim 
 Ought to have frightened into brooded shame 
 A money-mong'ring, pitiable brood." 
 
 What the sympathy of a man like Wordsworth meant to him is 
 shown in his correspondence. On receiving this sonnet he wrote : 
 " It is the highest honor that ever was paid or ever can be paid to me. 
 You are the first English poet who has ever done complete justice to 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 317, 318. 4^5 
 
 my delightful art." Again, when he was so successfully advancing his 
 great object by his lectures on art, which were received with such 
 enthusiasm at Oxford, he wrote : " To whom shall I dedicate them ? 
 To William Wordsworth, who raised up their author into the eye of 
 his country when he was oppressed and persecuted." Again, when 
 alluding to the honors of his lite, he said : *' The first and the last are 
 the greatest — the sonnets of Wordswortl^ and my reception at the 
 University of Oxford; but the first is \.\i& first and will ever remain so." 
 
 Besides Wordsworth, Keats manfully supported the great painter. 
 See his sonnets addressed to Haydon 
 
 1l\\& Judgment 0/ Solomon and Christ's Entry into Jerusalem, showed 
 conclusively that Haydon was the first historical painter that Eng- 
 land had produced. The latter is now the property of the Catholic 
 Cathedral in Cincinnati. "The original study of Wordsworth (whom 
 Haydon introduced into the picture in the character of a devout be- 
 liever) is in the possession of Mr. J. S. Pearce, of London; on it in 
 the artist's writing is — 
 
 '* * Wordsworth, 
 
 For Entry into Jerusalem, 1817.' " — Knight. 
 
 See Browning's Popularity^ and Carlyle's The Hero as Poet. 
 
 This sonnet, the title of which in the early editions of Wordsworth's 
 works was To R. B. Haydon, is alluded to by Haydon, in a letter to 
 Moxon the publisher, as follows : " He [Wordsworth] dedicates his 
 sonnets to R. B. Haydon. My name is B. R. Haydon." 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Catherine Wordsworth. 
 
 Wordsworth had already tasted of the cup of affliction in the death 
 of his brother; in 18 12 he was made to drink deep draughts, for in 
 that year his little daughter Catherine, and his second son, Thomas, 
 a lad of but six years, died. They were buried in the church-yard at 
 Grasmere. In the epitaph we find these lines : — 
 
 " O blessed Lord ! 
 Support us ! teach us calmly to resign 
 What we possessed, and now is wholly Thine." 
 
 Wordsworth at this time was living at the Parsonage, opposite the 
 Church, and the proximity to the graves of his little ones continually 
 recalled to him his losses : he accordingly removed to Rydal Mount. 
 
41 6 NOTES TO PAGES 318, 319. 
 
 1820. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Oxford, May 30, 1820. 
 
 Although Wordsworth was loyal to his own University, yet he could 
 sing the praises of her rival. 
 
 See Boase's excellent history of Oxford, ir. Historic Towns. 
 
 "Sole Listener, Duddon." 
 
 The remarkable series entitled The River Duddon includes thirty- 
 four sonnets. The local allusions in these can be easily identified. 
 Wordsworth fixed the rise of the Duddon near three shire-stones — 
 the meeting-point of the counties Westmoreland, Cumberland, and 
 Lancashire. In 1887 I explored the " birthplace " of this stream, with 
 the aid of the excellent notes of Mr. Herbert Rix, to whom I am in- 
 debted for many of the following notes. 
 
 Wrynose Bottom, the scene of this sonnet, is wild and lonely, yet 
 everywhere you meet the "tripping lambs," — better scalers of the 
 crags than you are likely to prove. At Cockley Beck there is a farm- 
 house, possibly the " cottage rude and gray." 
 
 Seathwaite Chapel. 
 
 With the Poet as our guide, we leave the springs of the Duddon 
 and pass the first of the three sets of " Stepping Stones," the " Faery 
 Chasm," and come to a crag known to the dalesmen as The Pen.ixom. 
 which Mr. Rix thinks Wordsworth's " Open Prospect " was had. From 
 it we get views of the rich sylvan beauty of the Duddon Valley; Hard- 
 knott, with its remains of a Roman camp, Stoneside, with its Druid 
 Circle, and Seathwaite, with its venerable yews and old gray chapel, 
 are in sight. 
 
 At Seathwaite, in 1709, was bom Robert Walker, better known in 
 the Lake-land as Wonderful Walker. He was the youngest of twelve 
 children, and being of delicate frame was bred a scholar and took 
 holy orders ; he was appointed to the cure of Seathwaite, the value 
 of which was ;^5 a year. Besides ministering to the spiritual needs 
 of his people he taught school in the chapel, and Wordsworth says 
 that when in the winter the pupils suffered from the cold he sent them 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 319-321. 417 
 
 to the parsonage or for a run on the mountain-side. In the evening he 
 was busy teasing, spinning, and weaving wool. . His pew in the chapel 
 is still to be seen upholstered with the cloth woven at the parsonage. 
 He assisted the dalesmen in their husbandry, and at clipping time 
 plied the shears. On Sundays broth was served at the parsonage to 
 those of the congregation who had come from a distance. He pur- 
 sued his studies by a light made of rushes dipped in tallow ; and 
 Wordsworth, who was no mean critic, says that his style was " cor- 
 rect, simple, and animated." 
 
 His wife died in January, 1802, aged ninety-three ; and in June of 
 the same year he passed away, in the ninety-third year of his age and 
 the sixty-seventh of his curacy. 
 
 See Wordsworth's Prose Works, vol. iii. ; also the Excursion, book 
 vii. 
 
 12-14. See Chaucer, Prologue to Canterbury Tales ; Herbert, Priest 
 to the Temple, and Goldsmith, Deserted Fillag-e. ^Khigkt. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 " Return, Content." 
 
 Wordsworth says that he first became acquainted with the Duddon 
 by accompanying a friend from Hawkshead on a fishing excursion. 
 Cf. Prelude, i. 269-300. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 "Who swerves from Innocence." 
 
 5-8. In regard to these lines, Wordsworth says that oddly enough 
 this imagination was realized in 1840, when he visited this district 
 with his wife and daughter and others. On leaving Seathwaite the 
 party separated, and Mrs. Wordsworth, taking an opposite direction, 
 was tempted to an eminence, expecting there to await them on their 
 return; they, however, did not find her until well into the evening. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Afterthought. 
 
 It is not possible to ascertain from what point the Poet took this 
 view of the Duddon. Rev. H. D. Rawnsley thinks that it may have 
 been the summit of a hill just above Broughton, and that the sight of 
 the little Broughton church would give rise to the thought that the 
 " elements must vanish." 
 
 27 
 
41 8 NOTES TO PAGES 321-323. 
 
 The last stanza of Whittier's poem on Wordsworth strikes the 
 same note as this sonnet : — 
 
 " Art builds on sand ; the works of pride 
 And human passion change and fall ; 
 But that which shares the life of God, 
 With Him surviveth all." 
 
 It was in this faith that he quietly reposed in his domestic life, 
 and by it enhanced all the faithful affection for wife and sister, chil- 
 dren and brother, that nowhere in English poetry burns with a lovelier 
 or a purer light. — Rev. Stopford Brooke. 
 
 1821. 
 
 Introduction to Ecclesiastical Sonnets. 
 While the ecclesiastical sonnets, begun in 182 1 and continued 
 through the Poet's later life, do not often rise to the height of his 
 best work, yet there are among them a few, which for charm of dic- 
 tion, united with depth and delicacy of sentiment, are unsurpassed. 
 
 XLVII. 
 Seclusion. 
 See Legends of Saxon Saints, Aubrey de Vere. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 Mutability. 
 Cf. Browning, Prospice. 
 
 XLIX.-LI. 
 Inside King's College Chapel, Cambridge. 
 Unless one has passed some time in the presence of England's noble 
 castles and inspiring cathedrals, he is apt to wonder at the place they 
 occupy in the literature and the life of her people. In the seclusion 
 of the cloisters and quadrangles of Oxford and Cambridge the human 
 past, consecrated by the memories of kings and queens, of saints and 
 sages, of poets and scholars, fills the soul with awe. Wordsworth, in 
 reverencing King's College Chapel — the noblest and most inspiring 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 323, 324. 419 
 
 structure ever erected for collegiate worship — has yielded to the 
 spell of this human past. The history of this magnificent chapel — 
 the last of the thoroughly mediaeval structures erected at Cambridge 
 — is so remarkable that I cannot refrain from giving it somewhat in 
 detail. 
 
 Un the loth of February, 1441, about one year after his founding of 
 Eton College, Henry VI. signed the charter for the first foundation of 
 the Royal College of St. Nicholas, but the site chosen was so limited 
 that in 1443 he granted a charter to King's College, in order that poor 
 scholars from Eton might be maintained at Cambridge free of ex- 
 pense. At the present time a certain number of Etonians are annu- 
 ally sent to King's College. The provisions as seen in the will of 
 Henry VI. are the result of an examination of William Wykeham's 
 College at Winchester : this document is remarkable for the accuracy 
 and detail of the King's plans, even specifying the planting of trees 
 and flowers. The first stone of the building was laid by the King him- 
 self on July 28, 1446. The designer of the structure is unknown; it 
 is conjectured, from the personal supervision and alterations made 
 by him at Eton, that Henry himself was the architect. The chapel, 
 288 feet long and 40 feet wide, was to form the north of the quad- 
 rangle, the east and west sides of which were to join it, while the 
 south was to be occupied by chambers. The material, quarried from 
 the same place as that used for Eton, is white limestone, and marks 
 the limit of Henry's work, which ceased at his deposition. Little was 
 done to the building for nearly half a century, until, at the close of his 
 reign, Henry VII. determined to do honor to his uncle by completing 
 it. In 1508 the work was resumed, and carried on by the executors 
 of his will ; the walls, the great vault, the battlements, and pinnacles 
 were completed. On entering the city from Girton in 1887, these 
 to -vers were the first to greet my sight. I saw — 
 
 " The long-roofed chapel of King's College lift 
 Turrets and pinnacles in answering files." 
 
 Henry VIII. was now solicited by the college to complete the work, 
 and the interior was finished. Of the twenty-six windows, twenty- 
 five contain four pictures, each in '* Oryent colours and Imagery of 
 the Story of the olde lawe and the newe lawe after the fourme of the 
 glasse windowes of the Kinge's newe chapell at Westmynster." The 
 windows are the most important specimen of English glass-painting 
 in existence. These glorious paintings are in two series around the 
 chapel — the upper illustrating scenes from the Old Testament, the 
 
420 NOTES TO PAGES 324, 325. 
 
 lower, scenes from the New Testament. Such is the delicacy of tint 
 and the graceful blending of colors, that while the brighter hues pre- 
 vail, there is the most perfect harmony, the shading is so exceptional 
 as to be transparent, and the fretted roof and arches glimmer, 
 
 " dyed 
 In the soft checkerings of a sleepy light." 
 
 The figures are larger than life, and the expression is strong and 
 beautiful — 
 
 " A glorious work of fine intelligence." 
 
 That these windows should have escaped the fanaticism of the Puri- 
 tan soldiers quartered in the city is almost a miracle. The work of 
 Henry VII. can be detected by the presence of the red rose, the haw- 
 thorn bush, and the crown, in the tracery of the windows ; while the 
 weaving together of the initials of Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn on 
 the organ screen and stalls tells its own tale. 
 
 8. St. Paul's Cathedral. 
 
 1823. 
 
 LIT. ' 
 
 " Not Love, not War." 
 
 It may well be set down to the credit of Wordsworth's Muse that 
 she does not affect *' the perfumed chambers of the great ; " that she 
 lets the sumptuous chariots and equipages wheel by unnoticed ; and 
 that she rather shuns than seeks '* the canopies of costly state," the 
 proud saloons of fashion and high life, preferring the lowly cottage 
 where modest worth and " honorable brows bedewed with toil " have 
 their abode, and eat their bread in purity and gentleness of heart. — 
 Dr. Hudson. 
 
 Cf. Highland Huty 1831. 
 
 1827. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 To Roth a Q — . 
 
 Rotha was the daughter of Mr. Edward Quillinan, who, in 1841, 
 married the Poet's daughter Dora. 
 
 See Address to my Infant Daughter Dora, 1804. 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 325, 326. 421 
 
 10. Rotha is the river that unites the three sister-lakes, — Grasmere, 
 Rydal, and Windermere. 
 
 LIV. 
 To , in her Seventieth Year. 
 
 Lady Fitzgerald, as described to me by Lady Beaumont. —W. W. 
 
 This sonnet answers admirably Aubrey de Vere's definition : " It 
 is in poetry what the Collect is in devotion ; " within its compass 
 there is " meditation and observation, imagination and passion." 
 
 " Scorn not the Sonnet." 
 
 Composed almost extempore in a short walk on the western side 
 of Rydal Lake. 
 
 It is not often that criticism is presented to us in the form of the 
 highest poetry and condensed into fourteen lines. This sonnet alone 
 is sufficient to vindicate Wordsworth's claim to mastery in this form 
 of poetry ; for in it we have history enriched with the finest touches of 
 the imagination, and transmitted in diction pure and strong, while the 
 music varies from the most powerful animation to the softest cadences 
 of metrical harmony — 
 
 " Rising loudly 
 Up to its climax, and then dying proudly." 
 
 1830. 
 
 LVI. 
 To the Author's Portrait. 
 
 The portrait here alluded to was painted by H. W. Pickersgill, R. A., 
 at the request of the Master and Fellows of St. John's College, Cam- 
 bridge. It represents the Poet seated under a high bank, with Lake 
 scenery in the background ; he is clad in a black cloak lined with red. 
 while the left hand, holding a pencil, rests on some papers. The fea- 
 tures are sharp profile, as the face is turned to the right. The picture 
 hangs in the Dining Hall. 
 
 The last six lines of this sonnet are not written for poetical effect, 
 but as a matter of fact, which, in more than one instance, could not 
 escape my notice in the servants of the house. — W. W^. 
 
422 NOTES TO PAGES 327, 328. 
 
 1831. 
 
 The Trossachs. 
 
 For an account of this visit to Scotland, see note to Yarrow Revisi- 
 ted, and On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott. Wordsworth says that 
 the remembrance of his recent farewell to Sir Walter Scott colored 
 this and the two following sonnets. Wordsworth first saw the Tros- 
 sachs in company with his sister and Coleridge. See Memorials of a 
 Tour in Scotland, 1803. 
 
 In Sonnet LI V. we had the critical and the descriptive ; here we have 
 the moral and the descriptive. 
 
 Mr. Walter Bagehot cites this poem as an illustration of Words- 
 worth's purity of style. 
 
 See Stepping Westward y written on the same ground in 1803. 
 
 The Pibroch's Note. 
 The following is from Duncan Maclntyre's poem, Ben Doran ; it is 
 fitted to the pibroch's tune : — 
 
 Honor o'er all Bens 
 On Bendoran be ! 
 Of all hills the sun kens, 
 Beautif uUest he ; 
 Mountain long and sweeping, 
 Nooks the red deer keeping, 
 Light on braesides sleeping ; 
 
 There I 've watched delightedly. 
 
 Translated by PROFESSOR Shairp. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Highland Hut. 
 
 Wordsworth, the great poet of our times, has gone to common life, 
 to the feelings of our universal nature, to the obscure and neglected 
 portions of society, for beautiful and touching themes. The grand 
 truth which pervades his poetry is that the beautiful is not confined 
 to the rare, the new, the distant — to scenery and modes of life open 
 only to the few. He is the poet of humanity ; he teaches reverence 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 328, 329. 423 
 
 for our universal nature ; he breaks down the factitious barriers be- 
 tween human hearts. — Wm. E. Channing, D. D. 
 
 1833. 
 
 LX. 
 ! To the River Derwent. 
 
 Although this sonnet was written in 1819, Wordsworth republished 
 it as introductory to the following tour. 
 
 In the summer of 1833 Wordsworth, accompanied by his son, the 
 Rev. John Wordsworth, and Henry Crabb Robinson, made a short 
 tour in Scotland. His course was down the Derwent to Whitehaven 
 and the Isle of Man, thence to Staffa and lona, returning to England 
 by Loch Awe, through Ayrshire to Carlisle, and by the river Eden 
 and Ullswater. This and the following four sonnets mark his route. 
 The Derwent, the river of his youth, rises in Borrowdale near the 
 Eagle's Crag. 
 
 See Prelude, i. 269-300 ; also note to The Sparrow's Nest, 1801. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 In Sight of the Town of Cockermouth. 
 
 Wordsworth's mother died in 1778 and his father in 1783; they 
 were buried at Cockermouth. 
 See Sonnet LX. and references. 
 
 LXII. 
 Address from the Spirit of Cockermouth Castle. 
 
 Cockermouth Castle stands on an eminence not far from the manor- 
 house in which Wordsworth was born. It was built by the first lord 
 of Allerdale, in the reign of William I., as a Border defence against 
 Cumberland's old enemies, the Scots. It was captured by Douglas in 
 1387, and in 1568 was the prison of Mary Queen of Scots. It is one 
 of the finest castle ruins in England. 
 
 See Sonnet LX., references ; also Prehide, i. 269-287, and Historic 
 Towns, Carlisle, chap. v. Cf. To a Butterfly. 
 
424 NOTES TO PAGES 330, 331. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Mary Queen of Scots. 
 
 Landing at the mouth of the Derwent, Workington. 
 
 Mary, in making her escape from Scotland after the battle at Lang- 
 side, 1568, made a fruitless effort to reach Dumbarton, and then sought 
 refuge in Galloway. After a ride of ninety miles she reached the 
 Solway ; then jumping into a fishing boat, with a handful of attendants 
 she landed at Workington, and under escort of the Warden and gentry 
 of Cockermouth before evening was safe in the Castle of Carlisle. 
 
 See Historic Towns, Carlisle, chap. vii. 
 
 "'There!' said the Stripling. 
 
 " It is remarkable," says Wordsworth, ** that though Burns lived 
 some time here, he nowhere adverts to the splendid prospects stretch- 
 ing towards the sea, and bounded by the peaks of Arran, which he 
 must have had daily before his eyes. Soon after we had passed Moss- 
 giel farm we crossed the Ayr murmuring and winding through a narrow 
 woody hollow." 
 
 See Burns's Daisy. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 " Most Sweet it is." 
 
 This sonnet reveals to us the method of the Poet's work, and if 
 rightly understood will show us the grounds of his criticism upon 
 Scott's method, which he considered as too conscious : approaching 
 Nature with pencil and note-book and jotting down an inventory of 
 her charms. *' In every scene," says Wordsworth, " many of the most 
 brilliant details are but accidental ; a true eye for Nature does not 
 note them, or at least does not dwell on them." Matthew Arnold 
 says : " This sonnet cannot be matched from Milton." 
 
 See Essays on Poetry, vol. ii. chap, xv., by Aubrey de Vere. 
 
 1837. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 The Pine of Monte Mario, at Rome. 
 
 In March, 1837, Wordsworth, in company with his friend, Henry 
 Crabb Robinson, visited Italy. 
 
NOTES TO PAGES 331-333. 42$ 
 
 This pine had been bought by Sir George Beaumont to save it from 
 the axe. Wordsworth says that he could not resist the temptation 
 to embrace the trunk of this interesting monument of his friend's feel- 
 ings for the beauties of Nature. 
 
 See Memoirs of Wordsworth. 
 
 1838. 
 
 LXVII. 
 Composed on a May morning, 1833. 
 
 This sonnet was composed upon the "Far Terrace " at Rydal Mount, 
 ** where," says Wordsworth, " I have murmured out many thousands 
 of verses." 
 
 Wordsworth's soul, " wedded to this goodly universe in love and 
 holy passion," could find no sphere from which the divine life was ex- 
 cluded, no sphere where joy was not "in widest commonalty spread." 
 It is this element in Wordsworth's work that makes it so uplifting. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 " Blest Statesman He." 
 
 Cf. Character of the Happy Warrior. 
 
 The earth waits for exalted manhood. 
 
 Emerson. 
 
 1841. 
 
 LXIX., LXX. 
 To a Painter. 
 
 Miss Margaret Gillies, the accomplished artist, was a friend of the 
 Wordsworths, and often visited in the family. She painted several 
 portraits of the Poet ; the first was at the suggestion of Moon, the 
 publisher, for the purpose of engraving. Wordsworth was so much 
 pleased with it that he requested that it be reproduced, and Mrs. 
 Wordsworth's added. It was to this portrait that these sonnets refer. 
 
 See She was a Phantom of Delight. 
 
426 NOTES TO PAGE 334. 
 
 1842. 
 
 LXXI. 
 "A Poet!" 
 
 He would be a very bold man who would assert that Wordsworth, 
 when at his best, was not an artist in a very high degree, and yet 
 in the writings of no other poet do we find so clearly illustrated the 
 limits between poetry and verse. In both of his long poems we have 
 poetry of as lofty character as our language can boast, and in the same 
 poems we also meet passages of the plainest verse. 
 
 The subtle relation existing between the conscious and the uncon- 
 scious elements in Art is a mystery ; it is generally true, however, that 
 as the one increases the other diminishes. Thus the prevalence of 
 the one or the other of these tendencies — conscious effect or lofty 
 inspiration, spiritual disease or spiritual health, reason or faith — con- 
 stitutes the ebb and flow in English poetry. 
 
 In the first part of this sonnet Wordsworth gives us something 
 of the method of the poets of the Restoration, who, as Keats says, 
 taught that to write poetry was 
 
 " to smooth, inlay, and clip and fit. 
 easy was the task, 
 A hundred handicraftsmen wore the mask 
 Of Poesy." 1 
 
 Of these writers Mr. Gosse says that for the direct appeal to Na- 
 ture they substituted generalities and second-hand allusions, and the 
 result of coining these conventional counters for groups of ideas was 
 that the personal, the exact, was lost in literature. 
 
 It was against such a perversion of Art that Wordsworth did battle ; 
 he insisted that true Art was the product of the whole nature, intel- 
 lect, sensibility, and will, aglow with a lofty spiritual imagination 
 where "form is lost in the effulgence of the soul breathing through 
 it." In that battle there was needed "the service of a mind and 
 heart heroically fashioned." 
 
 Mr. Gosse again says that the poetry of these classical versemen 
 received blow upon blow from the naturalistic poets, until by Words- 
 worth and Coleridge it was destroyed altogether. 
 
 » Sleep and Poetry. 
 
NOTES TO PAGE 334. 427 
 
 In the valedictory sonnet to the edition of 1838 we have the method 
 and the aim of Wordsworth's work : — 
 
 " If in this book Fancy and Truth agree ; 
 If simple Nature trained by careful Art 
 Through it have won a passage to thy heart ; 
 Grant me thy love, I crave no other fee." 
 
 Dr. Moir, the Scottish author and critic, says: " Never, perhaps, in 
 the whole range of literary history, from Homer downwards, did any 
 individual, throughout the course of a long life, dedicate himself to 
 poetry with a devotion so pure, so perfect, and so uninterrupted as 
 he did." 
 
 Consult Wordsworth as an Artist, in Hudson's Studies in Words- 
 worth, Corson's Introduction to the Study of Browning, Dowden's In* 
 terpretation of Literature, in Transcripts and Studies, and Preface to 
 my edition of the Prelude. 
 
 The following works have been quoted in the notes : — 
 Arnold, M. — "Memorial Verses." Preface to Selections from 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 Bagehot, W. — Literary Studies. 
 Blackie, J. S. — Lays of the Highlands and Islands. 
 Brooke, S. A. — Theology in the English Poets. Christ in Modern 
 
 Life. 
 Carlyle, T. — Heroes and Hero-Worship. 
 Channing, W. E. — Self-culture. 
 Coleridge, H. — Sonnets. 
 Coleridge, S. T. — Biographia Literaria. 
 Corson, H. — Introduction to Browning. 
 Dowden, E. — Studies in Literature. Transcripts and Studies 
 
 Correspondence of Sir Henry Taylor. 
 Emerson, E. W. — Emerson in Concord. 
 Emerson, R. W. — Essays (" Inspiration," "Nature **). 
 George, A. J. — Wordsworth's " Prelude." 
 GossE, E. — From Shakespeare to Pope. 
 Gray, A. — Natural Science and Religion. 
 Grosart, a. B. — The Prose Works of William Wordsworth. 
 Haydon, F. W. — Haydon's Correspondence and Table Talk. 
 
428 NOTES. 
 
 Hudson, H. N. — Studies in Wordsworth. 
 
 HuTTON, R. H. — Essays. 
 
 Knight, W. — Wordsworth's Poetical Works. Memories of Cole* 
 orton. 
 
 Landor, W. S. — Imaginary Conversations. 
 
 Lee, E. — Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 LocKHART, J. G. — Life of Scott. 
 
 Martineau, H. — Biographical Sketches. 
 
 Mill, J. S. — Autobiography. 
 
 MoiR, D. M. — Lectures on Poetical Literature. 
 
 Myers, F. W. — Wordsworth. 
 
 Oliphant, Mrs, — Makers of Venice. Literary History of England. 
 
 Rawnsley, H. D. — Sonnets at the English Lakes. 
 
 Reed, H. — Lectures on British Poets. 
 
 Rix, H. — Duddon Sonnets. Wordsworth Society Transactions, 
 Vol. V. 
 
 Robertson, F. W. — Lectures, Addresses, and Literary Remains. 
 
 RusKiN, J. — Stones of Venice. Modern Painters. 
 
 Sandford, Mrs. — Thomas Poole and His Friends. 
 
 Scott, Sir W -- Poems (" Helvellyn "). 
 
 Shairp, J. C. — Studies in Poetry and Philosophy. Aspects of 
 Poetry. Poetic Interpretation of Nature. Wordsworth's Tour in 
 Scotland. 
 
 Stephen, L. — Hours in a Library — Third Series. 
 
 Talfourd, T. N. — Life of Charles Lamb. 
 
 Taylor, Sir H. — Critical Essays on Poetry. Autobiography. 
 
 Vere, a. de. — Essays. Essay in Wordsworth Society Transac- 
 tions, Vol. V. 
 
 Whipple, E. P. — Literature and Life. 
 
INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 Paob 
 
 A barking sound the Shepherd hears 178 
 
 A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by 313 
 
 Age I twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers 160 
 
 All praise the Likeness by thy skill portrayed 333 
 
 Amid the smoke of cities did you pass 79 
 
 Among the mountains were we nursed, loved Stream .... 32^ 
 
 An age hath been when Earth was proud 238 
 
 And is this — Yarrow? — T'/^/j the stream 233 
 
 An Orpheus ! an Orpheus ! Yes, Faith may grow bold . . . 201 
 
 I Another year ! Another deadly blow ! 315 
 
 A pen — to register ; a key 254 
 
 A Poet ! — He hath put his heart to school 334 
 
 A point of life between my Parents' dust 329 
 
 A Rock there is whose homely front 276 
 
 Art thou a Statist in the van 37 
 
 Art thou the bird that Man loves best 112 
 
 A simple child 4 
 
 A slumber did my spirit seal 36 
 
 At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears .... 296 
 
 A trouble not of clouds or weeping rain 282 
 
 Begone, thou fond presumptuous elf 99 
 
 Behold her, single in the field 156 
 
 Behold within the leafy shade 105 
 
 Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed 138 
 
 Bleak season was it, turbulent and wild 53 
 
 Blest is this Isle, — our native Land 256 
 
 Blest Statesman He, whose Mind's unselfish will 332 
 
 Bright Flower I whose home is everywhere 137 
 
 By their floating mill 197 
 
430 INDEX TO FIRST IINES. v 
 
 Calvert ! it must not be unheard by them 314 
 
 Child of loud-throated War ! the mountain Stream .... 152 
 
 IClarkson ! it was an obstinate hill to climb ........ 316 
 
 I Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars 310 
 
 Dear Child of Nature, let them rail 193 
 
 Dear native regions, I foretell i 
 
 Dear to the Loves and to the Graces vowed 330 
 
 Degenerate Douglass I Oh, the unworthy lord 306 
 
 Departing summer hath assumed 249 
 
 Earth hath not anything to show more fair 299 
 
 JEnglandl the time is come when thou shouldst wean .... 308 
 
 Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky 264 
 
 -^Fair star of Evening, splendor of the west 300 
 
 Farewell, thou little Nook of mountain-ground 125 
 
 '•Festivals have I seen that were not names 301 ^ 
 
 Five years have passed ; five summers with the length .... 17 
 
 Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale 163 
 
 Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep 314 
 
 From low to high doth dissolution climb 322 
 
 From Stirling Castle we had seen 158 
 
 Go, faithful Portrait ! and where long hath knelt 326 
 
 —Great men have been among us ; hands that penned .... 305 
 
 Had this effulgence disappeared 245 
 
 Hast thou then survived 171 
 
 Here pause : the poet claims at least this praise 317 
 
 High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate 211 
 
 High is our calling, friend ! — Creative Art 317 
 
 His simple truths did Andrew glean loi 
 
 Hope rules a land forever green 270 
 
 I am not One who much or oft delight ' 31T 
 
 I come, ye little noisy crew 39 
 
 If from the public way you turn your step 82 
 
INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 43 ^ 
 
 If Nature, for a favorite child 42 
 
 If this great world of joy and pain ♦. . . . 286 
 
 If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven 286 
 
 - — J grieved for Buonaparte 299 
 
 I heard a thousand blended notes 11 
 
 —Inland, within a hollow vale I stood 303 
 
 Inmate of a mountain dwelling 236 
 
 In these fair vales hath many a Tree 276 
 
 In the sweet shire of Cardigan 7 
 
 In this still place, remote from men 154 
 
 In youth from rock to rock I went 132 
 
 I saw an aged Beggar in my walk 22 
 
 I saw far off the dark top of a pine 331 
 
 I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold 141 
 
 v[s it a reed that 's shaken by the wind 300 
 
 I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide 321 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free 302 
 
 "^^It is not to be thought of that the Flood 305*, 
 
 It is the first mild day of March 12 
 
 I travelled among unknown men 34 
 
 It seems a day 30 
 
 It was an April morning : fresh and clear 77 
 
 I 've watched you now a full half-hour . 
 
 1 wandered lonely as a cloud 
 
 I was thy neighbor once, thou rugged Pile 
 
 I, who accompanied with faithful pace 321 
 
 -Jones ! as from Calais southward you and I 301 
 
 Lance, shield, and sword relinquished, at his side 322 
 
 Lie here, without a record of thy worth 182 
 
 Life with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun 332 
 
 Lord of the vale ! astounding Flood 231 
 
 Loud is the Vale ! the Voice is up 199 
 
 'Mid crowded obelisks and urns 147 
 
 -^Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour 304 
 
 Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 331 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold ". . m 
 
432 INDEX TO FIRST LINES. ^ 
 
 Nay, Traveller ! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands 2 
 
 Nor can I not'believe but that thereby 312 
 
 Not in the lucid intervals of life 287 
 
 Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell 324 
 
 Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room 309 
 
 O blithe New-comer ! I have heard 164 
 
 O dearer far than light and life are dear 260 
 
 -O Friend ! I know not which way I must look 304 
 
 Oft have I caught upon a fitful breeze 261 
 
 Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray 49 
 
 O gentle Sleep ! do they belong to thee 313 
 
 Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee 302 
 
 On his morning rounds the master 181 
 
 O Nightingale ! thou surely art 210 
 
 On Nature's invitation do I come 52 
 
 O thou! whose fancies from afar are brought 131 
 
 Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies 115 
 
 Pleasures newly found are sweet 117 
 
 Return, Content ! for fondly I pursued 320 
 
 Rotha, my spiritual child ! this head was gray 325 
 
 Sacred Religion ! mother of form and fear 319 
 
 Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned 326 
 
 See what gay wild-flowers deck this earth-built cot 328 
 
 Serene, and fitted to embrace 226 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways , . . . . -t^i 
 
 She had a tall man's height or more 108 
 
 She was a Phantom of delight 166 
 
 Six thousand veterans practised in War's game 309 
 
 Small service is true service while it lasts 288 
 
 So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive 295 
 
 Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played 319 
 
 Stay near me : do not take thy flight . . , , .114 
 
 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God 175 
 
 Strange fits of passion have I known . 32 
 
INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 433 
 
 Such age, how beautiful ! O Lady bright 325 
 
 Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind « . . 318 
 
 Sweet Flower! belike one day to have 190 
 
 Sweet Highland girl, a very shower 149 
 
 Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense • . . . 323 
 
 The cock is crowing no 
 
 The gallant Youth, who may have gained : . 278 
 
 The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor 54 
 
 The little hedge-row birds 29 
 
 The minstrels played their Christmas tune 251 
 
 The Pibroch's note discountenanced or mute .,,.... 327 
 
 The post-boy drove with fierce career 106 
 
 •—There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear . . . . . . 307 
 
 There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine 174 
 
 There is an Eminence, — of these our hills 82 
 
 There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale 139 
 
 "There ! " said the Stripling, pointing with meet pride . . . 330 
 
 There 's not a nook within this solemn Pass 327 
 
 There was a roaring in the wind all night 119 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream 203 
 
 •—These times strike monied worldlings with dismay 307 
 
 " These tourists, heaven preserve us ! needs must live "... 62 
 
 The sun has long been set 130 
 
 The world is too much with us : late and soon 310 
 
 They dreamt not of a perishable home 324 
 
 Though I beheld at first with blank surprise 333 
 
 Though many suns have risen and set 264 
 
 "Thou lookst upon me, and dost fondly think" 329 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower 34 
 
 'T is gone, — with old belief and dream 273 
 
 To a good Man of most dear memory 288 
 
 Too frail to keep the lofty vow 144 
 
 — Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men 303 
 
 Troubled long with warring notions 248 
 
 •".Two Voices are there : one is of the sea ......... 316 
 
 Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books 15 
 
 Up with me 1 up with me into the clouds .,.....» 177 
 
 28 
 
434 INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 \ Vanguard of Libert}-, ye men of Kent 308 v» 
 
 Well mayst thou halt — and gaze with brightening eye . • . 315 
 
 We talked with open heart and tongue ", , 46 
 
 We walked along, while bright and red 44 
 
 What awful perspective ! while from our sight 323 
 
 What is good for a bootless bene 217 
 
 *^'^\\di\., you are stepping westzaard ?'^ — Yea ^55 
 
 When first descending from the moorlands 293 
 
 ■"•When I have borne in memory what has tarned 306 
 
 When, to the attractions of the busy world 184 
 
 Where are they now, those wanton Boys 243 
 
 Where art thou, my beloved Son 168 
 
 Where towers are crushed, and unforbidden weeds 268 
 
 Where will they stop, those breathing powers ....... 283 
 
 Q^Vho is the Happy Warrior ? W^ ho is he ........ 194 
 
 Who swerves from innocence, who makes divorce 320 
 
 Why, William, on that old gray stone 14 
 
 Wings have we, and as far as we can go 312 
 
 Within our happy Castle there dwelt One . 127 
 
 Within the mind strong fancies work 240 
 
 With little here to do or see 135 
 
 With sacrifice before the rising morn 220 
 
 Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth 318 
 
 Yes, it was the mountain echo . . 19^ 
 
 •' Yet life," you say, "is life; we have seen and see " . . . . 311 
 
14 DAY USE 
 
 ^ 
 
 RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED 
 
 LOAN DEPT. 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 
 
 on the date to which renewed. 
 
 Renewed books are subjea to immediate recall. 
 
 REC'D LU 
 
 15Nov'59CBf 
 
 MAY 1 5 1962 
 
 RFC'D UP 
 
 NOV 16 1959 
 
 6Nov'62Dg 
 
 tic 
 
 REC'D LD 
 
 OCT 23 1962 
 
 -^ — ^ 
 REC'D LD 
 
 yjuf64gt j 
 
 MAR,^ t^ 
 
 R t rC'D Lb 
 
 ^ 
 
 f6& 
 
 M 
 
 3 0'64-6 
 
 S^^ 
 
 J 5EP221983 
 
 OCT 27 1961 
 
 Pi^AD 
 
 KEaciR. AUG22'83 
 
 m 
 
 G 
 
 
 LD 21A-50m-4,'59 
 (A17248l0)476B 
 
 General Library 
 
 University of California 
 
 Berkeley 
 
^ 
 
 -l'in:^i 
 
 M 
 
 /m 
 
 "'♦