WORDSWORTH 
 
 AN 
 ANTHOLOGY 
 
 RICHARD 
 
 COBDEN-SANDERSON 
 
 THAVIES INN 
 
 1920 
 
PREFATORY NOTE ^^^jucr 
 
MATTHEW ARNOLD has said that Wordsworth's 
 greatness lies in the fact that he deals with life and 
 deals with it so powerfully ; and that he deals with 
 life because he deals with that in which life really 
 consists, that his poetry is great because of the extra- 
 ordinary power with which he feels the joy offered to 
 us in nature, the joy offered to us in the simple 
 elementary affections and duties ; because of the 
 extraordinary power with which, in case after case, 
 he shows us this joy and renders it so as to make us 
 share it : and that the source of joy from which 
 Wordsworth draws is the truest and most unfailing 
 source of joy accessible to man, and it is accessible 
 universally. And thus, and thus, Mr. Arnold points 
 his moral in his preface to his own edition of Words- 
 worth's poems. Wordsworth, he says, brings us word, 
 in his own strong and characteristic line, " of joy in 
 widest commonalty spread." 
 
 But Wordsworth, in the opinion of the present 
 writer, does something else and more than this. Joy 
 in widest commonalty spread is a common joy which 
 every one can feel, which is open to all of us ; but 
 there is a joy of a more exceptional kind, a joy of 
 aspect more sublime, felt in the blood, and felt along 
 the heart, " that blessed mood, in which the heavy 
 and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is 
 lightened, until, the breath of this corporeal frame, 
 even the motion of our human blood, almost sus- 
 pended, we are laid asleep in body and become a 
 6 
 
living soul ; while with an eye made quiet by the 
 power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we 
 see into the life of things." 
 
 It is this high mood of cosmic emotion which gives 
 to Wordsworth and his poetry their highest worth 
 and characteristic note of ecstasy, of compassionate 
 wonder for the working and being of human nature 
 amid the terrors and sublimities which envelop it. 
 To the man of the world, living in an environment 
 which is his own creation or under his own control, 
 and so familiar to him and deprived of, or wanting in, 
 the awe or admiration inspired by nature's sublimities 
 or felicities, much if not all the poetry of Wordsworth 
 will seem absurd or tame or even silly ; for example, 
 the crucial " primrose by a river's brim," or " A 
 simple child " : and the " impulse from a vernal 
 wood " will seem, even to Lord Morley, to be no more 
 than a " playful sally," for, of moral evil or of good, 
 an impulse from a vernal wood can teach us, says 
 Lord Morley, absolutely nothing ; and yet it is pre- 
 cisely the supreme belief of Wordsworth that it may, 
 and does, teach us more of man, of moral evil and 
 of good, " than all the sages can." For indeed to the 
 poetic imagination of Wordsworth, at the height of that 
 blessed mood in which he sees into the life of things, 
 the knowledge of moral evil and of good is seen to have 
 its primal instinct, its fountain light, in the temper 
 of the universe, in the temper immanent in itself and 
 emanant from all its sublime and beautiful creations. 
 
 7 
 
Not 'mid the world's vain objects that enslave 
 
 The freeborn Soul — that World whose vaunted skill 
 
 In selfish interest perverts the will, 
 
 Whose factions lead astray the wise and brave — 
 
 Not there ; but in dark wood and rocky cave, 
 
 And hollow vale which foaming torrents fill 
 
 With omnipresent murmur as they rave 
 
 Down their steep beds, that never shall be still : 
 
 Here, mighty Nature ! in this school sublime 
 
 I weigh the hopes and fears of suffering Spain ; 
 
 For her consult the auguries of time. 
 
 And through the human heart explore my way ; 
 
 And look and listen, gathering, whence 1 may. 
 
 Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can restrain.* 
 
 In " A simple child " again, we are at the very 
 heart of Wordsworth's emotion, his immense daring 
 and dawnlike purity of primitive vision : in the 
 soul of the child he is face to face with Nature, 
 as Nature may be imagined to have seemed before it 
 had been interpreted by the after questioning of man. 
 His own insistent question is one of Nature's first. 
 He and the child together are the infinite and the 
 finite. And the charm of the poem is the presentment 
 of Nature ignorant of itself, the child mind unawakened, 
 before the years have brought the inevitable yoke, 
 like the blind child of Millais so radiantly illumined 
 
 * Composed while the author was engaged in writing a tract 
 occasioned by the Convention of Cintra. 
 8 
 
in a world of which it has no vision. What should 
 it know of Death ! A perfect presentment, a perfect 
 poem. 
 
 And the " primrose by a river's brim " ! Have we 
 all of us then, and not Peter only, so little imaginative 
 sympathy that we cannot appreciate, as Wordsworth 
 appreciates, the infinite tenderness of the infinitely 
 great, of the infinitely great which, from out the 
 infinite and amid its own stupendous tasks, stoops 
 to strew the path of man, the infinitely little, the 
 path of man with sunshine and with flowers ? 
 
 It is to this high emotion, to this cosmic sympathy, 
 beyond the comprehension of the world at its ordinary 
 temperature, and to the great Nature, " embodied in 
 the mystery of words," where " even forms and sub- 
 stances are circumfused by that transparent veil with 
 light divine, and through the turnings intricate of 
 verse present themselves as objects recognised, in 
 flashes, and with glory not their own," that I dedi- 
 cate this Anthology. It is arranged, as far as I have 
 been able to arrange it, at once to show, in Part I, 
 the fact and the growth of Wordsworth's own early 
 awakened cosmic emotion, "the glory and the dream"; 
 and in Part V, its transformation beneath an eye 
 that hath kept watch o'er man's mortality, and finds 
 in the meanest flower that blows thoughts that do 
 often lie too deep for tears. In the intervenient Parts, 
 II, III, and IV, are arranged the moments at which 
 the poet, mindful of the vast All of Time and Space, 
 
 9 
 
Is poised in concentrated contemplation of " case 
 after case " of joy, of sorrow, of expectation and 
 despair, of heroic magnanimity and of sublime 
 ECSTASIS. 
 
 The Poet was born at Cockermouth, in Cumberland, 
 on April 7, 177c. He died at Rydal Mount, in 
 Westmorland, on April 23, 1850. 
 
 The Poems are taken for the most part from the 
 decade of years 1798 to 1808 — a period which gives 
 its title to the first edition of the Anthology published 
 by The Doves Press in 191 1. 
 
 T. J. COBDEN-SANDERSON 
 
 10 
 
CONTENTS 
 
PREFATORY NOTE 
 
 PROEM : 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 
 
 PROLOGUE : 
 
 On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life . 
 
 PART L INDUCTION : 
 
 A. ANTITYPES : 
 
 i. There was a Boy .... 
 
 ii. A Nio^ht Piece .... 
 
 iii. The Simplon Pass .... 
 iv. Imagination — here the Power so called 
 
 V. Yew-trees . . . . . 
 
 vi. Nutting . . . . . 
 
 B. FROM THE PRELUDE : 
 
 i. I. Fair seed-time had my soul 
 
 2. Nor, sedulous as I have been 
 
 3. We ran a boisterous course . 
 
 4. Those incidental charms 
 
 5. 'Twere long to tell 
 
 6. Thus while the days flew by 
 ii. I. Bright was the summer's noon 
 
 2. When first I made 
 iii. Here must we pause 
 iv. O Soul of Nature ! . 
 
 C. LINES COMPOSED ON REVISITING 
 
 THE BANKS OF THE WYE 
 12 
 
11. 
 
 111. 
 
 IV. 
 
 PART 11. POEMS : 
 
 i. We are Seven .... 
 Lucy Gray ; or Solitude 
 Ruth 
 
 1. Strange fits of passion have I known 
 
 2. She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
 
 3. I travelled among unknown men 
 
 4. Three years she grew in sun and shower 
 
 5. A slumber did my spirit seal 
 V. Michael 
 vi. The Affliction of Margaret 
 
 vii. Lines written in Early Spring 
 viii. To the Daisy 
 ix. Expostulation and Reply 
 X. The Tables Turned 
 xi. Hartleap Well 
 xii. Fidelity 
 xiii. Matthew 
 
 xiv. The Two April Mornings 
 XV. The Fountain 
 xvi. To Hartley Coleridge 
 xvii. Within our happy Castle 
 xviii. A Complaint 
 
 xix. The Leech-gatherer 
 PART IIL SONNETS : 
 
 i. Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west 
 ii. Two Voices are there ; one is of the sea . 
 iii. Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee 
 iv. Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men ! 
 
 Page 
 68 
 
 71 
 
 74 
 
 85 
 
 87 
 88 
 
 89 
 
 91 
 92 
 
 108 
 
 III 
 
 112 
 
 113 
 
 115 
 117 
 
 125 
 
 128 
 
 130 
 
 133 
 136 
 
 138 
 141 
 142 
 
 148 
 148 
 149 
 149 
 
 13 
 
PART III (Continued) : Page 
 
 V. O Friend! I know not which way I must look 150 
 vi. The world is too much with us ; late and 
 soon ...... 
 
 vii. Milton ! thou should'st be living at this hour 
 
 viii. It is not to be thought of that the Flood . 
 
 ix. Scorn not the Sonnet : Critic, you have 
 
 frowned ..... 
 
 X. Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room 
 xi. Wansf ell ! this Household has a favoured lot 
 xii. I am not One who much or oft delight 
 xiii. Wings have we, — and as far as we can go . 
 xiv. Nor can I not believe but that hereby 
 XV. All praise the Likeness by thy skill por- 
 trayed ...... 
 
 xvi. Though I beheld at first with blank 
 surprise ..... 
 
 xvii. Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind 
 xviii. A point of life between my Parents' dust 
 xix. Rotha, my Spiritual Child ! this head was 
 grey . . . . 
 
 XX. There's not a nook within this solemn Pass 
 xxi. Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 
 xxii. Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous 
 swell ...... 
 
 xxlii. Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful 
 
 hour ! . 
 xxiv. How clear, how keen, how marvellous y 
 bright ...... 
 
 14 
 
PART III (Continued) : 
 
 XXV. The fairest, brightest, hues of ether fade 
 
 xxvi. I watch, and long have watched, with 
 
 calm regret .... 
 
 xxvii. A Trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain 
 
 xxviii. It is a beauteous evening, calm and free 
 
 xxix. Earth has not anything to show more fair 
 
 XXX. Where lies the Land to which yon Ship 
 
 must go ? . 
 
 xxxi. Child of the clouds ! remote from every 
 
 taint ..... 
 
 xxxii. Brook ! whose society the Poet seeks . 
 
 xxxiii. Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze 
 
 that played .... 
 
 xxxiv. The old inventive Poets, had they seen 
 
 XXXV. Not hurled precipitous from steep to 
 
 steep . . . . . 
 
 xxxvi. But here no cannon thunders to the gale 
 
 xxxvii. I thought of Thee, my partner and my 
 
 guide . . . . . 
 
 xxxviii. Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense 
 
 PART IV. POEMS : 
 
 i. Stepping Westward . 
 ii. To a Highland Girl . 
 iii. She was a Phantom of delight 
 iv. Yarrow .... 
 V. Yarrow visited . 
 vi. The Solitary Reaper . 
 vii. Upon the Death of James Hogg 
 
 Page 
 1 60 
 
 160 
 161 
 161 
 162 
 
 162 
 
 163 
 163 
 
 164 
 
 164 
 
 165 
 165 
 
 166 
 166 
 
 168 
 169 
 172 
 174 
 177 
 181 
 183 
 15 
 
PART IV (Continued) : 
 viii. Glen Almain 
 IX. To the Small Celandine 
 X. I wandered lonely as a cloud 
 xi. To a Butterfly . 
 xii. The Green Linnet 
 xiii. The Sparrow's Nest 
 xiv. To my Sister 
 XV. To the Cuckoo . 
 xvi. Yes, it was the mountain Echo 
 xvii. O Nightingale ! thou surely art 
 xviii. Brougham Castle 
 xix. Kilchurn Castle 
 XX. Peele Castle 
 xxi. Loud is the Vale ! 
 xxii. Character of The Happy Warrior 
 xxiii. Ode to Duty 
 xxiv. Laodamia . . . 
 
 PART V. ODE : 
 
 Intimations of Immortality 
 EPILOGUE : 
 
 Had this effulgence disappeared 
 
 ENVOI : 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 
 
 TABLE OF FIRST LINES . 
 
 TABLE OF YEARS . 
 
 NOTES 
 
 i6 
 
PROEM 
 
PROEM 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. 
 
 i8 
 
PROLOGUE 
 
PRO- ON Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, 
 LOGUE Musing in solitude, I oft perceive 
 
 Fair trains of imagery before me rise. 
 
 Accompanied by feelings of delight. 
 
 Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed ; 
 
 And I am conscious of affecting thoughts 
 
 And dear remembrances, whose presence soothes 
 
 Or elevates the Mind, intent to weigh 
 
 The good and evil of our mortal state. 
 
 — To these emotions, whencesoe'er they come. 
 
 Whether from breath of outward circumstance, 
 
 Or from the Soul — an impulse to herself — 
 
 I would give utterance in numerous verse. 
 
 Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and Hope, 
 
 And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith ; 
 
 Of blessed consolations in distress ; 
 
 Of moral strength, and intellectual Power ; 
 
 Of joy in widest commonalty spread ; 
 
 Of the individual Mind that keeps her own 
 
 Inviolate retirement, subject there 
 
 To Conscience only, and the law supreme 
 
 Of that Intelligence which governs all — 
 
 I sing : — " fit audience let me find though few ! " 
 
 So prayed, more gaining than he asked, the Bard- 
 In holiest mood. Urania, I shall need 
 Thy guidance, or a greater Muse, if such 
 Descend to earth or dwell in highest heaven ! 
 For I must tread on shadowy ground, must sink 
 Deep — and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds 
 20 
 
To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil. PRO - 
 
 All strength — all terror, single or in bands, LOGU F; 
 
 That ever was put forth in personal form — • 
 
 Jehovah — with his thunder, and the choir 
 
 Of shouting Angels, and the empyreal thrones — 
 
 I pass them unalarmed. Not Chaos, not 
 
 The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, 
 
 Nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out 
 
 By help of dreams — can breed such fear and awe 
 
 As fall upon us often when we look 
 
 Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man — 
 
 My haunt, and the main region of my song. 
 
 — Beauty — a living Presence of the earth, 
 
 Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms 
 
 Which craft of delicate Spirits hath composed 
 
 From earth's materials — waits upon my steps ; 
 
 Pitches her tents before me as I move. 
 
 An hourly neighbour. Paradise, and groves 
 
 Elysian, Fortunate Fields — like those of old 
 
 Sought in the Atlantic Main — why should they be 
 
 A history only of departed things. 
 
 Or a mere fiction of what never was ? 
 
 For the discerning intellect of Man, 
 
 When wedded to this goodly universe 
 
 In love and holy passion, shall find these 
 
 A simple produce of the common day. 
 
 — I, long before the blissful hour arrives, 
 
 Would chant, in lonely peace, the spousal verse 
 
 Of this great consummation : — and, by words 
 
 21 
 
PRO- Which speak of nothing more than what we are, 
 LOGUE Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep 
 Of Death, and win the vacant and the vain 
 To noble raptures ; while my voice proclaims 
 How exquisitely the individual Mind 
 (And the progressive powers perhaps no less 
 Of the whole species) to the external World 
 Is fitted : — and how exquisitely, too — 
 Theme this but little heard of among men — 
 The external World is fitted to the Mind ; 
 And the creation (by no lower name 
 Can it be called) which they with blended might 
 Accomplish : — this is our high argument. 
 — Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft 
 Must turn elsewhere — to travel near the tribe 
 And fellowships of men, and see ill sights 
 Of madding passions mutually inflamed ; 
 Must hear Humanity in fields and groves 
 Pipe solitary anguish ; or must hang 
 Brooding above the fierce confederate storm 
 Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore 
 Within the walls of cities — may these sounds 
 Have their authentic comment ; that even these 
 Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn ! — 
 Descend, prophetic Spirit ! that inspir'st 
 The human Soul of universal earth. 
 Dreaming on things to come ; and dost possess 
 A metropolitan temple in the hearts 
 Of mighty Poets ; upon me bestow 
 
 22 
 
A gift of genuine insight ; that my Song PRO- 
 
 With star-like virtue in its place may shine, LOGUE 
 
 Shedding benignant influence, and secure 
 
 Itself from all malevolent effect 
 
 Of those mutations that extend their sway 
 
 Throughout the nether sphere ! — And if with this 
 
 I mix more lowly matter ; with the thing 
 
 Contemplated, describe the Mind and Man 
 
 Contemplating ; and who, and what he was — 
 
 The transitory Being that beheld 
 
 This Vision ; — when and where, and how he lived ; 
 
 Be not this labour useless. If such theme 
 
 May sort with highest objects, then — dread Power ! 
 
 Whose gracious favour is the primal source 
 
 Of all illumination — may my Life 
 
 Express the image of a better time. 
 
 More wise desires, and simpler manners ; — nurse 
 
 My Heart in genuine freedom : — all pure thoughts 
 
 Be with me ; — so shall thy unfailing love 
 
 Guide, and support, and cheer me to the end ! 
 
 23 
 
PART I. INDUCTION 
 
THERE was a Boy ; ye knew him well, ye cliffs PART I 
 
 And islands of Winander ! — many a time, A. i 
 
 At evening, when the earliest stars began 
 
 To move along the edges of the hills. 
 
 Rising or setting, would he stand alone. 
 
 Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake ; 
 
 And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands 
 
 Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth 
 
 Uplifted, he, as through an instrument. 
 
 Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, 
 
 That they might answer him. — ^And they would shout 
 
 Across the watery vale, and shout again. 
 
 Responsive to his call, — with quivering peals, 
 
 And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud 
 
 Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse wild 
 
 Of jocund din ! And, when there came a pause 
 
 Of silence such as baffled his best skill : 
 
 Then, sometimes, in' that silence, while he hung 
 
 Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 
 
 Has carried far into his heart the voice 
 
 Of mountain-torrents ; or the visible scene 
 
 Would enter unawares into his mind 
 
 With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, 
 
 Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received 
 
 Into the bosom of the steady lake. 
 
 This boy was taken from his mates, and died 
 In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. 
 Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale 
 
 25 
 
PART I Where he was born and bred : the church-yard hangs 
 A. i Upon a slope above the village-school ; 
 
 And, through that church-yard when my way has led 
 On summer-evenings, I believe, that there 
 A long half-hour together I have stood 
 Mute — looking at the grave in which he lies ! 
 
 26 
 
THE SKY IS OVERCAST PART I 
 
 With a continuous cloud of texture close, A. ii 
 
 Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, 
 
 Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, 
 
 A dull, contracted circle, yielding light 
 
 So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls. 
 
 Chequering the ground — from rock, plant, tree, or tower. 
 
 At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam 
 
 Startles the pensive traveller while he treads 
 
 His lonesome path, with unobserving eye 
 
 Bent earthwards ; he looks up — the clouds are split 
 
 Asunder, — and above his head he sees 
 
 The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. 
 
 There, in a black-blue vault she sails along. 
 
 Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small 
 
 And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss 
 
 Drive as she drives : how fast they wheel away, 
 
 Yet vanish not ! — the wind is in the tree. 
 
 But they are silent ; — still they roll along 
 
 Immeasurably distant ; and the vault, 
 
 Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, 
 
 Still deepens its unfathomable depth. 
 
 At length the Vision closes ; and the mind. 
 
 Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, 
 
 Which slowly settles into peaceful calm. 
 
 Is left to muse upon the solemn scene. 
 
 27 
 
PART I BROOK AND ROAD 
 
 A. iii Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass, 
 And with them did we journey several hours 
 At a slow step. The immeasurable height 
 Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, 
 The stationary blasts of waterfalls. 
 And in the narrow rent, at every turn, 
 Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn, 
 The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky, 
 The rocks that muttered close upon our ears, 
 Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside 
 As if a voice were in them, the sick sight 
 And giddy prospect of the raving stream, 
 The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens, 
 Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light — 
 Were all like workings of one mind, the features 
 Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree, 
 Characters of the great Apocalypse, 
 The types and symbols of Eternity, 
 Of first, and last, and midst, and without end. 
 
 28 
 
IMAGINATION— here the Power so called PART I 
 
 Through sad incompetence of human speech, A. iv 
 
 That awful Power rose from the mind's abyss 
 
 Like an unfathered vapour that enwraps, 
 
 At once, some lonely traveller. I was lost ; 
 
 Halted without an effort to break through ; 
 : But to my conscious soul I now can say — 
 j " I recognise thy glory : " in such strength 
 I Of usurpation, when the light of sense 
 i Goes out, but with a flash that has revealed 
 
 The invisible world, doth greatness make abode. 
 
 There harbours ; whether we be young or old. 
 
 Our destiny, our being's heart and home, 
 
 Is with infinitude, and only there ; 
 
 With hope it is, hope that can never die, 
 
 Effort, and expectation, and desire. 
 
 And something evermore about to be. 
 
 Under such banners militant, the soul 
 
 Seeks for no trophies, struggles for no spoils 
 
 That may attest her prowess, blest in thoughts 
 
 That are their own perfection and reward. 
 
 Strong in herself and in beatitude 
 
 That hides her, like the mighty flood of Nile 
 
 Poured from his fount of Abyssinian clouds 
 
 To fertilise the whole Egyptian plain. 
 
 29 
 
PART I THERE is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, 
 A. V Which to this day stands single, in the midst 
 Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore ; 
 Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands 
 Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched 
 To Scotland's heaths ; or those that crossed the sea 
 And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, 
 Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. 
 Of vast circumference and gloom profound 
 This solitary Tree ! a living thing 
 Produced too slowly ever to decay ; 
 Of form and aspect too magnificent 
 To be destroyed. But w^orthier 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 uninformed with Phantasy, and looks 
 That threaten the profane ; — a pillared shade, 
 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 Tirhe the Shadow ; — there to celebrate. 
 As in a natural temple scattered o'er 
 
 30 
 
With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, PART I 
 
 United worship ; or in mute repose A. v 
 
 To lie, and listen to the mountain flood 
 Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves. 
 
 31 
 
PART I IT SEEMS A DAY 
 
 A. vi (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 steps 
 
 Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint, 
 
 Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds 
 
 Which for that service had been husbanded. 
 
 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, with tempting clusters hung, 
 
 A virgin scene ! — A little while I stood. 
 
 Breathing with 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 ; 
 
 A temper known to those, who, after long 
 
 And weary expectation, have been blest 
 
 With sudden happiness beyond all hope. 
 
 32 
 
Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves PART T 
 
 The violets of five seasons re-appear A. vi 
 
 And fade, unseen by any human eye ; 
 
 Where fairv water-breaks do murmur on 
 
 For ever ; 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. 
 
 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 
 
 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. 
 
 33 
 
PART I FAIR seed-time had my soul, and I grew up 
 B. i. I Fostered alike by beauty and by fear. 
 
 Was it for this 
 That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved 
 To blend his murmurs with my nurse's song, 
 And, from his alder shades and rocky falls, 
 And from his fords and shallows, sent a voice 
 That flowed along my dreams ? For this, didst thou, 
 O Derwent ! winding among grassy holms 
 Where I was looking on, a babe in arms. 
 Make ceaseless music that composed my thoughts 
 To more than infant softness, giving me 
 Amid the fretful dwellings of mankind 
 A foretaste, a dim earnest, of the calm 
 That Nature breathes among the hills and groves. 
 
 Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up 
 Fostered alike by beauty and by fear. 
 
 When he had left the mountains and received 
 On his smooth breast the shadow of those towers 
 That yet survive, a shattered monument 
 Of feudal sway, the bright blue river passed 
 Along the margin of our terrace walk ; 
 A tempting playmate whom we dearly loved. 
 Oh, many a time have I, a five years' child. 
 In a small mill-race severed from his stream. 
 Made one long bathing of a summer's day ; 
 
 34 
 
Basked in the sun, and plunged and basked again PART I 
 
 Alternate, all a summer's day, or scoured B. i. i 
 
 The sandy fields, leaping through flowery groves 
 
 Of yellow ragwort ; or, when rock and hill, 
 
 The woods, and distant Skiddaw's lofty height. 
 
 Were bronzed with deepest radiance, stood alone 
 
 Beneath the sky, as if I had been born 
 
 On Indian plains, and from my mother's hut 
 
 Had run abroad in wantonness, to sport 
 
 A naked savage, in the thunder shower. 
 
 Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up 
 
 Fostered alike by beauty and by fear : 
 
 Much favoured in my birth-place, and no less 
 
 In that beloved Vale to which erelong 
 
 We were transplanted ; — there were we let loose 
 
 For sports of wider range. Ere I had told 
 
 Ten birth-days, when among the mountain slopes 
 
 Frost, and the breath of frosty wind, had snapped 
 
 The last autumnal crocus, 'twas my joy 
 
 With store of springes o'er my shoulder hung 
 
 To range the open heights where woodcocks run 
 
 Along the smooth green turf. Through half the night, 
 
 Scudding away from snare to snare, I plied 
 
 That anxious visitation ; — moon and stars 
 
 Were shining o'er my head. I was alone. 
 
 And seemed to be a trouble to the peace 
 
 That dwelt among them. Sometimes it befell 
 
 In these night wanderings, that a strong desire 
 
 35 
 
PART I O'erpowered my better reason, and the bird 
 B. i. I Which was the captive of another's toil 
 
 Became my prey ; and when the deed was done 
 
 I heard among the soUtary hills 
 
 Low breathings coming after me, and sounds 
 
 Of undistinguishable motion, steps 
 
 Almost as silent as the turf they trod. 
 
 Nor less, when spring had warmed the cultured Vale, 
 Moved we as plunderers where the mother-bird 
 Had in high places built her lodge ; though mean 
 Our object and inglorious, yet the end 
 Was not ignoble. Oh ! when I have hung 
 Above the raven's nest, by knots of grass 
 And half-inch fissures in the slippery rock 
 But ill sustained, and almost (so it seemed) 
 Suspended by the blast that blew amain, 
 Shouldering the naked crag, oh, at that time 
 While on the perilous ridge I hung alone. 
 With what strange utterance did the loud dry wind 
 Blow through my ear ! the sky seemed not a sky 
 Of earth — and with what motion moved the clouds ! 
 
 Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows 
 Like harmony in music ; there is a dark 
 Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles 
 Discordant elements, makes them cling together 
 In one society. How strange, that all 
 The terrors, pains, and early miseries, 
 
 36 
 
Regrets, vexations, lassitudes interfused PART I 
 
 Within my mind, should e'er have borne a part, B. i. i 
 
 And that a needful part, in making up 
 
 The calm existence that is mine when I 
 
 Am worthy of myself ! Praise to the end ! 
 
 Thanks to the means which Nature deigned to employ ; 
 
 Whether her fearless visitings, or those 
 
 That came with soft alarm, like hurtless light 
 
 Opening the peaceful clouds ; or she would use 
 
 Severer interventions, ministry 
 
 More palpable, as best might suit her aim. 
 
 One summer evening (led by her) I found 
 A little boat tied to a willow tree 
 Within a rocky cave, its usual home. 
 Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in 
 Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth 
 And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice 
 Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on ; 
 Leaving behind her still, on either side. 
 Small circles glittering idly in the moon. 
 Until they melted all into one track 
 Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows, 
 Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point 
 With an unswerving line, I fixed my view 
 Upon the summit of a craggy ridge, 
 The horizon's utmost boundary ; far above 
 Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky. 
 She was an elfin pinnace ; lustily 
 
 37 
 
PART I I dipped my oars into the silent lake, 
 B. i. I And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat 
 
 Went heaving through the water like a swan ; 
 When, from behind that craggy steep till then 
 The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge. 
 As if with voluntary power instinct, 
 Upreared its head. I struck and struck again, 
 And growing still in stature the grim shape 
 Towered up between me and the stars, and still, 
 For so it seemed, with purpose of its own 
 And measured motion like a living thing. 
 Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned. 
 And through the silent water stole my way 
 Back to the covert of the willow tree ; 
 There in her mooring-place I left my bark, — 
 And through the meadows homeward went, in grave 
 And serious mood ; but after I had seen 
 That spectacle, for many days, my brain 
 Worked with a dim and undetermined sense 
 Of unknown modes of being ; o'er my thoughts 
 There hung a darkness, call it solitude 
 Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes 
 Remained, no pleasant images of trees. 
 Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields ; 
 But huge and mighty forms, that do not live 
 Like living men, moved slowly through the mind 
 By day, and were a trouble to my dreams. 
 
 Wisdom and Spirit of the universe ! 
 38 
 
Thou Soul that art the eternity of thought PART I 
 
 That givest to forms and images a breath B. i. i 
 
 And everlasting motion, not in vain 
 
 By day or star-light thus from my first dawn 
 
 Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me 
 
 The passions that build up our human soul ; 
 
 Not with the mean and vulgar works of man, 
 
 But with high objects, with enduring things — 
 
 With life and nature — purifying thus 
 
 The elements of feeling and of thought, 
 
 And sanctifying, by such discipline. 
 
 Both pain and fear, until we recognise 
 
 A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 
 
 Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me 
 
 With stinted kindness. In November days. 
 
 When vapours rolling down the valley made 
 
 A lonely scene more lonesome, among woods. 
 
 At noon and 'mid the calm of summer nights, 
 
 W^hen, by the margin of the trembling lake. 
 
 Beneath the gloomy hills homeward I went 
 
 In solitude, such intercourse was mine ; 
 
 Mine was it in the fields both day and night. 
 
 And by the waters, all the summer long. 
 
 And in the frosty season, when the sun 
 
 Was set, and visible for many a mile 
 
 The cottage windows blazed through twilight gloom, 
 
 I heeded not their summons : happy time 
 
 It was indeed for all of us — for me 
 
 39 
 
It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud 
 i. I The village clock tolled six, — I wheeled about, 
 Proud and exulting like an untired horse 
 That cares not for his home. All shod with steel, 
 We hissed along the polished ice in games 
 Confederate, imitative of the chase 
 And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn, 
 The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare. 
 So through the darkness and the cold we flew. 
 And not a voice was idle ; with the din 
 Smitten, the precipices rang aloud ; 
 The leafless trees and every icy crag 
 Tinkled like iron ; while far distant hills 
 Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
 Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars 
 Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west 
 The orange sky of evening died away. 
 Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
 Into a silent bay, or sportively 
 Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng. 
 To cut across the reflex of a star 
 That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed 
 Upon the glassy plain ; and oftentimes, 
 When we had given our bodies to the wind. 
 And all the shadowy banks on either side 
 Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still 
 The rapid line of motion, then at once 
 Have I, reclining back upon my heels, 
 Stopped short ; yet still the solitary cliffs 
 40 
 
Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had rolled PART 1 
 
 With visible motion her diurnal round ! B. i. r 
 
 Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, 
 Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched 
 Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep. 
 
 Ye Presences of Nature in the sky 
 
 And on the earth ! Ye Visions of the hills ! 
 
 And Souls of lonely places ! can I think 
 
 A vulgar hope was yours when ye employed 
 
 Such ministry, when ye, through many a year 
 
 Haunting me thus among my boyish sports. 
 
 On caves and trees, upon the woods and hills, 
 
 Impressed, upon all forms, the characters 
 
 Of danger or desire ; and thus did make 
 
 The surface of the universal earth. 
 
 With triumph and delight, with hope and fear. 
 
 Work like a sea ? 
 
 Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up 
 Fostered alike by beauty and by fear. 
 
 41 
 
PART I NOR, sedulous as I have been to trace 
 B. i. 2 How Nature by extrinsic passion first 
 
 Peopled the mind with forms sublime or fair, 
 And made me love them, may I here omit 
 How other pleasures have been mine, and joys 
 Of subtler origin ; how I have felt, 
 Not seldom even in that tempestuous time. 
 Those hallowed and pure motions of the sense 
 Which seem, in their simplicity, to own 
 An intellectual charm ; that calm delight 
 Which, if I err not, surely must belong 
 To those first-born affinities that fit 
 Our new existence to existing things, 
 x\nd, in our dawn of being, constitute 
 The bond of union between life and joy. 
 
 Yes, I remember when the changeful earth. 
 
 And twice five summers on my mind had stamped 
 
 The faces of the moving year, even then 
 
 I held unconscious intercourse with beauty 
 
 Old as creation, drinking in a pure 
 
 Organic pleasure from the silver wreaths 
 
 Of curling mist, or from the level plain 
 
 Of waters coloured by impending clouds. 
 
 The sands of Westmoreland, the creeks and bays 
 Of Cumbria's rocky limits, they can tell 
 How, when the Sea threw off his evening shade, 
 And to the shepherd's hut on distant hills 
 
 42 
 
Sent welcome notice of the rising moon, PART I 
 
 How I have stood, to fancies such as these B. i. 2 
 
 A stranger, linking with the spectacle 
 
 No conscious memory of a kindred sight. 
 
 And bringing with me no peculiar sense 
 
 Of quietness or peace ; yet have I stood. 
 
 Even while mine eye hath moved o'er many a league 
 
 Of shining water, gathering as it seemed, 
 
 Through every hair-breadth in that field of light. 
 
 New pleasure like a bee among the flowers. 
 
 Thus oft amid those fits of vulgar joy 
 Which, through all seasons, on a child's pursuits 
 x\re prompt attendants, 'mid that giddy bliss 
 Which, like a tempest, works along the blood 
 And is forgotten ; even then I felt 
 Gleams like the flashing of a shield ; — the earth 
 And common face of Nature spake to me 
 Rememberable things ; sometimes, 'tis true, 
 By chance collisions and quaint accidents 
 (Like those ill-sorted unions, work supposed 
 Of evil-minded fairies), yet not vain 
 Nor profitless, if haply they impressed 
 Collateral objects and appearances. 
 Albeit lifeless then, and doomed to sleep 
 Until maturer seasons called them forth 
 To impregnate and to elevate the mind. 
 — And if the vulgar joy by its own weight 
 Wearied itself out of the memory, 
 
 43 
 
PART I The scenes which were a witness of that 
 B. i, 2 Remained in their substantial hneaments 
 Depicted on the brain, and to the eye 
 Were visible, a daily sight ; and thus 
 By the impressive discipline of fear, 
 By pleasure and repeated happiness, 
 So frequently repeated, and by force 
 Of obscure feelings representative 
 Of things forgotten, these same scenes so bright, 
 So beautiful, so majestic in themselves. 
 Though yet the day was distant, did become 
 Habitually dear, and all their forms 
 And changeful colours by invisible links 
 Were fastened to the affections. 
 
 44 
 
WE ran a boisterous course ; the year span round PART I 
 
 With giddy motion. But the time approached B. i. 3 
 
 That brought with it a regular desire 
 
 For cahner pleasures, when the winning forms 
 
 Of Nature were collaterally attached 
 
 To every scheme of holiday delight 
 
 And every boyish sport, less grateful else 
 
 And languidly pursued. 
 
 When summer came, 
 Our pastime was, on bright half-holidays. 
 To sweep along the plain of Windermere 
 With rival oars ; and the selected bourne 
 Was now an Island musical with birds 
 That sang and ceased not ; now a Sister Isle 
 Beneath the oaks' umbrageous covert, sown 
 With lilies of the valley like a field ; 
 And now a third small Island, where survived 
 In solitude the ruins of a shrine 
 Once to Our Lady dedicate, and served 
 Daily with chaunted rites. In such a race 
 So ended, disappointment could be none. 
 Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy : 
 We rested in the shade, all pleased alike, 
 Conquered and conqueror. Thus the pride of strength, 
 And the vain-glory of superior skill, 
 Were tempered ; thus was gradually produced 
 A quiet independence of the heart ; 
 And to my Friend who knows me I may add. 
 Fearless of blame, that hence for future days 
 
 45 
 
PART I Ensued a diffidence and modesty, 
 B. i. 3 And I was taught to feel, perhaps too much, 
 The self-sufficing power of Solitude. 
 
 Midway on long Winander's eastern shore, 
 
 Within the crescent of a pleasant bay, 
 
 A tavern stood ; no homely-featured house, 
 
 Primeval like its neighbouring cottages. 
 
 But 'twas a splendid place, the door beset 
 
 With chaises, grooms, and liveries, and within 
 
 Decanters, glasses, and the blood-red wine. 
 
 In ancient times, and ere the Hall was built 
 
 On the large island, had this dwelling been 
 
 More worthy of a poet's love, a hut, 
 
 Proud of its own bright fire and sycamore shade. 
 
 But — though the rhymes were gone that once inscribed 
 
 The threshold, and large golden characters. 
 
 Spread o'er the spangled sign-board, had dislodged 
 
 The old Lion and usurped his place, in slight 
 
 And mockery of the rustic painter's hand — 
 
 Yet, to this hour, the spot to me is dear 
 
 With all its foolish pomp. The garden lay 
 
 Upon a slope surmounted by a plain 
 
 Of a small bowling-green ; beneath us stood 
 
 A grove, with gleams of water through the trees 
 
 And over the tree-tops ; nor did we want 
 
 Refreshment, strawberries and mellow cream. 
 
 There, while through half an afternoon we played 
 
 On the smooth platform, whether skill prevailed 
 
 46 
 
Or happy blunder triumphed, bursts of glee PART I 
 
 Made all the mountains ring. But, ere night-fal], B. i. 3 
 
 When in our pinnace we returned at leisure 
 
 Over the shadowy lake, and to the beach 
 
 Of some small island steered our course with one, 
 
 The Minstrel of the Troop, and left him there. 
 
 And rowed off gently, while he blew his flute 
 
 Alone upon the rock — oh, then, the calm 
 
 And dead still water lay upon my mind 
 
 Even with a weight of pleasure, and the sky, 
 
 Never before so beautiful, sank down 
 
 Into my heart, and held me like a dream ! 
 
 Thus were my sympathies enlarged, and thus 
 Daily the common range of visible things 
 Grew dear to me : already I began 
 To love the sun ; a boy I loved the sun. 
 Not as I since have loved him, as a pledge 
 And surety of our earthly life, a light 
 Which we behold and feel we are alive ; 
 Nor for his bounty to so many worlds — 
 But for this cause, that I had seen him lay 
 His beauty on the morning hills, had seen 
 The western mountain touch his setting orb. 
 In many a thoughtless hour, when, from excess 
 Of happiness, my blood appeared to flow 
 For its own pleasure, and I breathed with joy. 
 And, from like feelings, humble though intense, 
 To patriotic and domestic love 
 
 47 
 
PART I Analogous, the moon to me was dear ; 
 B. i. 3 For I could dream away my purposes, 
 
 Standing to gaze upon her while she hung 
 Midway between the hills, as if she knew 
 No other region, but belonged to thee. 
 Yea, appertained by a peculiar right 
 To thee and thy grey huts, thou one dear Vale 
 
 48 
 
THOSE incidental charms which first attached PART I 
 
 My heart to rural objects, day by day B. i. 4 
 
 Grew weaker, and I hasten on to tell 
 
 How Nature, intervenient till this time 
 
 And secondary, now at length was sought 
 
 For her own sake. For I would walk alone, 
 
 Under the quiet stars, and at that time 
 
 Have felt whate'er there is of power in sound 
 
 To breathe an elevated mood, by form 
 
 Or image unprofaned ; and I would stand. 
 
 If the night blackened with a coming storm. 
 
 Beneath some rock, listening to notes that are 
 
 The ghostly language of the ancient earth. 
 
 Or make their dim abode in distant winds. 
 
 Thence did I drink the visionary power ; 
 
 And deem not profitless those fleeting moods 
 
 Of shadowy exultation : not for this. 
 
 That they are kindred to our purer mind 
 
 And intellectual life ; but that the soul. 
 
 Remembering how she felt, but what she felt 
 
 Remembering not, retains an obscure sense 
 
 Of possible sublimity, whereto 
 
 With growing faculties she doth aspire. 
 
 With faculties still growing, feeling still 
 
 That whatsoever point they gain, they yet 
 
 Have something to pursue. 
 
 And not alone, 
 'Mid gloom and tumult, but no less 'mid fair 
 
 d 49 
 
PART I And tranquil scenes, that universal power 
 B. i. 4 And fitness in the latent qualities 
 
 And essences of things, by which the mind 
 
 Is moved with feelings ot delight, to me 
 
 Came strengthened with a superadded soul, 
 
 A virtue not its own. My morning walks 
 
 Were early ; — oft before the hours of school 
 
 I travelled round our little lake, five miles 
 
 Of pleasant wandering. Happy time ! more dear 
 
 For this, that one was by my side, a Friend, 
 
 Then passionately loved ; with heart how full 
 
 Would he peruse these lines ! For many years 
 
 Have since flowed in between us, and, our minds 
 
 Both silent to each other, at this time 
 
 We live as if those hours had never been. 
 
 Nor seldom did I lift our cottage latch 
 
 Far earlier, ere one smoke-wreath had risen 
 
 From human dwelling, or the vernal thrush 
 
 Was audible ; and sate among the woods 
 
 Alone upon some jutting eminence, 
 
 At the first gleam of dawn-light, when the Vale, 
 
 Yet slumbering, lay in utter solitude. 
 
 How shall I seek the origin ? where find 
 
 Faith in the marvellous things which then I felt r 
 
 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 of the mind. 
 
 50 
 
'TWERE long to tell PART I 
 
 What spring and autumn, what the winter snows, B. i. 5 
 
 And what the summer shade, what day and night, 
 Evening and morning, sleep and waking, thought 
 From sources inexhaustible, poured forth 
 To feed the spirit of religious love 
 In which I walked with Nature. But let this 
 Be not forgotten, that I still retained 
 My first creative sensibility ; 
 That by the regular action of the world 
 My soul was unsubdued. A plastic power 
 Abode with me ; a forming hand, at times 
 Rebellious, acting in a devious mood ; 
 A local spirit of his own, at war 
 With general tendency, but, for the most, 
 Subservient strictly to external things 
 With which it communed. An auxiliar light 
 Came from my mind, which on the setting sun 
 Bestowed new splendour ; the melodious birds. 
 The fluttering breezes, fountains that run on 
 Murmuring so sweetly in themselves, obeyed 
 A like dominion, and the midnight storm 
 Grew darker in the presence of my eye : 
 Hence my obeisance, my devotion hence, 
 And hence my transport. 
 
 51 
 
PART I THUS while the days flew by, and years passed on, 
 B. i. 6 / From Nature and her overflowing soul, 
 
 ; I had received so much, that all my thoughts 
 I Were steeped in feeling ; I was only then 
 i Contented, when with bliss ineftable 
 I felt the sentiment of Being spread 
 O'er all that moves and all that seemeth still ; 
 O'er all that, lost beyond the reach of thought 
 And human knowledge, to the human eye 
 Invisible, yet liveth to the heart ; 
 O'er all that leaps and runs, and shouts and sings. 
 Or beats the gladsome air ; o'er all that glides 
 Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself. 
 And mighty depth of waters. Wonder not 
 If high the transport, great the joy I felt, 
 Communing in this sort through earth and heaven 
 With every form of creature, as it looked 
 Towards the Uncreated with a countenance 
 Of adoration, with an eye of love. 
 One song they sang, and it was audible, 
 Most audible, then, when the fleshly ear, 
 O'ercome by humblest prelude of that strain, 
 Forgot her functions, and slept undisturbed. 
 
 If this be error, and another faith 
 
 Find easier access to the pious mind. 
 
 Yet were I grossly destitute of all 
 
 Those human sentiments that make this earth 
 
 So dear, if I should fail with grateful voice 
 
 52 
 
To speak of you, ye mountains, and ye lakes PART I 
 
 And sounding cataracts, ye mists and winds B. i. 6 
 
 That dwell among the hills where I was born. 
 
 If in my youth I have been pure in heart, 
 
 If, mingling with the world, I am content 
 
 With my own modest pleasures, and have lived 
 
 With God and Nature communing, removed 
 
 From little enmities and low desires — 
 
 The gift is yours ; if in these times of fear, -•' 
 
 This melancholy waste of hopes o'erthrown, 
 
 If, 'mid indifference and apathy, 
 
 And wicked exultation when good men 
 
 On every side fall off, we know not how. 
 
 To selfishness, disguised in gentle names 
 
 Of peace and quiet and domestic love 
 
 Yet mingled not unwillingly with sneers 
 
 On visionary minds ; if, in this time 
 
 Of dereliction and dismay, I yet 
 
 Despair not of our nature, but retain 
 
 A more than Roman confidence, a faith 
 
 That fails not, in all sorrow my support, 
 
 The blessing of my life — the gift is yours. 
 
 Ye winds and sounding cataracts ! 'tis yours. 
 
 Ye mountains ! thine, O Nature ! Thou hast fed 
 
 My lofty speculations ; and in thee, 
 
 For this uneasy heart of ours, I find 
 
 A never-failing principle of joy 
 
 And purest passion. 
 
 53 
 
PART I BRIGHTwas the summer's noon when quickening steps 
 B. ii. I Followed each other till a dreary moor 
 
 Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top 
 
 Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, 
 
 I overlooked the bed of Windermere, 
 
 Like a vast river, stretching in the sun. 
 
 With exultation, at my feet I saw 
 
 Lake, islands, promontories, gleaming bays, 
 
 A universe of Nature's fairest forms 
 
 Proudly revealed with instantaneous burst. 
 
 Magnificent, and beautiful, and gay. 
 
 54 
 
I WHEN first I made PART I 
 
 Once more the circuit of our little lake, B. ii. 2 
 
 If ever happiness hath lodged with man, 
 That day consummate happiness was mine, 
 Wide-spreading, steady, calm, contemplative. 
 The sun was set, or setting, when I left 
 Our cottage door, and evening soon brought on 
 A sober hour, not winning or serene. 
 For cold and raw the air was, and untuned : 
 But as a face we love is sweetest then 
 When sorrow damps it, or, whatever look 
 It chance to wear, is sweetest if the heart 
 Have fulness in herself ; even so with me 
 It fared that evening. Gently did my soul 
 Put oflF her veil, and, self-transmuted, stood 
 Naked, as in the presence of her God. 
 While on I walked, a comfort seemed to touch . 
 A heart that had not been disconsolate : \ 
 
 Strength came where weakness was not known tojbe, 
 At least not felt ; and restoration came 1 
 
 Like an intruder knocking at the door 
 Of unacknowledged weariness. I took 
 The balance, and with firm hand weighed myself./ 
 — Of that external scene which round me lay, 
 Little, in this abstraction, did I see ; 
 Remembered less ; but I had inward hopes 
 And swellings of the spirit, was rapt and soothed, 
 Conversed with promises, had glimmering views 
 How life pervades the undecaying mind ; 
 
 55 
 
PART I How the immortal soul with God-like power 
 B. ii. 2 Informs, creates, and thaws the deepest sleep 
 That time can lay upon her ; how on earth, 
 Man, if he do but live within the light 
 Of high endeavours, daily spreads abroad 
 His being armed with strength that cannot fail. 
 Nor was there want of milder thoughts, of love, 
 Of innocence, and holiday repose ; 
 And more than pastoral quiet, 'mid the stir 
 Of boldest projects, and a peaceful end 
 At last, or glorious, by endurance won. 
 Thus musing, in a wood I sate me down 
 Alone, continuing there to muse : the slopes 
 And heights meanwhile were slowly overspread 
 With darkness, and before a rippling breeze 
 The long lake lengthened out its hoary line. 
 And in the sheltered coppice where I sate. 
 Around me from among the hazel leaves. 
 Now here, now there, moved by the straggling wind. 
 Came ever and anon a breath-like sound. 
 Quick as the pantings of the faithful dog. 
 The off and on companion of my walk ; 
 And such, at times, believing them to be, 
 I turned my head to look if he were there ; 
 Then into solemn thought I passed once more. 
 
 Magnificent 
 The morning rose, in memorable pomp, 
 Glorious as e'er I had beheld — in front, 
 
 56 
 
The sea lay laughing at a distance ; near, PART I 
 
 The solid mountains shone, bright as the clouds, B. ii. 2 
 
 Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light ; 
 And in the meadows and the lower grounds 
 Was all the sweetness of a common dawn — ■ 
 Dews, vapours, and the melody of birds. 
 And labourers going forth to till the fields. 
 Ah ! need I say, dear Friend ! that to the brim 
 ■fMy heart was full ; I made no vows, but vows 
 Were then made for me ; bond unknown to me 
 Was given, that I should be, else sinning greatly, 
 , A dedicated Spirit. 
 
 57 
 
PART I HERE must we pause : this only let me add, 
 B. iii From heart-experience, and in humblest sense 
 Of modesty, that he, who in his youth 
 A daily wanderer among woods and fields 
 With living Nature hath been intimate, 
 Not only in that raw unpractised time 
 Is stirred to ecstasy, as others are. 
 By glittering verse ; but further, doth receive, 
 In measure only dealt out to himself, 
 Knowledge and increase of enduring joy 
 From the great Nature that exists in works 
 Of mighty Poets. Visionary power 
 Attends the motions of the viewless winds, 
 Embodied in the mystery of words : 
 There, darkness makes abode, and all the host 
 Of shadowy things work endless changes, — there, 
 As in a mansion like their proper home. 
 Even forms and substances are circumfused 
 By that transparent veil with light divine, 
 And, through the turnings intricate of verse. 
 Present themselves as objects recognised. 
 In flashes, and with glory not their own. 
 
 SB 
 
O SOUL of Nature ! excellent and fair ! PART I 
 
 Ye motions of delight, that haunt the sides B. iv 
 
 Of the green hills ; ye breezes and soft airs, 
 
 Whose subtle intercourse with breathing flowers, 
 
 Feelingly watched, might teach Man's haughty race 
 
 How without injury to take, to give 
 
 Without offence ; ye who, as if to show 
 
 The wondrous influence of power gently used, 
 
 Bend the complying heads of lordly pines, 
 
 And, with a touch, shift the stupendous clouds 
 
 Through the whole compass of the sky ; ye brooks. 
 
 Muttering along the stones, a busy noise 
 
 By day, a quiet sound in silent night ; 
 
 Ye waves, that out of the great deep steal forth 
 
 In a calm hour to kiss the pebbly shore. 
 
 Not mute, and then retire, fearing no storm ; 
 
 And you, ye groves, whose ministry it is 
 
 To interpose the covert of your shades, 
 
 Even as a sleep, between the heart of man 
 
 And outward troubles, between man himself. 
 
 Not seldom, and his own uneasy heart : 
 
 Oh ! that I had a music and a voice 
 
 Harmonious as your own, that I might tell 
 
 What ye have done for me. 
 
 O Soul of Nature ! 
 
 That didst rejoice with me, with whom I, too. 
 Rejoiced through early youth, before the winds 
 And roaring waters, and in lights and shades 
 
 59 
 
PART I That marched and countermarched about the hills 
 B. iv In glorious apparition, — that I might tell 
 What ye have done for me. 
 
 60 
 
FIVE years have past ; five summers, with the length PART I 
 
 Of five long winters ! and again I hear C 
 
 These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs 
 
 With a soft inland murmur. — Once again 
 
 Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 
 
 That on a wild secluded scene impress 
 
 Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect 
 
 The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
 
 The day is come when I again repose 
 
 Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 
 
 These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, 
 
 Which at this season, with their unripe fruits. 
 
 Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 
 
 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 
 
 These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-row^s, little 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, 
 
 Or of some Hermit's cave, where bv his fire 
 
 The Hermit sits alone. 
 
 These beauteous forms. 
 Through a long absence, have not been to me 
 As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
 But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
 Of towns and cities, I have owed to them 
 In hours of weariness, sensations sweet. 
 Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; 
 
 6i 
 
PART I And passing even into my purer mind, 
 C With tranquil restoration : — feelings too 
 
 Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps, 
 
 As have no slight or trivial influence 
 
 On that best portion of a good man's life, 
 
 His little, nameless, unremembered, acts 
 
 Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 
 
 To them I may have owed another gift. 
 
 Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood, 
 
 In which the burthen of the mystery. 
 
 In which the heavy and the weary weight 
 
 Of all this unintelligible world. 
 
 Is lightened : — that serene and blessed mood, 
 
 In w^hich the affections gently lead us on, — 
 
 Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 
 
 And even the motion of our human blood 
 
 Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
 
 In body, and become a living soul : 
 
 While with an eye made quiet by the power 
 
 Of harmony, and the deep power of joy. 
 
 We see into the life of things. 
 
 If this 
 Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft — 
 In darkness and amid the many shapes 
 Of joyless daylight ; when the fretful stir 
 Unprofitable, and the fever of the world. 
 Have hung upon the beatings of my heart — 
 How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 
 O sylvan Wye ! thou wanderer thro' the woods, 
 62 
 
How often has ray spirit turned to thee ! PART I 
 
 C 
 And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, 
 With many recognitions dim and faint, 
 And somewhat of a sad perplexity. 
 The picture of the mind revives again ; 
 While here I stand, not only with the sense 
 Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 
 That in this moment there is life and food 
 For future years. And so I dare to hope. 
 Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 
 I came among these hills ; when like a roe 
 I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
 Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams. 
 Wherever Nature led : more like a man 
 Flying from something that he dreads, than one 
 Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature then 
 (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, 
 And their glad animal movements all gone by) 
 To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 
 What then I was. The sounding cataract 
 Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock. 
 The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
 Their colours and their forms, were then to me 
 An appetite ; a feeling and a love. 
 That had no need of a remoter charm, 
 By thought supplied, nor any interest 
 Unborrowed from the eye. — ^That time is past, 
 And all its aching joys are now no more, 
 
 63 
 
PART I And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
 
 C Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts 
 
 Have followed ; for such loss, I would believe, 
 Abundant recompence. For I have learned 
 To look on Nature, not as in the hour 
 Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 
 The still, sad music of humanity. 
 Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
 To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
 A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
 Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
 Of something far more deeply interfused, 
 Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns. 
 And the round ocean and the living air. 
 And the blue sky, and in the mind of man ; 
 A motion and a spirit, that impels 
 All thinking things, all objects of all thought. 
 And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 
 A lover of the meadows and the woods. 
 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 recognise 
 In Nature and the language of the sense. 
 The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse. 
 The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
 Of all my moral being. 
 
 Nor perchance. 
 If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
 
 64 
 
Suffer my genial spirits to decay : PART I 
 
 For thou art with me here upon the banks C 
 
 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 Hghts 
 
 Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 
 
 May I behold in thee what I was once. 
 
 My dear, dear Sister ! and this prayer I make, 
 
 Knowing that Nature never did betray 
 
 The heart that loved her ; 'tis her privilege. 
 
 Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
 
 From joy to joy : for she can so inform 
 
 The mind that is within us, so impress 
 
 With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
 
 With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues. 
 
 Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men. 
 
 Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
 
 The dreary intercourse of daily life. 
 
 Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
 
 Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
 
 Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
 
 Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 
 
 And let the misty mountain-winds be free 
 
 To blow against thee : and, in after years, 
 
 When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
 
 Into a sober pleasure ; when thy mind 
 
 Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 
 
 Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
 
 e 65 
 
PART I For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then, 
 C If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 
 
 Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 
 
 Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 
 
 And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance — 
 
 If I should be where I no more can hear 
 
 Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams 
 
 Of past existence — wilt thou then forget 
 
 That on the banks of this delightful stream 
 
 We stood together ; and that I, so long 
 
 A worshipper of Nature, hither came 
 
 Unwearied in that service : rather say 
 
 With warmer love — oh ! with far deeper zeal 
 
 Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, 
 
 That after many wanderings, many years 
 
 Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs. 
 
 And this green pastoral landscape, were to me 
 
 Most dear, both for themselves and for thy sake ! 
 
 (36 
 
PART II. POEMS 
 
68 
 
 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 rustic, woodland air, 
 And she was wildly clad : 
 Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; 
 — Her beauty made me glad. 
 
 Sisters and brothers, little Maid, 
 How many may you be ? 
 How many ? Seven in all, she said 
 And wondering looked at me. 
 
 And where are they ? I pray you tell. 
 She answered, Seven are we ; 
 And two of us at Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea. 
 
 Two of us in the church-yard lie, 
 My sister and my brother ; 
 And, in the church-yard cottage, I 
 Dwell near them with my mother. 
 
You say that two at Conway dwell, PART II 
 
 And two are gone to sea, i 
 
 Yet ye are seven ! — I pray you tell, 
 Sweet Maid, how this may be. 
 
 Then did the little Maid reply. 
 Seven boys and girls are we ; 
 Two of us in the church-yard lie. 
 Beneath the church-yard tree. 
 
 You run about, my little Maid, 
 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, 
 
 Twelve steps or more from my mother's door. 
 And they are side by side. 
 
 My stockings there I often knit. 
 My kerchief there I hem ; 
 And there upon the ground I sit, 
 And sing a song to them. 
 
 And often after sunset, Sir, 
 When it is light and fair, 
 I take my little porringer. 
 And eat my supper there. 
 
 69 
 
The first that died was sister Jane ; 
 In bed she moaning lay, 
 Till God released her of her pain ; 
 And then she went away. 
 
 So in the church-yard she was laid ; 
 And, when the grass was dry, 
 Together round her grave we played, 
 My brother John and I. 
 
 And when the ground was white with snow, 
 
 And I could run and slide, 
 
 My brother John was forced to go. 
 
 And he lies by her side. 
 
 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. 
 
 But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 
 Their spirits are in heaven ! 
 'Twas throwing words away ; for still 
 The little Maid would have her will. 
 And say, Nay, we are seven ! 
 
 70 
 
OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray : PART II 
 
 And, when I crossed the wild, ii 
 
 I chanced to see at break of day 
 The soHtary child. 
 
 No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; 
 She dwelt on a wide moor, 
 — ^The sweetest thing that ever grew 
 Beside a human door ! 
 
 You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
 The hare upon the green ; 
 But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
 Will never more be seen. 
 
 To-night will be a stormy night — 
 You to the town must go ; 
 And take a lantern, Child, to light 
 Your mother through the snow. 
 
 That, Father ! will I gladly do : 
 'Tis scarcely afternoon — 
 The minster-clock has just struck two, 
 And yonder is the moon ! 
 
 At this the Father raised his hook. 
 And snapped a faggot-band ; 
 He plied his work ; — and Lucy took 
 The lantern in her hand. 
 
 71 
 
PART II Not blither is the mountain roe : 
 
 ii With many a wanton stroke 
 
 Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 
 That rises up like smoke. 
 
 The storm came on before its time : 
 She wandered up and down ; 
 And many a hill did Lucy climb : 
 But never reached the town. 
 
 The wretched parents all that night 
 Went shouting far and wide ; 
 But there was neither sound nor sight 
 To serve them for a guide. 
 
 At day-break on a hill they stood 
 That overlooked the moor ; 
 And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 
 A furlong from their door. 
 
 They wept — and, turning homeward, cried. 
 In heaven we all shall meet ; 
 — 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 ; 
 72 
 
And then an open field they crossed : PART II 
 
 The marks were still the same ; ii 
 
 They tracked them on, nor ever lost ; 
 And to the bridge they came. 
 
 They followed from the snowy bank 
 Those footmarks, one by one. 
 Into the middle of the plank ; 
 And further there were none ! 
 
 — Yet some maintain that to this day 
 She is a living child ; 
 That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
 Upon the lonesome wild. 
 
 O'er rough and smooth she trips along. 
 And never looks behind ; 
 And sings a solitary song 
 That whistles in the wind. 
 
 73 
 
PART II WHEN Ruth was left half desolate, 
 
 iii Her Father took another Mate ; 
 
 And Ruth, not seven years old, 
 A slighted child, at her own will 
 Went wandering over dale and hill. 
 In thoughtless freedom, bold. 
 
 And she had made a pipe of straw. 
 And music from that pipe could draw 
 Like sounds of winds and floods ; 
 Had built a bower upon the green. 
 As if she from her birth had been 
 An infant of the woods. 
 
 Beneath her father's roof, alone 
 
 She seemed to live ; her thoughts her own, 
 
 Herself her own delight ; 
 
 Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay ; 
 
 And, passing thus the live-long day, 
 
 She grew to woman's height. 
 
 There came a Youth from Georgia's shore — 
 
 A military casque he wore, 
 
 With splendid feathers drest ; 
 
 He brought them from the Cherokees ; 
 
 The feathers nodded in the breeze. 
 
 And made a gallant crest. 
 
 74 
 
From Indian blood you deem him sprung : PART II 
 But no ! he spake the English tongue, iii 
 
 And bore a soldier's name ; 
 And, when America was free 
 From battle and from jeopardy. 
 He 'cross the ocean came. 
 
 With hues of genius on his cheek 
 
 In finest tones the Youth could speak : 
 
 — While he was yet a boy. 
 
 The moon, the glory of the sun, 
 
 And streams that murmur as they run, 
 
 Had been his dearest joy. 
 
 He was a lovely Youth ! I guess 
 
 The panther in the wilderness 
 
 Was not so fair as he ; 
 
 And, when he chose to sport and play, 
 
 No dolphin ever was so gay 
 
 Upon the tropic sea. 
 
 Among the Indians he had fought, 
 And with him many tales he brought 
 Of pleasure and of fear ; 
 Such tales as told to any maid 
 By such a Youth, in the green shade. 
 Were perilous to hear. 
 
 75 
 
PART II He told of girls — a happy rout ! 
 
 iii Who quit their fold with dance and shout, 
 
 Their pleasant Indian town, 
 To gather strawberries all day long ; 
 Returning with a choral song 
 When daylight is gone down. 
 
 He spake of plants that hourly change 
 Their blossoms, through a boundless range 
 Of intermingling hues ; 
 With budding, fading, faded flowers 
 They stand the wonder of the bowers 
 From morn to evening dews. 
 
 He told of the magnolia, spread 
 High as a cloud, high over head ! 
 The cypress and her spire ; 
 — Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam 
 Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 
 To set the hills on fire. 
 
 The Youth of green savannahs spake. 
 And many an endless, endless lake, 
 With all its fairv crowds 
 Of islands, that together lie 
 As quietly as spots of sky 
 Among the evening clouds. 
 
 76 
 
How pleasant, then he said, it were PART II 
 
 A fisher or a hunter there, iii 
 
 In sunshine or in shade 
 
 To wander with an easy mind ; 
 
 And build a household fire, and find 
 
 A home in every glade ! 
 
 What days and what bright years ! Ah me 
 
 Our life were life indeed, with thee 
 
 So passed in quiet bliss, 
 
 And all the while, said he, to know 
 
 That we were in a world of woe. 
 
 On such an earth as this ! 
 
 And then he sometimes interwove 
 Fond thoughts about a father's love ; 
 For there, said he, are spun 
 Around the heart such tender ties. 
 That our own children to our eyes 
 Are dearer than the sun. 
 
 Sweet Ruth ! and could you go with me 
 
 My helpmate in the woods to be. 
 
 Our shed at night to rear ; 
 
 Or run, my own adopted bride, 
 
 A sylvan huntress at my side, 
 
 And drive the flying deer ! 
 
 11 
 
PART II Beloved Ruth !— No more he said, 
 
 iii The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed 
 
 A solitary tear : 
 
 She thought again — and did agree 
 With him to sail across the sea, 
 And drive the flying deer. 
 
 And now, as fitting is and right, 
 
 We in the church our faith will plight, 
 
 A husband and a wife. 
 
 Even so they did ; and I may say 
 
 That to sweet Ruth that happy day 
 
 Was more than human life. 
 
 Through dream and vision did she sink. 
 Delighted all the while to think 
 That on those lonesome floods. 
 And green savannahs, she should share 
 His board with lawful joy, and bear 
 His name in the wild woods. 
 
 But, as you have before been told. 
 This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold. 
 And, with his dancing crest, 
 So beautiful, through savage lands 
 Had roamed about, with vagrant bands 
 Of Indians in the West. 
 78 
 
The wind, the tempest roaring high, PART II 
 
 The tumult of a tropic sky, iii 
 
 Might well be dangerous food 
 
 For him, a Youth to whom was given 
 
 So much of earth — so much of heaven, 
 
 And such impetuous blood. 
 
 Whatever in those climes he found 
 
 Irregular in sight or sound 
 
 Did to his mind impart 
 
 A kindred impulse, seemed allied 
 
 To his own powers, and justified 
 
 The workings of his heart. 
 
 Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, 
 The beauteous forms of nature wrought, 
 Fair trees and gorgeous flowers ; 
 The breezes their own languor lent ; 
 The stars had feelings, which they sent 
 Into those favoured bowers. 
 
 Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween 
 That sometimes there did intervene 
 Pure hopes of high intent : 
 For passions linked to forms so fair 
 And stately, needs must have their share 
 Of noble sentiment. 
 
 79 
 
PART II But ill he lived, much evil saw, 
 
 iii With men to whom no better law 
 
 Nor better life was known ; 
 Deliberately, and undeceived. 
 Those wild men's vices he received, 
 And gave them back his own. 
 
 His genius and his moral frame 
 Were thus impaired, and he became 
 The slave of low desires : 
 A Man who without self-control 
 Would seek what the degraded soul 
 Unworthily admires. 
 
 And yet he with no feigned delight 
 Had wooed the Maiden, day and night 
 Had loved her, night and morn : 
 What could he less than love a Maid 
 Whose heart with so much nature played ? 
 So kind and so forlorn ! 
 
 Sometimes, most earnestly, he said, 
 O Ruth ! I have been worse than dead ; 
 False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain, 
 Encompassed me on every side 
 When I, in confidence and pride, 
 Had crossed the Atlantic main. 
 80 
 
Before me shone a glorious world — PART II 
 
 Fresh as a banner bright, unfurled iii 
 
 To music suddenly : 
 
 I looked upon those hills and plains, 
 
 And seemed as if let loose from chains, 
 
 To live at liberty. 
 
 No more of this ; for now, by thee 
 Dear Ruth ! more happily set free 
 With nobler zeal I burn ; 
 My soul from darkness is released, 
 Like the whole sky when to the east 
 The morning doth return. 
 
 Full soon that better mind was gone ; 
 No hope, no wish remained, not one,— 
 They stirred him now no more ; 
 New objects did new pleasure give, 
 And once again he wished to live 
 As lawless as before. 
 
 Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, 
 They for the voyage were prepared, 
 And went to the sea-shore, 
 But, when they thither came the Youth 
 Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth 
 Could never find him more. 
 
 f 8i 
 
PART II God help thee, Ruth ! — Such pains she had, 
 
 iii That she in half a year was mad, 
 
 And in a prison housed ; 
 xA.nd there, with many a doleful song 
 Made of wild words, her cup of wrong 
 She fearfully caroused. 
 
 Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, 
 Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, 
 Nor pastimes of the May ; 
 — They all were with her in her cell ; 
 And a clear brook with cheerful knell 
 Did o'er the pebbles play. 
 
 When Ruth three seasons thus had lain. 
 There came a respite to her pain ; 
 She from her prison fled ; 
 But of the Vagrant none took thought ; 
 And where it liked her best she sought 
 Her shelter and her bread. 
 
 Among the fields she breathed again : 
 The master-current of her brain 
 Ran permanent and free ; 
 And, coming to the Banks of Tone, 
 There did she rest ; and dwell alone 
 Under the greenwood tree. 
 82 
 
The engines of her pain, the tools PART II 
 
 That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools, iii 
 
 And airs that gently stir 
 
 The vernal leaves — she loved them still ; 
 
 Nor ever taxed them with the ill 
 
 Which had been done to her. 
 
 A Barn her winter bed supplies ; 
 
 But, till the warmth of summer skies 
 
 And summer days is gone, 
 
 (And all do in this tale agree) 
 
 She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, 
 
 And other home hath none. 
 
 An innocent life, yet far astray ! 
 
 And Ruth will, long before her day, 
 
 Be broken down and old : 
 
 Sore aches she needs must have ! but less 
 
 Of mind, than body's wretchedness, 
 
 From damp, and rain, and cold. 
 
 If she is prest by want of food. 
 She from her dwelling in the wood 
 Repairs to a road-side ; 
 And there she begs at one steep place 
 Where up and down with easy pace 
 The horsemen-travellers ride. 
 
 83 
 
PART II That oaten pipe of hers is mute, 
 
 iii Or thrown away ; but with a flute 
 
 Her lonehness she cheers : 
 This flute, made of a hemlock stalk. 
 At evening in his homeward walk 
 The Quantock woodman hears. 
 
 I, too, have passed her on the hills 
 Setting her little water-mills 
 By spouts and fountains wild — 
 Such small machinery as she turned 
 Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned, 
 A young and happy Child ! 
 
 Farewell ! and when thy days are told, 
 
 Ill-fated Ruth, in hallowed mould 
 
 Thy corpse shall buried be. 
 
 For thee a funeral bell shall ring, 
 
 And all the congregation sing 
 
 A Christian psalm for thee. 
 
 84 
 
STRANGE fits of passion have I known : PART II 
 
 And I will dare to tell, iv. I 
 
 But in the Lover's ear alone, 
 What once to me befell. 
 
 When she I loved looked every day- 
 Fresh as a rose in June, 
 I to her cottage bent my way, 
 Beneath an evening moon. 
 
 Upon the moon I fixed my eye. 
 
 All over the wide lea ; 
 
 With quickening pace my horse drew nigh 
 
 Those paths so dear to me. 
 
 And now we reached the orchard-plot ; 
 And, as we climbed the hill, 
 The sinking moon to Lucy's cot 
 Came near, and nearer still. 
 
 In one of those sweet dreams I slept, 
 Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! 
 And all the while my eyes I kept 
 On the descending moon. 
 
 My horse moved on ; hoof after hoof 
 He raised, and never stopped : 
 When down behind the cottage roof. 
 At once, the bright moon dropped. 
 
 85 
 
PART II What fond and wayward thoughts will slide 
 
 iv. I Into a Lover's head ! 
 
 O mercy ! to myself I cried, 
 If Lucy should be dead ! 
 
 86 
 
SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways PART II 
 
 Beside the springs of Dove, iv. 2 
 
 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 ! 
 
 87 
 
PART II I TRAVELLED among unknown men, 
 iv. 3 In lands beyond the sea ; 
 
 Nor, England ! did I know till then 
 What love I bore to thee. 
 
 'Tis past, that melancholy dream ! 
 Nor will I quit thy shore 
 A second time ; for still I seem 
 To love thee more and more. 
 
 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, PART II 
 
 Then Nature said, A loveher flower iv. 4 
 
 On earth was never sown ; 
 This Child I to myself will take ; 
 She shall be mine, and I will make 
 A Lady of my own. 
 
 Myself will to my darling be 
 
 Both law and impulse : and with me 
 
 The Girl, in rock and plain, 
 
 In earth and heaven, in glade and bower. 
 
 Shall feel an overseeing power 
 
 To kindle or restrain. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Nor shall she fail to see 
 
 Even in the motions of the Storm 
 
 Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form 
 
 By silent sympathy. 
 
 89 
 
PART II The stars of midnight shall be dear 
 
 iv. 4 To her ; and she shall lean her ear 
 
 In many a secret place 
 Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
 And beauty born of murmuring sound 
 Shall pass into her face. 
 
 And vital feelings of delight 
 
 Shall rear her form to stately height, 
 
 Her virgin bosom swell ; 
 
 Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
 
 While she and I together live 
 
 Here in this happy dell. 
 
 Thus Nature spake — The work was done — 
 
 How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 
 
 She died, and left to me 
 
 This heath, this calm, and quiet scene ; 
 
 The memory of what has been, 
 
 And never more will be. 
 
 90 
 
A SLUMBER did my spirit seal ; PART II 
 
 I had no human fears : iv. 5 
 
 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. 
 
 91 
 
PART II UPON the forest-side in Grasmere Vale 
 
 V 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 
 Make subterraneous music, like the noise 
 Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. 
 The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock 
 Bethought him, and he to himself would say, 
 The winds are now devising work for me ! 
 And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives 
 The traveller to a shelter, summoned him 
 Up to the mountains : he had been alone 
 Amid the heart of many thousand mists. 
 That came to him, and left him, on the heights. 
 So lived he till his eightieth year was past. 
 And grossly that man errs, who should suppose 
 That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, 
 Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. 
 Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed 
 The common air ; hills, which with vigorous step 
 He had so often climbed ; which had impressed 
 So many incidents upon his mind 
 92 
 
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear ; PART II 
 
 Which, like a book, preserved the memory v 
 
 Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved. 
 
 Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts 
 
 The certainty of honourable 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. 
 
 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, 
 
 With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm. 
 
 The one of an inestimable worth. 
 
 Made all their household. I may truly say, 
 
 That they were as a proverb in the vale 
 
 For endless industry. When day was gone. 
 
 And from their occupations out of doors 
 
 93 
 
PART II The Son and Father were come home, even then, 
 V Their labour did not cease ; unless when all 
 
 Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there. 
 
 Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, 
 
 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) 
 
 Aad 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, 
 
 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 
 
 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, 
 
 94 
 
Father and Son, while far into the night PART II 
 
 The Housewife plied her own peculiar work, v 
 
 Making the cottage through the silent hours 
 
 Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. 
 
 This light was famous in its neighbourhood, 
 
 And was a public symbol of the life 
 
 That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced, 
 
 Their cottage on a plot of rising ground 
 
 Stood single, with large prospect, north and south, 
 
 High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, 
 
 And westward to the village near the lake ; 
 
 And from this constant light, so regular 
 
 And so far seen, the House itself, by all 
 
 Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, 
 
 Both old and young, was named The Evening StaR 
 
 Thus living on through such a length of years, 
 
 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 declining man. 
 
 Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, 
 
 And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
 
 By tendency of nature needs must fail. 
 
 Exceeding was the love he bare to him, 
 
 His heart and his heart's joy ! For oftentimes 
 
 95 
 
PART IT Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, 
 V Had done him female service, not alone 
 
 For pastime and delight, as is the use 
 Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced 
 To acts of tenderness ; and he had rocked 
 His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand. 
 
 And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy 
 
 Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love, 
 
 Albeit of a stern unbending mind. 
 
 To have the Young-one in his sight, when he 
 
 Wrought in the held, or on his shepherd's stool 
 
 Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched 
 
 Under the large old oak, that near his door 
 
 Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade, 
 
 Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun. 
 
 Thence in our rustic dialect was called 
 
 The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears. 
 
 There, while they two were sitting in the shade. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 96 
 
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut PART II 
 
 With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped v 
 
 With iron, making it throughout in aU 
 
 Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff, 
 
 And gave it to the Boy ; wherewith equipt 
 
 He as a watchman oftentimes was placed 
 
 At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock ; 
 
 And, to his office prematurely called. 
 
 There stood the urchin, as you will divine, 
 
 Something between a hindrance and a help ; 
 
 And for this cause not always, I believe. 
 
 Receiving from his Father hire of praise ; 
 
 Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice. 
 
 Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform. 
 
 But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand 
 Against the mountain blasts ; and to the heights, 
 Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways. 
 He with his Father daily went, and they 
 Were as companions, why should I relate 
 That objects which the Shepherd loved before 
 Were dearer now ? that from the Boy there came 
 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. 
 
 g 97 
 
PART II While in this sort the simple household lived 
 V From day to day, to Michael's ear there came 
 Distressful tidings. Long before the time 
 Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound 
 In surety for his brother's son, a man 
 Of an industrious life, and ample means ; 
 But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 
 Had prest upon him ; and old Michael now 
 Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, 
 A grievous penalty, but little less 
 Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim, 
 At the first hearing, for a moment took 
 More hope out of his life than he supposed 
 That any old man ever could have lost. 
 As soon as he had armed himself with strength 
 To look his trouble in the face, it seemed 
 The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once 
 A portion of his patrimonial fields. 
 Such was his first resolve ; he thought again, 
 And his heart failed him. Isabel, said he. 
 Two evenings after he had heard the news, 
 I have been toiling more than seventy years, 
 And in the open sunshine of God's love 
 Have we all lived ; yet if these fields of ours 
 Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think 
 That I could not lie quiet in my grave. 
 Our lot is a hard lot ; the sun himself 
 Has scarcely been more diligent than I ; 
 And I have lived to be a fool at last 
 
 98 
 
To my own family. An evil man PART II 
 
 That was, and made an evil choice, if he v 
 
 Were false to us ; and if he were not false, 
 There are ten thousand to whom loss like this 
 Had been no sorrow. I forgive him ; — but 
 'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. 
 
 When I began, my purpose was to speak 
 Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. 
 Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel ; the land 
 Shall not go from us, and it shall be free ; 
 He shall possess it, free as is the wind 
 That passes over it. We have, thou know'st. 
 Another kinsman — he will be our friend 
 In this distress. He is a prosperous man, 
 Thriving in trade — and Luke to him shall go, 
 And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift 
 He quickly will repair this loss, and then 
 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 
 And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought 
 
 99 
 
PART II A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares ; 
 V And, with this basket on his arm, the lad 
 
 Went up to London, found a master there. 
 Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy 
 To go and overlook his merchandise 
 Beyond the seas ; where he grew wondrous rich, 
 And left estates and monies to the poor, 
 And, at his birth-place, built a chapel, floored 
 With marble which he sent from foreign lands. 
 These thoughts, and many others of like sort, 
 Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, 
 And her face brightened. The old Man was glad, 
 And thus resumed : — Well, Isabel ! this scheme 
 These two days, has been meat and drink to me. 
 Far more than we have lost is left us yet. 
 — We have enough — I wish indeed that I 
 Were younger ; — but this hope is a good hope. 
 — Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best 
 Buy for him more, and let us send him forth 
 To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night : 
 — If he could go, the Boy should go to-night. 
 
 Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth 
 With a light heart. The Housewife for five days 
 Was restless morn and night, and all day long 
 Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare 
 Things needful for the journey of her son. 
 But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 
 To stop her in her work : for, when she lay 
 
 100 
 
By Michael's side, she through the last two nights PART II 
 
 Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep : v 
 
 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, w^hen she had told her fears. 
 
 Recovered heart. That evening her best fare 
 
 Did she bring forth, and all together sat 
 
 Like happy people round a Christmas fire. 
 
 With daylight Isabel resumed her work ; 
 And all the ensuing week the house appeared 
 As cheerful as a grove in Spring : at length 
 The expected letter from their kinsman came. 
 With kind assurances that he would do 
 His utmost for the welfare of the Boy ; 
 To which, requests were added, that forthwith 
 He might be sent to him. Ten times or more 
 The letter was read over ; Isabel 
 Went forth to show it to the neighbours round ; 
 Nor was there at that time on English land 
 A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel 
 Had to her house returned, the old Man said, 
 He shall depart to-morrow. To this word 
 
 lOI 
 
PART II The Housewife answered, talking much of things 
 V Which, if at such short notice he should go. 
 Would surely be forgotten. But at length 
 She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. 
 
 Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll, 
 
 In that deep valley, Michael had designed 
 
 To build a Sheepfold ; and, before he heard 
 
 The tidings of his melancholy loss. 
 
 For this same purpose he had gathered up 
 
 A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge 
 
 Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 
 
 With Luke that evening thitherward he walked : 
 
 And soon as they had reached the place he stopped. 
 
 And thus the old Man spake to him : — My Son, 
 
 To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with full heart 
 
 I look upon thee, for thou art the same 
 
 That wert a promise to me ere thy birth. 
 
 And all thy life hast been my daily joy. 
 
 I will relate to thee some little part 
 
 Of our two histories ; 'twill do thee good 
 
 When thou art from me, even if I should touch 
 
 On things thou canst not know of. — After thou 
 
 First cam'st into the world — as oft befalls 
 
 To new-born infants — thou didst sleep away 
 
 Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue 
 
 Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on. 
 
 And still I loved thee with increasing love. 
 
 Never to living ear came sweeter sounds 
 
 102 
 
Than when I heard thee by our own fireside PART II 
 
 First uttering, without words, a natural tune ; v 
 
 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 
 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. 
 — Even to the utmost I have been to thee 
 A kind and a good Father : and herein 
 I but repay a gift which I myself 
 Received at others' hands ; for, though now old 
 Beyond the common life of man, I stiU 
 Remember them who loved me in my youth. 
 Both of them sleep together : here they lived. 
 As all their Forefathers had done ; and when 
 At length their time was come, they were not loth 
 To give their bodies to the family mould. 
 I wished that thou should'st live the life they lived : 
 But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, 
 And see so little gain from threescore years. 
 These fields were burthened when they came to me ; 
 
 103 
 
PART II Till I was forty years of age, not more 
 V Than half of my inheritance was mine. 
 
 I toiled and toiled ; God blessed me in my work, 
 And till these three weeks past the land was free. 
 — It looks as if it never could endure 
 Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, 
 If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good 
 That thou should' st go. 
 
 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 ; — do thou thy part ; 
 I will do mine. — I will begin again 
 With many tasks that were resigned to thee : 
 Up to the heights, and in among the storms. 
 Will I without thee go again, and do 
 All works which I was wont to do alone. 
 Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bless thee, Boy ! 
 Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast 
 With many hopes ; it should be so — yes — yes 
 I knew that thou could'st never have a wish 
 To leave me, Luke : thou hast been bound to me 
 Only by links of love : when thou art gone, 
 104 
 
What will be left to us !— But, I forget PART II 
 
 My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, v 
 
 As I requested ; and hereafter, Luke, 
 
 When thou art gone away, should evil men 
 
 Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, 
 
 And of this moment ; hither turn thy thoughts. 
 
 And God will strengthen thee : amid all fear 
 
 And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou 
 
 May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived. 
 
 Who, being innocent, did for that cause 
 
 Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well — 
 
 When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see 
 
 A work which is not here : a covenant 
 
 'Twill be between us ; but, whatever fate 
 
 Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, 
 
 And bear thy memory with me to the grave. 
 
 The Shepherd ended here ; and Luke stooped down. 
 
 And, as his Father had requested, laid 
 
 The first stone of the Sheepfold. At the sight 
 
 The old Man's grief broke from him ; to his heart 
 
 He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept ; 
 
 And to the house together they returned. 
 
 — 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 neighbours, as he passed their doors, 
 
 Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, 
 
 105 
 
PART 11 That followed him till he was out of sight. 
 
 V 
 
 A good report did from their Kinsman come, 
 
 Of Luke and his v/ell-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 
 
 He to that valley took his way, and there 
 
 Wrought at the Sheepfold. 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 ; 
 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else 
 Would overset the brain, or break the heart : 
 I have conversed with more than one who well 
 Remember the old Man, and what he was 
 Years after he had heard this heavy news. 
 His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
 Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 
 He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud, 
 1 06 
 
And listened to the wind ; and, as before, PART II 
 
 Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep, v 
 
 And for the land, his small inheritance. 
 
 And to that hollow dell from time to time 
 
 Did he repair, to build the Fold of which 
 
 His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet 
 
 The pity which was then in every heart 
 
 For the old Man — and 'tis believed by aU 
 
 That many and many a day he thither went. 
 
 And never lifted up a single stone. 
 
 There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes was he seen 
 
 Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, 
 
 Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 
 
 The length of full seven years, from time to time, 
 
 He at the building of this Sheepfold wrought. 
 
 And left the work unfinished when he died. 
 
 Three years, or little more, did Isabel 
 
 Survive her Husband : at her death the estate 
 
 Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. 
 
 The Cottage which was named The Evening Star 
 
 Is gone — the ploughshare has been through the ground 
 
 On which it stood ; great changes have been wrought 
 
 In all the neighbourhood : — yet the oak is left 
 
 That grew beside their door ; and the remains 
 
 Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seen 
 
 Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll. 
 
 107 
 
WHERE art thou, my beloved Son, 
 vi 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. 
 And been for evermore beguiled ; 
 Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss ! 
 I catch at them, and then I miss ; 
 Was ever darkness like to this ? 
 
 He was among the prime in worth, 
 An object beauteous to behold ; 
 Well born, well bred ; I sent him forth 
 Ingenuous, innocent, and bold : 
 If things ensued that wanted grace. 
 As hath been said, they were not base ; 
 And never blush was on my face. 
 
 Ah ! little doth the young one dream, 
 When full of play and childish cares. 
 What power is in his wildest scream. 
 Heard by his mother unawares ! 
 He knows it not, he cannot guess : 
 Years to a mother bring distress ; 
 But do not make her love the less. 
 1 08 
 
Neglect me ! no, I suffered long PART II 
 
 From that ill thought ; and, being blind, vi 
 
 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 honour and of gain, 
 Oh ! do not dread thy mother's door ; 
 Think not of me with grief and pain : 
 I now can see with better eyes ; 
 And worldly grandeur I despise, 
 And fortune with her gifts and lies. 
 
 Alas ! the fowls of heaven have wings, 
 And blasts of heaven will aid their flight ; 
 They mount — how short a voyage brings 
 The wanderers back to their delight ! 
 Chains tie us down by land and sea ; 
 And wishes, vain as mine, may be 
 All that is left to comfort thee. 
 
 Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan. 
 Maimed, mangled by inhuman men ; 
 Or thou upon a desert thrown 
 Inheritest the lion's den ; 
 Or hast been summoned to the deep. 
 Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep 
 An incommunicable sleep. 
 
 109 
 
I look for ghosts ; but none will force 
 Their way to me : 'tis falsely said 
 That there was ever intercourse 
 Between the living and the dead ; 
 For, surely, then I should have sight 
 Of him I wait for day and night, 
 With love and longings infinite. 
 
 My apprehensions come in crowds ; 
 I dread the rustling of the grass ; 
 The very shadows of the clouds 
 Have power to shake me as they pass 
 I question things and do not find 
 One that will answer to my mind ; 
 And all the world appears unkind. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 no 
 
I HEARD a thousand blended notes, PART II 
 
 While in a grove I sate reclined, vii 
 
 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 ; 
 And 'tis my faith that every flower 
 Enjoys the air it breathes. 
 
 The birds around me hopped and played, 
 Their thoughts I cannot measure : — 
 But the least motion which they made 
 It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 
 
 The budding twigs spread out their fan, 
 To catch the breezy air ; 
 And I must think, do all I can, 
 That there was pleasure there. 
 
 If this belief from heaven be sent. 
 If such be Nature's holy plan. 
 Have I not reason to lament 
 What man has made of man ? 
 
 Ill 
 
PART II BRIGHT Flower ! whose home is everywhere, 
 
 viii 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 ! 
 
 Is it that Man is soon deprest ? 
 
 A thoughtless Thing ! who, once unblest, 
 
 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, 
 Unchecked by pride or scrupulous doubt, 
 With friends to greet thee, or without. 
 
 Yet pleased and willing ; 
 Meek, yielding to the occasion's call, 
 And all things suffering from all 
 Thy function apostolical 
 
 In peace fulfilling. 
 
 112 
 
WHY, William, on that old grey stone, PART II 
 
 Thus for the length of half a day, ix 
 
 Why, Wilham, 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 ; 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 h 113 
 
PART II Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 
 ix Of things for ever speaking, 
 
 That nothing of itself will come, 
 But we must still be seeking ? 
 
 — Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 
 
 Conversing as I may, 
 
 I sit upon this old grey stone. 
 
 And dream my time away. 
 
 114 
 
UP ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books ; PART II 
 
 Or surely you'll grow double : x 
 
 Up ! up ! my Friend, and clear your looks ; 
 Why all this toil and trouble ? 
 
 The sun, above the mountain's head, 
 
 A freshening lustre mellow 
 
 Through all the long green fields has spread. 
 
 His first sweet evening yellow. 
 
 Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife : 
 Come, hear the woodland linnet. 
 How sweet his music ! on my life, 
 There's more of wisdom in it. 
 
 And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! 
 He, too, is no mean preacher : 
 Come forth into the light of things. 
 Let Nature be your teacher. 
 
 She has a world of ready wealth. 
 Our minds and hearts to bless — 
 Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 
 Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 
 
 One impulse from a vernal wood 
 May teach you more of man, 
 Of moral evil and of good. 
 Than all the sages can. 
 
 "5 
 
PART II Sv/eet is the lore which Nature brings ; 
 
 X Our meddUng intellect 
 
 Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things 
 We murder to dissect. 
 
 Enough of Science and of Art ; 
 Close up those barren leaves ; 
 Come forth, and bring with you a heart 
 That watches and receives. 
 
 ii6 
 
THE Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor PART II. 
 With the slow motion of a summer's cloud, xi 
 
 And now, as he approached a vassal's door, 
 Br'ng forth another horse ! he cried aloud. 
 
 Another horse ! — ^That shout the vassal heard 
 And saddled his best Steed, a comely grey ; 
 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 ; 
 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. 
 
 The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them on 
 With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern ; 
 But breath and eyesight fail ; and, one by one, 
 The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern. 
 
 117 
 
PART II Where is the throng, the tumult of the race ? 
 xi 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 tell how far he fled, 
 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 stretched : 
 
 His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill. 
 
 And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched 
 
 The waters of the spring were trembling still. 
 
 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. 
 
 Ii8 
 
And climbing up the hill — (it was at least PART II 
 
 Four roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found xi 
 
 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 verv fountain where he lies. 
 
 I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot, 
 And a small arbour, made for rural joy ; 
 'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot, 
 A place of love for damsels that are coy. 
 
 A cunning artist will I have to frame 
 
 A basin for that fountain in the dell ! 
 
 And they who do make mention of the same, 
 
 From this day forth, shall call it Hartleap 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 ; 
 And with the dancers and the minstrel's song 
 We will make merry in that pleasant bower. 
 
 119 
 
PART II Till the foundations of the mountains fail 
 •xi My mansion with its arbour 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. 
 
 Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steered, 
 A cup of stone received the living well ; 
 Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared. 
 And built a house of pleasure in the dell. 
 
 And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall 
 With trailing plants and trees were intertwined, — 
 Which soon composed a little sylvan hall, 
 A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. 
 
 And thither, when the summer days were long, 
 Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour ; 
 And with the dancers and the minstrel's song 
 Made merriment within that pleasant bower. 
 
 The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time, 
 And his bones lie in his paternal vale. — 
 But there is matter for a second rhyme 
 And I to this would add another tale. 
 1 20 
 
The moving accident is not my trade ; PART 11 
 
 To freeze the blood I have no ready arts : xi 
 
 'Tis my dehght, alone in summer shade, 
 To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. 
 
 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, 
 I saw three pillars standing in a line, — 
 The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top. 
 
 The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head ; 
 Half wasted the square mound of tawny green ; 
 So that you just might say, as then I said. 
 Here in old time the hand of man hath been. 
 
 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. 
 
 121 
 
PART II The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told 
 xi Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed. 
 A jolly place, said he, in times 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 arbour does its own condition tell ; 
 You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream ; 
 But as to the great Lodge ! you might as well 
 Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. 
 
 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. 
 
 [past ! 
 What thoughts must through the creature's brain have 
 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. 
 
 122 
 
For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race ; PART II 
 
 And in my simple mind we cannot tell xi 
 
 What cause the Hart might have to love this place, 
 And come and make his deathbed near the well. 
 
 Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, 
 Lulled by the fountain in the summer-tide ; 
 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 ; 
 
 So will it be, as I have often said. 
 
 Till trees, and stones, and fountains, all are gone. 
 
 Grey-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. 
 
 123 
 
PART II The pleasure-house is dust : — behind, before, 
 xi This is no common waste, no common gloom ; 
 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. 
 
 124- 
 
A BARKING sound the Shepherd hears, PART II 
 
 A cry as of a dog or fox ; xii 
 
 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 ; 
 
 With something, as the Shepherd thinks. 
 
 Unusual in its cry : 
 
 Nor 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 ! 
 
 Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, 
 
 Remote from public road or dwelling, 
 
 Pathway, or cultivated land ; 
 
 From trace of human foot or hand. 
 
 125 
 
PART II There sometimes doth a leaping fish 
 
 xii 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 ; 
 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 ; 
 The appalled Discoverer with a sigh 
 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. 
 
 126 
 
But hear a wonder, for whose sake PART II 
 
 This lamentable tale I tell ! xii 
 
 A lasting monument of words 
 
 This wonder merits well. 
 
 The Dog, which still was hovering nigh. 
 
 Repeating the same timid cry, 
 
 This Dog, had been through three months' space 
 
 A dweller in that savage place. 
 
 Yes, proof was plain that, since the day 
 When this ill-fated Traveller died, 
 The Dog had watched about the spot, 
 Or by his master's side : 
 How nourished here through such long time 
 He knows, who gave that love sublime ; 
 And gave that strength of feeling, great 
 Above all human estimate ! 
 
 127 
 
PART II IF NATURE, for a favourite child, 
 xiii 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. 
 
 — ^When through this little wreck of fame, 
 Cipher and syllable ! thine eye 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 128 
 
Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup PART II 
 
 Of still and serious thought went round, xiii 
 
 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 
 That these two words of glittering gold 
 Are all that must remain of thee ? 
 
 129 
 
PART II WE walked along, while bright and red 
 
 xiv Uprose the morning sun ; 
 
 And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said, 
 The will of God be done ! 
 
 A village schoolmaster was he, 
 With hair of glittering grey ; 
 As blithe a man as you could see 
 On a spring holiday. 
 
 And on that morning, through the grass. 
 And by the steaming rills. 
 We travelled merrily, to pass 
 A day among the hills. 
 
 Our work, said I, was well begun. 
 Then, from thy breast what thought, 
 Beneath so beautiful a sun. 
 So sad a sigh has brought ? 
 
 A second time did Matthew stop ; 
 And fixing still his eye 
 Upon the eastern mountain-top, 
 To me he made reply : 
 
 Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
 Brings fresh into my mind 
 A day like this which I have left 
 Full thirty years behind. 
 130 
 
And just above yon slope of corn PART II 
 
 Such colours, and no other, xiv 
 
 Were in the sky, that April morn, 
 Of this the very brother. 
 
 With rod and line I sued the sport 
 Which that sweet season gave. 
 And, to the church-yard come, stopped short 
 Beside my daughter's grave. 
 
 Nine summers had she scarcely seen, 
 The pride of all the vale ; 
 And then she sang ; — 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. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 131 
 
PART II No fountain from its rocky cave 
 
 xiv E'er tripped with foot so free ; 
 
 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 h's grave, yet now, 
 Methinks, I see him stand, 
 As at that moment, with a bough 
 Of wilding in his hand. 
 
 132 
 
WE talked with open heart, and tongue PART II 
 
 Affectionate and true, xv 
 
 A pair of friends, though I was young 
 And Matthew seventy-two. 
 
 We lay beneath a spreading oak. 
 Beside a mossy seat ; 
 And from the turf a fountain broke, 
 And gurgled at our feet. 
 
 Now, Matthew ! said I, let us match 
 This water's pleasant tune 
 With some old border-song, or catch 
 That suits a summer's noon ; 
 
 Or of the church-clock an 1 the chimes 
 Sing here beneath the shade. 
 That half-mad thing of witty rhymes 
 Which you last April made ! 
 
 In s'lence Matthew lay, and eyed 
 The spring beneath the tree ; 
 And thus the dear old Man replied, 
 The grey-haired man of glee : 
 
 No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears ; 
 How merrily it goes ! 
 'Twill murmur on a thousand years, 
 And flow as now it flows. 
 
 133 
 
PART II And here, on this dehghtful day, 
 
 XV I cannot choose but think 
 
 How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 
 Beside this fountain's brink. 
 
 My eyes are dim with childish tears, 
 My heart is idly stirred. 
 For the same sound is in my ears 
 Which in those days I heard. 
 
 Thus fares it still in our decay : 
 And yet the wiser mind 
 Mourns less for what age takes away 
 Than what it leaves behind. 
 
 The blackbird amid leafy trees, 
 
 The lark above the hill. 
 
 Let loose their carols when they please, 
 
 Are quiet when they will. 
 
 With Nature never do they wage 
 A foolish strife ; they see 
 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 PxA.RT II 
 
 His kindred laid in earth, xv 
 
 The household hearts that were his own ; 
 It is the man of mirth. 
 
 My days, my Friend, are almost gone, 
 My life has been approved, 
 And many love me ; but by none 
 Am I enough beloved. 
 
 Now both himself and me he wrongs. 
 The man who thus complains ; 
 I live and sing my idle songs 
 Upon these happy plains ; 
 
 And, Matthew, for thy children dead 
 I'll be a son to thee ! 
 At this he grasped my hand, and said, 
 Alas ! that cannot be. 
 
 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 
 About the crazy old church-clock, 
 And the bewildered chimes. 
 
 135 
 
PART no THOU ! whose fancies from afar are brought ; 
 xvi 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 ; 
 
 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 m ght 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 ! 
 
 Nature will either end thee quite ; 
 
 Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, 
 
 Preserve for thee, by individual right, 
 
 A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks. 
 
 What hast thou to do with sorrow. 
 
 Or the injuries of to-morrow ? 
 
 Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth, 
 
 111 fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, 
 
 136 
 
Or to be trailed along the soiling earth ; PART II 
 
 A gem that glitters while it lives, xvi 
 
 And no forewarning gives ; 
 
 But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife 
 
 Slips in a moment out of life. 
 
 137 
 
PART II WITHIN our happy Castle there dwelt One 
 xvii 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 
 
 Thus often would he leave our peaceful home. 
 
 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 neighbouring 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, — 
 
 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. 
 
 138 
 
Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was PART II 
 
 Whenever from our Valley he withdrew ; xvii 
 
 For happier soul no living creature has 
 
 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, 
 A noticeable Man with large grey eyes. 
 And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly 
 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 forfend ! 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 ]acked his calmer hours device or toy 
 
 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. 
 
 139 
 
PART II Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried : 
 
 xvii 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 and gold, 
 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 : 
 
 No livelier love in such a place could be : 
 
 There did they dw^ell — from earthly labour free, 
 
 As happy spirits as were ever seen ; 
 
 If but a bird, to keep them company, 
 
 Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween. 
 
 As pleased as if the same had been a Maiden-queen. 
 
 140 
 
THERE is a change — and I am poor ; PART II 
 
 Your love hath been, not long ago, xviii 
 
 A fountain at my fond heart's door, 
 Whose only business was to flow ; 
 And flow it did : not taking heed 
 Of its own bounty, or my need. 
 
 What happy moments did I count ! 
 Blest was I then all bliss above ! 
 Now, for that consecrated fount 
 Of murmuring, sparkling, living love. 
 What have I ? shall I dare to tell ? 
 A comfortless and hidden well. 
 
 A well of love — it may be deep — 
 I trust it is, — and never dry : 
 What matter ? if the waters sleep 
 In silence and obscurity. 
 — Such change, and at the very door 
 Of my fond heart, hath made me poor. 
 
 141 
 
PART II THERE was a roaring in the wind all night ; 
 xix The rain came heavily and fell in floods ; 
 
 But now the sun is rising calm and bright ; 
 The birds are singing in the distant woods ; 
 Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods ; 
 The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters ; 
 And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters. 
 
 All things that love the sun are out of doors ; 
 
 The sky rejoices in the morning's birth ; 
 
 The grass is bright with rain-drops ; — on the moors 
 
 The hare is running races in her mirth ; 
 
 And with her feet she from the plashy earth 
 
 Raises a mist, that, ghttering in the sun. 
 
 Runs w^ith her all the way, wherever she doth run. 
 
 I was a Traveller then upon the moor, 
 I saw the hare that raced about with joy ; 
 I heard the woods and distant waters roar ; 
 Or heard them not, as happy as a boy : 
 The pleasant season did my heart employ : 
 My old remembrances went from me wholly ; 
 And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy. 
 
 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 ; [name. 
 
 Dim sadness — and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could 
 
 142 
 
I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky ; PART II 
 
 And I bethought me of the playful hare : xix 
 
 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. 
 
 My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, 
 
 As if life's business were a summer mood ; 
 
 As if all needful things would come unsought 
 
 To genial faith, still rich in genial good ; 
 
 But how can He expect that others should 
 
 Build for him, sow for him, and at his call 
 
 Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all ? 
 
 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, 
 
 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 grey hairs. 
 
 H3 
 
PART II As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie 
 xix Couched on the bald top of an eminence ; 
 Wonder to all who do the same espy, 
 By what means it could thither come, and whence ; 
 So that it seems a thing endued with, sense : 
 Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf 
 Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself ; 
 
 Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead, 
 
 Nor all asleep — in his extreme old age : 
 
 His body was bent double, feet and head 
 
 Coming together in life's pilgrimage ; 
 
 As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage 
 
 Of sickness felt by him in times long past, 
 
 A more than human weight upon his frame had cast. 
 
 Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, 
 Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood : 
 And, still as I drew near with gentle pace. 
 Upon the margin of that moorish flood 
 Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood. 
 That heareth not the loud winds when they call 
 And moveth all together, if it move at all. 
 
 At length, himself unsettling, he the pond 
 Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look 
 Upon the muddy water, which he conned. 
 As if he had been reading in a book : 
 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. 
 144 
 
A gentle answer did the old Man make, PART II 
 
 In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew : xix 
 
 And him with further words I thus bespake, 
 
 What occupation do you there pursue ? 
 
 This is a lonesome place for one like you. 
 
 Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise 
 
 Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes. 
 
 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 : 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Or like a man from some far region sent, 
 
 To give me human strength, by apt admonishment. 
 
 k 145 
 
PART II My former thoughts returned : the fear that kills ; 
 xix And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; 
 
 Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills ; 
 
 And mighty Poets in their misery dead. 
 
 — Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, 
 
 My question eagerly did I renew. 
 
 How is it that you live, and what is it you do ? 
 
 He with a smile did then his words repeat ; 
 And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide 
 He travelled ; stirring thus about his feet 
 The waters of the pools where they abide. 
 Once I could meet with them on every side ; 
 But they have dwindled long by slow decay ; 
 Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may. 
 
 While he was talking thus, the lonely place. 
 
 The old Man's shape, and speech — all troubled me : 
 
 In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace 
 
 About the weary moors continually. 
 
 Wandering about alone and silently. 
 
 While I these thoughts within myself pursued. 
 
 He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. 
 
 And soon with this he other matter blended. 
 
 Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind, 
 
 But stately in the main ; and when he ended, 
 
 I could have laughed myself to scorn to find 
 
 In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. 
 
 God, said I, be my help and stay secure ; 
 
 I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor ! 
 
 146 
 
PART III. SONNETS 
 
PART III FAIR Star of evening, Splendour of the west, 
 i. ii 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. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 148 
 
ONCE did She hold the gorgeous east in fee ; PART III 
 
 And was the safeguard of the west : the worth iii. iv 
 
 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. 
 
 TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy man of men ! 
 Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough 
 Within thy hearing, or thy head be now 
 Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den ; — 
 O miserable Chieftain ! where and when 
 Wilt thou find patience ? Yet die not ; do thou 
 Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow : 
 Though fallen thyself, never to rise again. 
 Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind 
 Powers that will work for thee ; air, earth, and skies ; 
 There's not a breathing of the common wind 
 That will forget thee ; thou hast great allies ; 
 Thy friends are exultations, agonies. 
 And love, and man's unconquerable mind. 
 
 149 
 
PART III O FRIEND ! I know not which way I must look 
 V. vi For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, 
 
 To think that now our life is only drest 
 For show ; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook. 
 Or groom ! — We must run glittering like a brook 
 In the open sunshine, or we are unblest : 
 The wealthiest man among us is the best : 
 No grandeur now in nature or in book 
 Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense. 
 This is idolatry ; and these we adore : 
 Plain living and high thinking are no more : 
 The homely beauty of the good old cause 
 Is gone ; our peace, our fearful innocence. 
 And pure religion breathing household laws. 
 
 THE world is too much with us ; late and soon, 
 Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : 
 Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
 We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
 The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
 The winds that will be howling at all hours. 
 And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; 
 For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; 
 It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be 
 A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
 Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
 Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 
 150 
 
MILTON ! thou should'st be living at this hour ; PART III 
 
 England hath need of thee : she is a fen vii. viii 
 
 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. 
 
 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 for ever. In our halls is hung 
 
 Armoury of the invincible Knights of old : 
 
 W^e 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. 
 
 151 
 
PART HI SCORN not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned, 
 ix. X Mindless of its just honours ; with this key 
 Shakspeare unlocked his heart ; the melody 
 Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; 
 A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; 
 With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief ; 
 The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf 
 Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned 
 His visionary brow : a glow-worm lamp, 
 It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faeryland 
 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 ! 
 
 NUNS fret not at their convent's narrow room ; 
 And hermits are contented with their cells ; 
 And students with their pensive citadels ; 
 Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, 
 Sit blithe and happy ; bees that soar for bloom, 
 High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, 
 Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells : 
 In truth the prison, unto which we doom 
 Ourselves, no prison is : and hence for me, 
 In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound 
 Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground ; 
 Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be) 
 Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, 
 Should find brief solace there, as I have found. 
 152 
 
WANSFELL ! this Household has a favoured lot, PART III 
 
 Living with liberty on thee to gaze, xi. xii 
 
 To watch while Morn first crowns thee with her rays, 
 
 Or when along thy breast serenely float 
 
 Evening's angelic clouds. Yet ne'er a note 
 
 Hath sounded (shame upon the Bard !) thy praise 
 
 For all that thou, as if from heaven, hast brought 
 
 Of glory lavished on our quiet days. 
 
 Bountiful Son of Earth ! when we are gone 
 
 From every object dear to mortal sight. 
 
 As soon we shall be, may these words attest 
 
 How oft, to elevate our spirits, shone 
 
 Thy visionary majesties of light, 
 
 How in thy pensive glooms our hearts found rest. 
 
 I AM not One who much or oft delight 
 To season my fireside with personal talk. — 
 Of friends, who live within an easy walk. 
 Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight : 
 And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright, 
 Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk. 
 These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk 
 Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night. 
 Better than such discourse doth silence long. 
 Long barren silence, square with my desire ; 
 To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, 
 In the loved presence of my cottage-fire. 
 And listen to the flapping of the flame. 
 Or kettle whispering its faint undersong. 
 
 153 
 
PART III WINGS have we, — and as far as we can go, 
 xiii. xiv 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. 
 
 NOR can I not believe but that hereby 
 Great gains are mine ; for thus I live remote 
 From evil-speaking ; rancour, never sought. 
 Comes to me not ; malignant truth, or lie. 
 Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I 
 Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous 
 And thus from day to day my little boat [thought : 
 Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. 
 Blessings be with them — and eternal praise. 
 Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares — 
 The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs 
 Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays ! 
 Oh ! might my name be numbered among theirs. 
 Then gladly would I end my mortal days. 
 
 154 
 
ALL praise the Likeness by thy skill portrayed ; PART III 
 
 But 'tis a fruitless task to paint for me, xv. xvi 
 
 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 birth-place 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. 
 
 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 how 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. 
 
 155 
 
PART III SURPRISED by joy— Impatient as the Wind 
 xvii. xviii 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 156 
 
ROTHA, my Spiritual Child ! this head was grey PART III 
 
 When at the sacred font for thee I stood ; xix. xx 
 
 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 stedfast 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. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 157 
 
PART III MOST sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 
 xxi. xxii To pace the ground, if path be there or none. 
 While a fair region round the traveller lies 
 Which he forbears again to look upon ; 
 Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, 
 The work of Fancy, or some happy tone 
 Of meditation, slipping in between 
 The beauty coming and the beauty gone. 
 If Thought and Love desert us, from that day 
 Let us break off all commerce with the Muse : 
 With Thought and Love companions of our way, 
 WTiate'er the senses take or may refuse, 
 The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews 
 Of inspiration on the humblest lay. 
 
 NOT Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell, 
 Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change, 
 Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strange — 
 Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell ; 
 But where untroubled peace and concord dwell, 
 There also is the Muse not loth to range. 
 Watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange, 
 Skyward ascending from a woody dell. 
 Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour, 
 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 for ever ; 
 The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly. 
 158 
 
HAIL, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour ! PART III 
 
 Not dull art Thou as undiscerning Night ; xxiii. xxiv 
 
 But studious only to remove from sight 
 
 Day's mutable distinctions. — ^Ancient Power ! 
 
 Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lower, 
 
 To the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin vest 
 
 Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest 
 
 On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower 
 
 Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen 
 
 The self-same Vision which we now behold. 
 
 At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power ! brought forth, 
 
 These mighty barriers, and the gulf between ; 
 
 The flood, the stars, — a spectacle as old 
 
 As the beginning of the heavens and earth ! 
 
 HOW clear, how keen, how marvellously bright 
 
 The effluence from yon distant mountain's head, 
 
 Which, strewn with snow smooth as the sky can shed. 
 
 Shines like another sun — on mortal sight 
 
 Uprisen, as if to check approaching Night, 
 
 And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread. 
 
 If so he might, yon mountain's glittering head — 
 
 Terrestrial, but a surface, by the flight 
 
 Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing, 
 
 Unswept, unstained ? Nor shall the aerial Powers 
 
 Dissolve that beauty, destined to endure, 
 
 White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure, 
 
 Through all vicissitudes, till genial Spring 
 
 Has filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers. 
 
 159 
 
PART III THE fairest, brightest, hues of ether fade ; 
 XXV. xxvi The sweetest notes must terminate and die ; 
 
 Friend ! thy flute has breathed a harmony 
 Softly resounded through this rocky glade ; 
 Such strains of rapture as the Genius played 
 In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit high ; 
 He who stood visible to Mirza's eye, 
 Never before to human sight betrayed. 
 
 Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening spread ! 
 The visionary Arches are not there, 
 Nor the green Islands, nor the shining Seas : 
 Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head, 
 Whence I have risen, uplifted, on the breeze 
 Of harmony, above all earthly care. 
 
 1 WATCH, and long have watched, with calm regret 
 Yon slowly-sinking star — immortal Sire 
 
 (So might he seem) of all the glittering quire ! 
 
 Blue ether still surrounds him — yet — and yet ; 
 
 But now the horizon's rocky parapet 
 
 Is reached, where, forfeiting his bright attire, 
 
 He burns — transmuted to a dusky fire — 
 
 Then pays submissively the appointed debt 
 
 To the flying moments, and is seen no more. 
 
 Angels and gods ! We struggle with our fate. 
 
 While health, power, glory, from their height decline, 
 
 Depressed ; and then extinguished ; and our state, 
 
 In this, how different, lost Star, from thine, 
 
 That no to-morrow shall our beams restore ! 
 
 1 60 
 
A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain, PART III 
 
 Nor of the setting sun's pathetic Hght xxvii-viii 
 
 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 
 
 Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes ; 
 
 Blessings and prayers, in nobler retinue 
 
 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 ! 
 
 IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 
 
 The holy time is quiet as a Nun 
 
 Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 
 
 Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; 
 
 The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea : 
 
 Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, 
 
 And doth with his eternal motion make 
 
 A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 
 
 Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkest with me here, 
 
 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, 
 
 God being with thee when we know it not. 
 
 1 i6i 
 
PART III EARTH has not anything to show more fair : 
 xxix-xxx Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
 A sight so touching in its majesty : 
 This City now doth, like a garment, wear 
 The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare, 
 Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
 Open unto the fields, and to the sky ; 
 All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
 Never did sun more beautifully steep 
 In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill ; 
 Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 
 The river glideth at his own sweet will : 
 Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
 And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 
 
 WHERE lies the Land to which yon Ship must go ? 
 
 Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day. 
 
 Festively she puts forth in trim array ; 
 
 Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow ? 
 
 What boots the inquiry ? — Neither friend nor foe 
 
 She cares for ; let her travel where she may, 
 
 She finds familiar names, a beaten way 
 
 Ever before her, and a wind to blow. 
 
 Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark ? 
 
 And, almost as it was when ships were rare, 
 
 (From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there 
 
 Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark, 
 
 Of the old Sea some reverential fear, 
 
 Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark ! 
 
 162 
 
CHILD of the clouds ! remote from every taint PART III 
 
 Of sordid industry thy lot is cast ; xxxi— ii 
 
 Thine are the honours of the lofty waste ; 
 
 Not seldom, when with heat the valleys faint, 
 
 Thy handmaid Frost v^^ith spangled tissue quaint 
 
 Thy cradle decks ; — to chant thy birth, thou hast 
 
 No meaner Poet than the whistling Blast, 
 
 And Desolation is thy Patron-saint ! 
 
 She guards thee, ruthless Power ! v/ho would not spare 
 
 Those mighty forests, once the bison's screen. 
 
 Where stalked the huge deer to his shaggy lair 
 
 Through paths and alleys roofed with darkest green ; 
 
 Thousands of years before the silent air 
 
 Was pierced by whizzing shaft of hunter keen ! 
 
 BROOK ! whose society the Poet seeks, 
 Intent his wasted spirits to renew ; 
 And whom the curious Painter doth pursue 
 Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks, 
 And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks ; 
 If wish were mine some type of thee to view. 
 Thee, and not thee thyself, I would not do 
 Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks. 
 Channels for tears ; no Naiad should'st thou be,— 
 Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints nor hairs : 
 It seems the Eternal Soul is clothed in thee 
 With purer robes than those of flesh and blood. 
 And hath bestowed on thee a safer good ; 
 Unwearied joy, and life without its cares. 
 
 163 
 
PART III SOLE listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played 
 xxxiii-iv 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 grey ; 
 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 lies. 
 
 THE old inventive Poets, had they seen. 
 
 Or rather felt, the entrancement that detains 
 
 Thy waters, Duddon ! 'mid these flowery plains — 
 
 The still repose, the liquid lapse serene, 
 
 Transferred to bowers imperishably green, 
 
 Had beautified Elysium ! But these chains 
 
 Will soon be broken ; — a rough course remains, 
 
 Rough as the past ; where Thou, of placid mien, 
 
 Innocuous as a firstling of the flock, 
 
 And countenanced like a soft cerulean sky, 
 
 Shalt change thy temper ; and, with many a shock 
 
 Given and received in mutual jeopardy. 
 
 Dance, like a Bacchanal, from rock to rock. 
 
 Tossing her frantic thyrsus wide and high ! 
 
 164 
 
NOT hurled precipitous from steep to steep ; PART III 
 
 Lingering no more 'mid flower-enamelled lands xxxv-vi 
 
 And blooming thickets ; nor by rocky bands 
 
 Held ; but in radiant progress toward the Deep 
 
 Where mightiest rivers into powerless sleep 
 
 Sink, and forget their nature — now expands 
 
 Majestic Duddon, over smooth flat sands 
 
 Gliding in silence with unfettered sweep ! 
 
 Beneath an ampler sky a region wide 
 
 Is opened round him : — ^hamlets, towers, and towns, 
 
 And blue-topped hills, behold him from afar ; 
 
 In stately mien to sovereign Thames allied 
 
 Spreading his bosom under Kentish downs, 
 
 With commerce freighted, or triumphant war. 
 
 BUT here no cannon thunders to the gale ; 
 Upon the wave no haughty pendants cast 
 A crimson splendour : lowly is the mast 
 That rises here, and humbly spread, the sail ; 
 While, less disturbed than in the narrow Vale 
 Through which with strange vicissitudes he passed, 
 The Wanderer seeks that receptacle vast 
 Where all his unambitious functions fail. 
 And may thy Poet, cloud-born Stream ! be free — 
 The sweets of earth contentedly resigned. 
 And each tumultuous working left behind 
 At seemly distance — to advance like Thee ; 
 Prepared, in peace of heart, in calm of mind 
 And soul, to mingle with Eternity ! 
 
 165 
 
PART III I THOUGHT of Thee, my partner and my guide, 
 xxxvii-viii 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 for ever 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 
 
 We feel that we are greater than we know, [dower, 
 
 TAX not the royal Saint with vain expense. 
 With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned — 
 xA.lbeit labouring for a scanty band 
 Of white-robed Scholars only — this immense 
 And glorious Work of fine intelligence ! 
 Give all thou canst ; high Heaven rejects the lore 
 Of nicely calculated less or more ; 
 So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense 
 These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof 
 Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, 
 Where light and shade repose, where music dwells 
 Lingering — ^and wandering on as loth to die ; 
 Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof 
 That they were born for immortality. 
 i66 
 
PART IV. POEMS 
 
PART IV WHAT, you are stepping westward F — Tea. 
 i — 'Twould be a wildish destiny, 
 
 If we, who thus together roam 
 In a strange Land, and far from home. 
 Were in this 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 ? 
 
 The dewy ground was dark and cold ; 
 Behind, all gloomy to behold ; 
 And stepping westward seemed to be 
 A kind of heavenly destiny : 
 I liked the greeting ; 'twas a sound 
 Of something without place or bound ; 
 And seemed to give me spiritual right 
 To travel through that region bright. 
 
 The voice was soft, and she who spake 
 
 Was walking by her native lake : 
 
 The salutation had to me 
 
 The very sound of courtesy : 
 
 Its power was felt ; and while my eye 
 
 Was fixed upon the glowing 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. 
 
 i68 
 
SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower PART IV 
 
 Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! ii 
 
 Twice seven consenting years have shed 
 
 Their utmost bounty on thy head : 
 
 And these grey rocks ; that household lawn ; 
 
 Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; 
 
 This fall of water that doth make 
 
 A murmur near the silent lake ; 
 
 This little bay ; a quiet road 
 
 That holds in shelter thy Abode — 
 
 In truth together do ye seem 
 
 Like something fashioned in a dream ; 
 
 Such Forms as from their covert peep 
 
 When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 
 
 But, O fair Creature ! in the light 
 
 Of common day, so heavenly bright, 
 
 I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, 
 
 I bless thee with a human heart ; 
 
 God shield thee to thy latest years ! 
 
 Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers ; 
 
 And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 
 
 With earnest feeling I shall pray 
 For thee when I am far away : 
 For never saw I mien, or face. 
 In which more plainly I could trace 
 Benignity and home-bred sense 
 Ripening in perfect innocence. 
 Here scattered, like a random seed, 
 
 169 
 
PART IV Remote from men, Thou dost not need 
 ii The embarrassed look of shy distress, 
 
 And maidenly shamefacedness : 
 Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
 The freedom of a Mountaineer : 
 A face with gladness overspread ! 
 Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ! 
 And seemliness complete, that sways 
 Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 
 With no restraint, but such as springs 
 From quick and eager visitings 
 Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
 Of thy few words of English speech : 
 A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 
 That gives thy gestures grace and life ! 
 So have I, not unmoved in mind. 
 Seen birds of temxpest-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 healthy dell ; 
 Adopt your homely ways, and dress, 
 A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess ! 
 But I could frame a wish for thee 
 More like a grave reality : 
 Thou art to me but as a wave 
 Of the wild sea ; and I would have 
 ryo 
 
Some claim upon thee, if 1 could, PART IV 
 
 Though but of common neighbourhood. ii 
 
 What joy to hear thee, and to see ! 
 Thy elder Brother I would be, 
 Thy Father — anything to thee ! 
 
 Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
 
 Hath led me to this lonely place. 
 
 Joy have I had ; and going hence 
 
 I bear away my recompence. 
 
 In spots like these it is we prize 
 
 Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes : 
 
 Then, why should I be loth to stir ? 
 
 I feel this place was made for her ; 
 
 To give new pleasure like the past, 
 
 Continued long as life shall last. 
 
 Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, 
 
 Sweet Highland Girl ! from thee to part : 
 
 For I, methinks, tiU 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 ! 
 
 171 
 
PART IV SHE was a Phantom of delight 
 
 hi 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 hair ; 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; 
 A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 
 To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. 
 
 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. 
 
 172 
 
And now I see with eye serene PART IV 
 
 The very pulse of the machine ; iii 
 
 A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 
 A Traveller between life and death ; 
 
 The reason firm, the temperate will. 
 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
 
 A perfect Woman, nobly planned. 
 
 To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
 
 And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
 
 With something of angelic light. 
 
 173 
 
PART IV FROM Stirling Castle we had seen 
 iv The mazy Forth unravelled ; 
 
 Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, 
 And with the Tweed had travelled ; 
 And when we came to Clovenford, 
 Then said my " winsome Marrow,^'' 
 Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside. 
 And see the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Let Yarrow io\k,frae Selkirk town. 
 Who have been buying, selling, 
 Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own ; 
 Each maiden to her dwelling ! 
 On Yarrow's banks let herons feed. 
 Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! 
 But we will downward with the Tweed, 
 Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 
 
 There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 
 
 Both lying right before us ; 
 
 And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed 
 
 The lintwhites sing in chorus ; 
 
 There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land 
 
 Made blithe with plough and harrow : 
 
 Why throw away a needful day 
 
 To go in search of Yarrow ? 
 
 174 
 
What's Yarrow but a river bare, PART IV 
 
 That ghdes the dark hills under ? iv 
 
 There are a thousand such elsewhere 
 
 As worthy of your wonder. 
 
 — Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn ; 
 
 My True-love sighed for sorrow ; 
 
 And looked me in the face, to think 
 
 I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 
 
 Oh ! green, said I, are Yarrow's holms. 
 And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 
 Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 
 But we will leave it growdng. 
 O'er hilly path, and open Strath, 
 We'll wander Scotland thorough ; 
 But, though so near, we will not turn 
 Into the dale of Yarrow. 
 
 Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 
 The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; 
 The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake 
 Float double, swan and shadow ! 
 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. 
 
PART IV Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown ! 
 iv It must, or we shall rue it : 
 
 We have a vision of our own ; 
 
 Ah ! why should we undo it ? 
 
 The treasured dreams of times long past, 
 
 We'll keep them, winsome Marrow ! 
 
 For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 
 
 'Twill be another Yarrow ! 
 
 If Care with freezing years should come, 
 
 And wandering seem but folly, — 
 
 Should we be loth to stir from home, 
 
 And yet be melancholy ; 
 
 Should life be dull, and spirits low, 
 
 'Twill soothe us in our sorrow. 
 
 That earth has something yet to show, 
 
 The bonny holms of Yarrow ! 
 
 176 
 
AND is this— Yarrow }—1his the Stream PART IV 
 
 Of which my fancy cherished, v 
 
 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 ! that excludes 
 
 All profitless dejection ; 
 
 Though not unwilling here to admit 
 
 A pensive recollection. 
 
 m 177 
 
PART IV Where was it that the famous Flower 
 V Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ? 
 
 His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 
 
 On which the herd is feeding : 
 
 And haply from this crystal pool, 
 
 Now peaceful as the morning, 
 
 The Water-wraith ascended thrice — 
 
 And gave his doleful warning. 
 
 Delicious is the Lay that sings 
 
 The haunts of happy Lovers, 
 
 The path that leads them to the grove, 
 
 The leafy grove that covers : 
 
 And Pity sanctifies the Verse 
 
 That paints, by strength of sorrow. 
 
 The unconquerable strength of love ; 
 
 Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! 
 
 But thou, that didst appear so fair 
 
 To fond imagination. 
 
 Dost rival in the light of day 
 
 Her delicate creation : 
 
 Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 
 
 A softness still and holy ; 
 
 The grace of forest charms decayed, 
 
 And pastoral melancholy. 
 
 178 
 
That region left, the vale unfolds PART IV 
 
 Rich groves of lofty stature, v 
 
 With Yarrow winding through the pomp 
 
 Of cultivated nature ; 
 
 And, rising from those lofty groves, 
 
 Behold a Ruin hoary ! 
 
 The shattered front of Newark's Towers, 
 
 Renowned in Border story. 
 
 Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, 
 
 For sportive youth to stray in ; 
 
 For manhood to enjoy his strength ; 
 
 And age to wear away in ! 
 
 Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 
 
 A covert for protection 
 
 Of tender thoughts, that nestle there — 
 
 The brood of chaste affection. 
 
 How sweet, on this autumnal day, 
 
 The wild-wood fruits to gather. 
 
 And on my True-love's forehead plant 
 
 A crest of blooming heather ! 
 
 And what if I enwreathed my own ! 
 
 'Twere no offence to reason ; 
 
 The sober Hills thus deck their brows 
 
 To meet the wintry season. 
 
 179 
 
PART IV I see — but not by sight alone, 
 V Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; 
 
 A ray of fancy still survives — 
 Her sunshine plays upon thee ! 
 Thy ever-youthful waters keep 
 A course of lively pleasure ; 
 And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, 
 Accordant to the Measure. 
 
 The vapours linger round the Heights, 
 They melt, and soon must vanish ; 
 One hour is theirs, nor more is mine — 
 Sad thought, which I would banish. 
 But that I know, where'er I go. 
 Thy genuine image. Yarrow ! 
 Will dwell with me — to heighten joy. 
 And cheer my mind in sorrow. 
 
 180 
 
BEHOLD her, single in the field, PART IV 
 
 Yon solitary Highland Lass ! vi 
 
 Reaping and singing by herself ; 
 
 Stop here, or gently pass ! 
 
 Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
 
 And sings a melancholy strain ; 
 
 O listen ! for the Vale profound 
 
 Is overflowing with the sound. 
 
 No Nightingale did ever chaunt 
 More welcome notes to weary bands 
 Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
 Among Arabian sands : 
 A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
 In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 
 Breaking the silence of the seas 
 Among the farthest Hebrides. 
 
 Will no one tell me what she sings ? — 
 
 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
 
 For old, unhappy, far-off things, 
 
 And battles long ago : 
 
 Or is it some more humble lay. 
 
 Familiar matter of to-day ? 
 
 Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain. 
 
 That has been, and may be again ? 
 
 i8i 
 
PART IV Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang 
 vi As if her song could have no ending ; 
 
 I saw her singing at her work, 
 And o'er the sickle bending ; — 
 1 listened, motionless and still ; 
 And, as I mounted up the hill 
 The music in my heart I bore, 
 Long after it was heard no more. 
 
 182 
 
WHEN first, descending from the moorlands, PART IV 
 
 I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide vii 
 
 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 ; 
 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 stedfast 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 : 
 x^nd Lamb, the frolic and the gentle. 
 Has vanished from his lonely hearth. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 183 
 
PART IV Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber 
 vii Were earlier raised, remain to hear 
 
 A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
 ^Vho next will drop and disappear ? 
 
 Our haughty life is crowned with darkness, 
 Like London with its own black wreath, 
 On which with thee, O Crabbe ! forthlooking, 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 184 
 
IN this still place, remote from men, PART IV 
 
 Sleeps Ossian, in the narrow glen ; viii 
 
 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 ; 
 
 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 
 Was moved ; and in such way expressed 
 Their notion of its perfect rest. 
 A convent, even a hermit's cell, 
 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 
 
 185 
 
PART IV Yet happy feelings of the dead : 
 
 viii And, therefore, was it rightly said 
 
 That Osslan, last of all his race ! 
 Lies buried in this lonely place. 
 
 186 
 
PANSIES, lilies, kingcups, daisies, PART IV 
 
 Let them live upon their praises ; ix 
 
 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, 
 'Tis the little Celandine. 
 
 Eyes of some men travel far 
 For the finding of a star ; 
 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, 
 Little Flower ! — I'll 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, 
 Thirty years or more, and yet 
 'Twas a face I did not know ; 
 Thou hast now, go where I may. 
 Fifty greetings in a day. 
 
 187 
 
PART IV Ere a leaf is on a bush, 
 
 ix 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 ; 
 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 ! 
 
 Comfort have thou of thy merit, 
 Kindly, unassuming Spirit ! 
 Careless of thy neighbourhood. 
 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 'tis good enough for thee. 
 
 i88 
 
Ill befall the yellow flowers, PART IV 
 
 Children of the flaring hours ! ix 
 
 Buttercups, that will be seen, 
 Whether we will see or no ; 
 Others, too, of lofty mien ; 
 They have done as worldlings do, 
 Taken praise *^hat 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 ; 
 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 ! 
 
 189 
 
PART IV I WANDERED lonely as a cloud 
 
 X That floats on high o'er vales and hills. 
 
 When all at once I saw a crowd, 
 A host, of golden daffodils ; 
 Beside the lake, beneath the trees. 
 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 
 
 Continuous as the stars that shine 
 And twinkle on the milky way, 
 They stretched in never-ending line 
 Along the margin of a bay : 
 Ten thousand saw I at a glance. 
 Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 
 
 The waves beside them danced ; but they 
 
 Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : 
 
 A poet could not but be gay. 
 
 In such a jocund company : 
 
 I gazed— and gazed — but little thought 
 
 What wealth the show to me had brought 
 
 For oft, when on my couch I lie 
 In vacant or in pensive mood. 
 They flash upon that inward eye 
 Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
 And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
 And dances with the daffodils. 
 
 190 
 
I'VE watched you now a full half-hour, PART IV 
 
 Self-poised upon that yellow flower ; xi 
 
 And, little Butterfly ! indeed 
 
 I know not if you sleep or feed 
 
 How motionless ! — ^not frozen seas 
 
 More motionless ! and then 
 
 What joy awaits you, when the breeze 
 
 Hath found you out among the trees, 
 
 And calls you forth again ! 
 
 This plot of orchard-ground is ours ; 
 
 My trees they are, my Sister's flowers ; 
 
 Here rest your wings when they are weary ; 
 
 Here lodge as in a sanctuary ! 
 
 Come often to us, fear no wrong ; 
 
 Sit near us on the bough ! 
 
 We'll talk of sunshine and of song. 
 
 And summer days, when we were young : 
 
 Sweet childish days, that were as long 
 
 As twenty days are now. 
 
 191 
 
PART IV BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed 
 xii Their snow-white blossoms on my head, 
 
 With brightest sunshine round me spread 
 
 Of spring's unclouded weather, 
 In this sequestered nook how sweet 
 To sit upon my orchard-seat ! 
 And birds and flowers once more to greet, 
 My last year's friends together. 
 
 One have I marked, the happiest guest 
 In all this covert of the blest : 
 Hail to Thee, far above the rest 
 
 In joy of voice and pinion ! 
 Thou, Linnet ! in thy green array, 
 Presiding Spirit here to-day, 
 Dost lead the revels of the May ; 
 
 And this is thy dominion. 
 
 While birds, and butterflies, and flowers, 
 Make all one band of paramours, 
 Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, 
 
 Art sole in thy employment : 
 A Life, a Presence like the Air, 
 Scattering thy gladness without care. 
 Too blest with any one to pair ; 
 
 Thyself thy own enjoyment. 
 
 192 
 
Amid yon tuft of hazel trees, PART IV 
 
 That twinkle to the gusty breeze, xii 
 
 Behold him perched in ecstasies, 
 
 Yet seeming still to hover ; 
 There ! where the flutter of his wings 
 Upon his back and body flings 
 Shadows and sunny glimmerings. 
 
 That cover him all over. 
 
 My dazzled sight he oft deceives, 
 A Brother of the dancing leaves ; 
 Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves 
 
 Pours forth his song in gushes ; 
 As if by that exulting strain 
 He mocked and treated with disdain 
 The voiceless Form he chose to feign, 
 
 While fluttering in the bushes. 
 
 n 193 
 
BEHOLD, within the leafy shade, 
 xiii Those bright blue eggs together laid ! 
 
 On me the chance-discovered sight 
 Gleamed like a vision of delight. 
 I started — seeming to espy 
 The home and sheltered bed. 
 The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by 
 My Father's house, in wet or dry, 
 My sister Emmeline and I 
 Together visited. 
 
 She looked at it and seemed to fear it ; 
 Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it : 
 Such heart was in her, being then 
 A little Prattler among men. 
 The Blessing of my later years 
 Was with me when a boy : 
 She gave me eyes, she gave me ears ; 
 And humble cares, and delicate fears ; 
 A heart, the fountain of sweet tears ; 
 And love, and thought, and joy. 
 
 194 
 
IT is the first mild day of March : PART IV 
 
 Each minute sweeter than before xiv 
 
 The redbreast sings from the tall larch 
 That stands beside our door. 
 
 There is a blessing in the air, 
 Which seems a sense of joy to yield 
 To the bare trees, and mountains bare, 
 And grass in the green field. 
 
 My sister ! ('tis a wish of mine) 
 Now that our morning meal is done. 
 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'll give to idleness. 
 
 No joyless forms shall regulate 
 Our living calendar : 
 We from to-day, my Friend, will date 
 The opening of the year. 
 
 Love, now a universal birth. 
 From heart to heart is stealing. 
 From earth to man, from man to earth : 
 — ^It is the hour of feeling. 
 
 19s 
 
PART IV One moment now may give us more 
 
 xiv Than years of toiling reason : 
 
 Our minds shall drink at every pore 
 The spirit of the season. 
 
 Some silent laws our nearts will make, 
 Which they shall long obey : 
 We for the year to come may take 
 Our temper from to-day. 
 
 And from the blessed power that rolls 
 About, below, above. 
 We'll frame the measure of our souls : 
 Thev 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'll give to idleness. 
 
 196 
 
BLITHE New-comer ! I have heard, PART IV 
 
 1 hear thee and rejoice. xv 
 
 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. 
 Thou bringest unto me a tale 
 Of visionary hours. 
 
 Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! 
 
 Even yet thou art to me 
 
 No bird, but an invisible thing, 
 
 A voice, a mystery ; 
 
 The same whom in my school-boy days 
 
 1 listened to ; that Cry 
 
 Which made me look a thousand ways 
 In bush, and tree, and sky. 
 
 To seek thee did I often rove 
 Through woods and on the green ; 
 And thou wert still a hope, a love ; 
 Still longed for, never seen. 
 
 197 
 
PART IV And I can listen to thee yet ; 
 
 XV Can lie upon the plain 
 
 And listen, till I do beget 
 That golden time again. 
 
 O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace 
 Again appears to be 
 An unsubstantial, faery place ; 
 That is fit home for Thee ! 
 
 198 
 
YES, it was the mountain Echo, PART IV 
 
 SoUtary, clear, profound, xvi 
 
 Answering to the shouting Cuckoo, 
 Giving to her sound for sound ! 
 
 UnsoHcited reply 
 
 To a babbling wanderer sent ; 
 
 Like her ordinary cry. 
 
 Like — but oh, how different ! 
 
 Hears not also mortal Life ? 
 Hear not we, unthinking Creatures ! 
 Slaves of folly, love, or strife — 
 Voices of two different natures ? 
 
 Have not we too ? — yes, we have 
 Answers, and we know not whence ; 
 Echoes from beyond the grave. 
 Recognised intelligence ! 
 
 Such rebounds our inward ear 
 Catches sometimes from afar — 
 Listen, ponder, hold them dear ; 
 For of God, — of God they are. 
 
 199 
 
PART IV O NIGHTINGALE ! thou surely art 
 xvii 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 ; 
 
 And steady bliss, and all the loves 
 
 Now sleeping in these peaceful groves. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 200 
 
HIGH in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate, PART IV 
 And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song. — xviii 
 
 The words of ancient time I thus translate, 
 A festal strain that hath been silent long : — 
 
 From town to town, from tower to tower, 
 
 The red rose is a gladsome flower. 
 
 Her thirty years of winter past, 
 
 The red rose is revived at last ; 
 
 She lifts her head for endless spring. 
 
 For everlasting blossoming ; 
 
 Both roses flourish, red and white : 
 
 In love and sisterly delight 
 
 The two that were at strife are blended. 
 
 And all old troubles now are ended. — 
 
 Joy ! joy to both ! but most to her 
 
 Who IS the flower of Lancaster ! 
 
 Behold her how she smiles to-day 
 
 On this great throng, this bright array ! 
 
 Fair greeting doth she send to all 
 
 From every corner of the hall ; 
 
 But chiefly from above the board 
 
 Where sits in state our rightful Lord, 
 
 A Clifford to his own restored ! 
 
 They came with banner, spear, and shield, 
 And it was proved in Bosworth-field. 
 Not long the Avenger was withstood — 
 Earth helped him with the cry of blood : 
 
 201 
 
PART IV St George was for us, and the might 
 xviii Of blessed Angels crowned the right. 
 
 Loud voice the Land has uttered forth, 
 We loudest in the faithful north : 
 Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring, 
 Our streams proclaim a welcoming ; 
 Our strong-abodes and castles see 
 The glory of their loyalty. 
 
 How glad is Skipton at this hour — 
 Though lonely, a deserted Tower ; 
 Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and groom 
 We have them at the feast of Brough'm. 
 How glad Pendragon — though the sleep 
 Of years be on her ! — She shall reap 
 A taste of this great pleasure, viewing 
 As in a dream her own renewing. 
 Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem 
 Beside her little humble stream ; 
 And she that keepeth watch and ward 
 Her statelier Eden's course to guard ; 
 They both are happy at this hour. 
 Though each is but a lonely Tower : — 
 But here is perfect joy and pride 
 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 ! 
 
 202 
 
Oh ! it was a time forlorn PART IV 
 
 When the fatherless was born — xviii 
 
 Give her wings that she may fly, 
 
 Or she sees her infant die ! 
 
 Swords that are with slaughter wild 
 
 Hunt the Mother and the Child. 
 
 Who will take them from the light ? 
 
 — Yonder is a man in sight — 
 
 Yonder is a house — but where ? 
 
 No, they must not enter there. 
 
 To the caves, and to the brooks. 
 
 To the clouds of heaven she looks ; 
 
 She is speechless, but her eyes 
 
 Pray in ghostly agonies. 
 
 Blissful Mary, Mother mild, 
 
 Maid and Mother undefiled. 
 
 Save a Mother and her Child ! 
 
 Now Who is he that bounds with joy 
 
 On Carrock's side, a Shepherd-boy ? 
 
 No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass 
 
 Light as the wind along the grass. 
 
 Can this be He who hither came 
 
 In secret, like a smothered flame ? 
 
 O'er whom such thankful tears were shed 
 
 For shelter, and a poor man's bread ! 
 
 God loves the Child ; and God hath willed 
 
 That those dear words should be fulfilled, 
 
 The Lady's words, when forced away, 
 
 203 
 
PART IV The last she to her Babe did say : 
 xviii 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, 
 
 And quit the flowers that summer brings 
 
 To Glenderamakin's lofty springs ; 
 
 Must vanish, and his careless cheer 
 
 Be turned to heaviness and fear. 
 
 — Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise ! 
 
 Hear it, good man, old in days ! 
 
 Thou tree of covert and of rest 
 
 For this young Bird that is distrest ; 
 
 Among thy branches safe he lay. 
 
 And he was free to sport and play, 
 
 When falcons were abroad for prey. 
 
 A recreant harp, that sings of fear 
 And heaviness in Clifford's ear ! 
 I said, when evil men are strong. 
 No life is good, no pleasure long, 
 A weak and cowardly untruth ! 
 Our Clifford was a happy Youth, 
 And thankful through a weary time. 
 That brought him up to manhood's prime. 
 204 
 
— Again he wanders forth at will, PART IV 
 
 And tends a flock from hill to hill : xviii 
 
 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. 
 
 Stooped down to pay him fealty ; 
 
 And both the undying fish that swim 
 
 Through Bowscale-tarn did wait on him ; 
 
 The pair were servants of his eye 
 
 In their immortality ; 
 
 And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright. 
 
 Moved to and fro, for his delight. 
 
 He knew the rocks which Angels haunt 
 
 Upon the mountains visitant ; 
 
 He hath kenned them taking wing : 
 
 And into caves where Faeries sing 
 
 He hath entered ; and been told 
 
 By Voices how men lived of old. 
 
 Among the heavens his eye can see 
 
 The face of thing that is to be ; 
 
 And, if that men report him right, 
 
 His tongue could whisper words of might. 
 
 — Now another day is come, 
 
 205 
 
PART IV Fitter hope, and nobler doom ; 
 xviii He hath thrown aside his crook, 
 And hath buried deep his book ; 
 Armour rusting in his halls 
 On the blood of Clifford calls ; — 
 Quell the Scot, exclaims the Lance — 
 Bear me to the heart of France, 
 Is the longing of the Shield — 
 Tell thy name, thou trembling Field ; 
 Field of death, where'er thou be, 
 Groan thou with our victory ! 
 Happy day, and mighty hour. 
 When our Shepherd, in his power. 
 Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword. 
 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 
 How he, long forced in humble walks to go, [framed, 
 Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed. 
 
 Love had he found in huts where poor men lie ; 
 His daily teachers had been woods and rills. 
 The silence that is in the starry sky. 
 The sleep that is among the lonely hills. 
 206 
 
In him the savage virtue of the Race, PART IV 
 
 Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead : xviii 
 
 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 honoured more and more ; 
 And, ages after he was laid in earth, 
 The good Lord Clifford was the name he bore. 
 
 207 
 
PART IV CHILD of loud-throated War ! the mountain Stream 
 xix Roars in thy hearing ; but thy hour of rest 
 Is come, and thou art silent in thy age ; 
 Save when 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, 
 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); 
 Yet he, not loth, in favour 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 
 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 wiUing admiration and respect, 
 208 
 
Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be called PART IV 
 
 Youthful as Spring. — Shade of departed Power, xix 
 
 Skeleton of unfleshed humanity, 
 
 The chronicle were welcome that should call 
 
 Into the compass of distinct regard 
 
 The toils and struggles 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 
 
 And quieted in character — the strife, 
 
 The pride, the fury uncontrollable, 
 
 Lost on the aerial heights of the Crusades ! 
 
 209 
 
PART IV I WAS thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile ! 
 XX 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 : 
 I could have fancied that the mighty Deep 
 Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things. 
 
 Ah ! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's hand, 
 To express what then I saw ; and add the gleam. 
 The light that never was, on sea or land. 
 The consecration, and the Poet's dream ; 
 
 I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile 
 Amid a world how different from this ! 
 . Beside a sea that could not cease to smile ; 
 On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 
 
 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. 
 
 2IO 
 
A Picture had it been of lasting ease, PART IV 
 
 Elysian quiet, without toil or strife ; xx 
 
 No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, 
 Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 
 
 Such, in the fond illusion of my heart. 
 
 Such Picture would I at that time have made : 
 
 And seen the soul of truth in every part, 
 
 A stedfast peace that might not be betrayed. 
 
 So once it would have been, — 'tis so no more ; 
 I have submitted to a new control : 
 A power is gone, which nothing can restore ; 
 A deep distress hath humanised 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. 
 
 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 'tis a passionate Work ! — yet wise and well. 
 Well chosen is the spirit that is here ; 
 That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell, 
 This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 
 
 211 
 
PART IV And this huge Castle, standing here subUme, 
 XX I love to see the look with which it braves, 
 Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time. 
 The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. 
 
 Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone. 
 Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind ! 
 Such happiness, wherever it be known, 
 Is to be pitied ; for 'tis surely blind. 
 
 But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer. 
 And frequent sights of what is to be borne ! 
 Such sights, or worse, as are before me here. — 
 Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 
 
 212 
 
LOUD is the Vale ! the Voice is up PART IV 
 
 With which she speaks when storms are gone, xxi 
 
 A mighty unison of streams ! 
 Of all her Voices, One ! 
 
 Loud is the Vale ; — this inland Depth 
 In peace is roaring like the Sea ! 
 Yon star upon the mountain-top 
 Is listening quietly. 
 
 Sad was I, even to pain deprest, 
 Importunate and heavy load ! 
 The Comforter hath found me here, 
 Upon this lonely road ; 
 
 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 — 
 
 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 ? 
 
 213 
 
PART IV WHO is the happy Warrior ? Who is he 
 xxii 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 endeavours are an inward light 
 That makes the path before him always bright : 
 Who, with a natural instinct to discern 
 What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn 
 Abides by this resolve, and stops not there. 
 But makes his moral being his prime care ; 
 Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, 
 And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train ! 
 Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 
 In face of these doth exercise a power 
 Which is our human nature's highest dower ; 
 Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 
 Of their bad influence, and their good receives : 
 By objects, which might force the soul to abate 
 Her feeling, rendered more compassionate ; 
 Is placable — because occasions rise 
 So often that demand such sacrifice ; 
 More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure. 
 As tempted more ; more able to endure. 
 As more exposed to suffering and distress ; 
 Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. 
 — 'Tis he whose law is reason ; who depends 
 Upon that law as on the best of friends ; 
 Whence, in a state where men are tempted still 
 214 
 
To evil for a guard against worse ill, PART IV 
 
 And what in quality or act is best xxii 
 
 Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, 
 
 He labours good on good to fix, and owes 
 
 To virtue every triumph that he knows : 
 
 — Who, if he rise to station of command, 
 
 Rises by open means ; and there will stand 
 
 On honourable terms, or else retire. 
 
 And in himself possess his own desire : 
 
 Who comprehends his trust, and to the same 
 
 Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; 
 
 And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait 
 
 For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state ; 
 
 Whom they must follow ; on whose head must fall. 
 
 Like showers of manna, if they come at all : 
 
 Whose powers shed round him in the common strife. 
 
 Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 
 
 A constant influence, a peculiar grace ; 
 
 But who, if he be called upon to face 
 
 Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined 
 
 Great issues, good or bad for human kind. 
 
 Is happy as a Lover ; and attired 
 
 With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired ; 
 
 And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law 
 
 In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw ; 
 
 Or if an unexpected call succeed. 
 
 Come when it will, is equal to the need : 
 
 — He who, though thus endued as with a sense 
 
 And faculty for storm and turbulence, 
 
 215 
 
PART IV Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans 
 
 xxii To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes ; 
 Sweet images ! which, wheresoe'er he be, 
 Are at his heart ; and such fidelity 
 It is his darling passion to approve ; 
 More brave for this, that he hath much to love : — 
 'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high. 
 Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, 
 Or left unthought-of in obscurity, — 
 Who, with a toward or untoward lot, 
 Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not — 
 Plays, in the many games of life, that one 
 Where what he most doth value must be won : 
 Whom neither shape of danger can dismay. 
 Nor thought of tender happiness betray ; 
 Who, not content that former worth stand fast. 
 Looks forward, persevering to the last, 
 From well to better, daily self-surpast : 
 Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth 
 For ever, and to noble deeds give birth. 
 Or .he must fall, to sleep without his fame, 
 And leave a dead unprofitable name — 
 Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ; 
 And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws 
 His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause : 
 This is the happy Warrior ; this is He 
 That every Man in arms should wish to be. 
 
 2l6 
 
STERN Daughter of the Voice of God ! PART IV 
 
 O Duty ! if that name thou love xxiii 
 
 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. 
 
 Where no misgiving is, rely 
 
 Upon the genial sense of youth : 
 
 Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot 
 
 Who do thy work, and know it not : 
 
 Oh ! if through confidence misplaced 
 
 They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power ! around them cast. 
 
 Serene will be our days and bright. 
 
 And happy will our nature be, 
 
 When love is an unerring light, 
 
 And joy its own security. 
 
 And they a blissful course may hold 
 
 Even now, who, not unwisely bold. 
 
 Live in the spirit of this creed ; 
 
 Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. 
 
 217 
 
PART IV I, loving freedom, and untried, 
 xxiii No sport of every random gust, 
 Yet being to myself a guide, 
 Too blindly have reposed my trust : 
 And oft, when in my heart was heard 
 Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
 The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 
 But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may, 
 
 Through no disturbance of my soul, 
 
 Or strong compunction in me wrought, 
 
 I supplicate for thy control ; 
 
 But in the quietness of thought : 
 
 Me this unchartered freedom tires ; 
 
 I feel the weight of chance-desires : 
 
 My hopes no more must change their name, 
 
 I long for a repose that ever is the same. 
 
 Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
 The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
 Nor know we anything so fair 
 As is the smile upon thy face : 
 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds 
 And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
 Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
 And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh 
 
 and strong. 
 218 
 
To humbler functions, awful Power ! PART IV 
 
 I call thee : I myself commend xxiii 
 
 Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 
 
 Oh, let mv weakness have an end ! 
 
 Give unto me, made lowly wise. 
 
 The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
 
 The confidence of reason give ; 
 
 And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live ! 
 
 2IQ 
 
PART IV WITH sacrifice before the rising morn 
 
 xxiv 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 ; 
 
 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 — 'tis 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 
 Laodamia ! that at Jove's command [prayer. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 220 
 
Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to clasp; PART IV 
 Again that consummation she essayed ; xxiv 
 
 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. 
 
 Protesilaus, 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 appal me have the gods bestowed 
 This precious boon ; and blest a sad abode. 
 
 Great Jove, Laodamia ! doth not leave 
 His gifts imperfect : — Spectre though I be, 
 I am not sent to scare thee or deceive ; 
 But in reward of thy fidelity. 
 And something also did my worth obtain ; 
 For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. 
 
 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. 
 
 221 
 
PART IV Supreme of Heroes — bravest, noblest, best ! 
 xxiv Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, 
 
 Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest 
 By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore ; 
 Thou found'st — and I forgive thee — here thou art — 
 A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 
 
 But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 
 
 Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave ; 
 
 And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed 
 
 Thou should'st elude the malice of the grave : 
 
 Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 
 
 As when their breath enriched Thessalian air. 
 
 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 thee that my doom is past : 
 
 Nor should the change be mourned, even if the joys 
 
 Of sense were able to return as fast 
 
 And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys 
 
 Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains : 
 
 Calm pleasures there abide — majestic pains. 
 
 222 
 
Be taught, O faithful Consort, to control PART IV 
 
 Rebellious passion : for the Gods approve xxiv 
 
 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 — 
 
 Ah, wherefore ? — Did not Hercules by force 
 Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb 
 Alcestis, a reanimated corse. 
 Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom ? 
 Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years. 
 And ^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 favourite seat be feeble woman's breast. 
 
 But if thou goest, I follow — Peace ! he said, — 
 
 She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered ; 
 
 The ghastly colour from his lips had fled ; 
 
 In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared 
 
 Elysian beauty, melancholy grace. 
 
 Brought from a pensive though a happy place. 
 
 223 
 
PART IV He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel 
 xxiv In worlds whose course is equable and pure ; 
 No fears to beat away — no strife to heal — 
 The past unsighed for, and the future sure ; 
 Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 
 Revived, with liner harmony pursued ; 
 
 Of all that is most beauteous — imaged there 
 
 In happier beauty ; more pellucid streams, 
 
 An ampler ether, a diviner air, 
 
 And fields invested with purpureal gleams ; 
 
 Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day 
 
 Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 
 
 Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earned 
 
 That privilege by virtue. — 111, said he, 
 
 The end of man's existence I discerned. 
 
 Who from ignoble games and revelry 
 
 Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight, 
 
 While tears were thy best pastime, day and night ; 
 
 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. 
 
 224 
 
The wished-for wind was given : — I then revolved PART IV 
 The oracle, upon the silent sea ; xxiv 
 
 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, — 
 
 The paths which we had trod — these fountains, flowers, 
 
 My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. 
 
 But should suspense permit the Foe to cry. 
 Behold they tremble ! — haughty their array, 
 Yet of their number no one dares to die ? 
 In soul I swept the indignity away : 
 Old frailties then recurred : — but lofty thought, 
 In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 
 
 And Thou, though strong in love, art all too weak 
 
 In reason, in self-government too slow ; 
 
 I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 
 
 Our blest re-union in the shades below. 
 
 The invisible world with thee hath sympathised ; 
 
 Be thy affections raised and solemnised. 
 
 225 
 
PART IV Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend — 
 xxiv 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. 
 
 Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes reappears ! 
 
 Round the dear Shade she would have clung — 'tis vain : 
 
 The hours are past — too brief had they been years ; 
 
 And him no mortal effort can detain : 
 
 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 just Gods whom no weak pity moved, 
 Was doomed to wear out her appointed time, 
 Apart from happy Ghosts, that gather flowers 
 Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. 
 
 — Yet tears to human suffering are due ; 
 And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown 
 Are mourned by man, and not by man alone, 
 As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 
 Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) 
 A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 
 
 226 
 
From out the tomb of him for whom she died ; PART IV 
 
 And ever, when such stature they had gained xxiv 
 
 That IHum's walls were subject to their view, 
 The trees' tall summits withered at the sight ; 
 A constant interchange of growth and blight ! 
 
 227 
 
PART V. ODE 
 
 INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 
 
 FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 EARLY CHILDHOOD 
 
THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, PART V 
 The earth, and every common sight, 
 To me did seem 
 Apparelled in celestial light, 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
 It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — • 
 Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
 By night or day. 
 The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 
 
 II 
 The Rainbow comes and goes. 
 And lovely is the Rose, 
 The Moon doth with delight 
 Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 
 Waters on a starry night 
 Are beautiful and fair ; 
 The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
 But yet I know, where'er I go. 
 That there hath past away a glory from the earth. 
 
 Ill 
 Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song. 
 And while the young lambs bound 
 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, 
 
 229 
 
PART V The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
 And all the earth is gay ; 
 Land and sea 
 Give themselves up to jollity, 
 
 And with the heart of May 
 Doth every Beast keep holiday ; — 
 Thou Child of Joy, 
 Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
 Shepherd-boy ! 
 
 IV 
 
 Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 
 
 Ye to each other make ; I see 
 The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 
 
 My heart is at your festival, 
 
 My head hath its coronal. 
 The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 
 
 Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 
 
 While Earth herself is adorning, 
 This sweet May-morning, 
 
 And the Children are culling 
 On every side. 
 
 In a thousand valleys far and wide. 
 
 Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm. 
 And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm : — 
 
 I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 
 
 — But there's a Tree, of many, one, 
 A single Field which I have looked upon. 
 Both of them speak of something that is gone : 
 
 The Pansy at my feet 
 230 
 
Doth the same tale repeat : PART V 
 
 Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
 Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 
 
 V 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
 The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 
 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting. 
 And Cometh from afar : 
 
 Not in entire forgetfulness. 
 
 And not in utter nakedness, 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 
 From God, who is our home : 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing Boy, 
 But He beholds the light, and whence it flows. 
 
 He sees it in his joy ; 
 The Youth, who daily farther from the east 
 
 Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 
 
 And by the vision splendid 
 
 Is on his way attended ; 
 At length the Man perceives it die away. 
 And fade into the light of common day. 
 
 VI 
 
 Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
 Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind. 
 And, even with something of a Mother's mind, 
 
 And no unworthy aim. 
 
 The homely Nurse doth all she can 
 
 231 
 
PART V To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 
 Forget the glories he hath known. 
 And that imperial palace whence he came. 
 
 VII 
 
 Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 
 A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! 
 See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies. 
 Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. 
 With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 
 See, at his feet, some little plan or chart. 
 Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
 Shaped by himself with newly learned art ; 
 
 A wedding or a festival, 
 
 A mourning or a funeral ; 
 
 And this hath now his heart. 
 
 And unto this he frames his song : 
 Then will he fit his tongue 
 To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 
 
 But it will not be long 
 
 Ere this be thrown aside. 
 
 And with new joy and pride 
 The little Actor cons another part ; 
 Filling from time to time his " humorous stage " 
 With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
 That Life brings with her in her equipage ; 
 
 As if his whole vocation 
 
 Were endless imitation. 
 
 232 
 
VIII 
 
 Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie PART V 
 
 Thy Soul's immensity ; 
 Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 
 Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, 
 That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep. 
 Haunted for ever 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 Imm.ortality 
 Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 
 A Presence which is not to be put by ; 
 Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 
 Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 
 Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
 The years to bring the inevitable yoke. 
 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
 Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 
 And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 
 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 
 
 IX 
 
 O joy ! that in our embers 
 
 Is something that doth live, 
 
 That nature yet remembers 
 
 What was so fugitive ! 
 The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
 Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
 
 233 
 
PART V For that which is most worthy to be blest — 
 Dehght and Hberty, the simple creed 
 Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
 With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast :- 
 Not for these I raise 
 The song of thanks and praise ; 
 But for those obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and outward things. 
 Fallings from us, vanishings ; 
 Blank misgivings of a Creature 
 Moving about in worlds not realised. 
 High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
 Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised : 
 But for those first affections. 
 Those shadowy recollections. 
 Which, be they what they may. 
 Are yet the fountain light of all our day. 
 Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 
 
 Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
 Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake, 
 
 To perish never ; 
 Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 
 
 Nor Man nor Boy, 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy. 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 
 
 Hence in a season of calm weather 
 Though inland far we be. 
 Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 
 234 
 
Which brought us hither, PART V 
 
 Can in a moment travel thither, 
 And see the Children sport upon the shore, 
 And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 
 
 X 
 
 Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 
 
 And let the young Lambs bound 
 
 As to the tabor's sound ! 
 We in thought will join your throng. 
 
 Ye that pipe and ye that play, 
 
 Ye that through your hearts to-day 
 
 Feel the gladness of the May ! 
 What though the radiance which was once so bright 
 Be now for ever taken from my sight. 
 
 Though nothing can bring back the hour 
 Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower ; 
 
 We will grieve not, rather find 
 
 Strength in what remains behind ; 
 
 In the primal sympathy 
 
 Which having been must ever be ; 
 
 In the soothing thoughts that spring 
 
 Out of human suffering ; 
 
 In the faith that looks through death, 
 In years that bring the philosophic mind. 
 
 XI 
 
 And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 
 Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 
 Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 
 I only have relinquished one delight 
 
 235 
 
PART V To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
 
 I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, 
 Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 
 The Innocent brightness of a new-born Day 
 
 Is lovely yet ; 
 The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 
 Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
 That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
 Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
 Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
 To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 
 
 236 
 
EPILOGUE 
 
EPI- HAD this effulgence disappeared 
 LOGUE With flying haste, I might have sent, 
 Among the speechless clouds, a look 
 Of blank astonishment ; 
 But 'tis endued with power to stay, 
 And sanctify one closing day, 
 That frail Mortality may see — 
 What is ? — ah no, but what can be ! 
 Time was when field and watery cove 
 With modulated echoes rang. 
 While choirs of fervent Angels sang 
 Their vespers in the grove ; 
 
 Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height, 
 Warbled, for heaven above and earth below, 
 
 Strains suitable to both. — Such holy rite, 
 Methinks, if audibly repeated now 
 
 From hill or valley, could not move 
 
 Sublimer transport, purer love, 
 
 Than doth this silent spectacle — the gleam — 
 
 The shadow — and the peace supreme ! 
 
 II 
 
 No sound is uttered, — but a deep 
 
 And solemn harmony pervades 
 
 The hollow vale from steep to steep, 
 
 And penetrates the glades. 
 
 Far-distant images draw nigh. 
 
 Called forth by wondrous potency 
 
 Of beamy radiance, that imbues, 
 
 Whate'er it strikes, with gem-like hues ! 
 
 238 
 
In vision exquisitely clear, E Pi- 
 
 Herds range along the mountain side ; LOGUE 
 
 And glistening antlers are descried ; 
 And gilded flocks appear. 
 Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve ! 
 But long as god-like wish, or hope divine. 
 Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe 
 That this magnificence is wholly thine ! 
 — From worlds not quickened by the sun 
 A portion of the gift is won ; 
 An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread 
 On ground which British shepherds tread ! 
 
 Ill 
 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 
 On those bright steps that heavenward raise 
 Their practicable way. 
 
 Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad. 
 And see to what fair countries ye are bound ! 
 And if some traveller, weary of his road. 
 Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy ground, 
 
 239 
 
EPI- Ye Genii ! to his covert speed ; 
 LOGUE And wake him with such gentle heed 
 
 As may attune his soul to meet the dower 
 Bestowed on this transcendent hour ! 
 
 IV 
 
 Such hues from their celestial Urn 
 
 Were wont to stream before mine eye, 
 
 Where'er it wandered in the morn 
 
 Of blissful infancy. 
 
 This glimpse of glory, why renewed ? 
 
 Nay, rather speak with gratitude ; 
 
 For, if a vestige of those gleams 
 
 Survived, 'twas only in my dreams. 
 
 Dread Power ! whom peace and calmness serve 
 
 No less than Nature's threatening voice, 
 
 If aught unworthy be my choice. 
 
 From Thee if I would swerve ; 
 
 Oh, let thy grace remind me of the light 
 
 Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored ; 
 
 Which, at this moment, on my waking sight 
 
 Appears to shine, by miracle restored ; 
 
 My soul, though yet confined to earth. 
 
 Rejoices in a second birth ! 
 
 — 'Tis past, the visionary splendour fades ; 
 
 And night approaches with her shades. 
 
 240 
 
ENVOI 
 
ENVOI 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. 
 
 EXPLICIT 
 
 242 
 
TABLE OF FIRST LINES 
 
A BARKING sound the Shepherd hears . 
 All praise the Likeness by thy skill portrayed 
 And is this — Yarrow ? — This the Stream . 
 A point of life between my Parents' dust . 
 A simple Child ..... 
 A slumber did my spirit seal . 
 A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain . 
 
 Behold her, single in the field . 
 Behold, within the leafy shade 
 Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed 
 Bright Flower ! whose home is everywhere 
 Bright was the summer's noon when quickening 
 steps ...... 
 
 Brook and road ..... 
 
 Brook ! whose society the Poet seeks 
 But here no cannon thunders to the gale . 
 
 Child of loud-throated War ! the mountain 
 
 Stream ....... 208 
 
 Child of the clouds ! remote from every taint . 163 
 
 Earth has not anything to show more fair . 162 
 
 Fair seed-time had my soul .... 34 
 
 Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west . 148 
 Five years have past ; five summers, with the 
 
 length ....... 61 
 
 244 
 
From Stirling Castle we had seen 
 
 Had this effulgence disappeared 
 Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour 
 Here must we pause .... 
 High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate 
 How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright 
 
 I am not One who much or oft delight 
 
 If Nature, for a favourite child 
 
 I heard a thousand blended notes . 
 
 Imagination — here the Power so called 
 
 In this still place, remote from men 
 
 I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free 
 
 It is not to be thought of that the Flood 
 
 It is the first mild day of March 
 
 I travelled among unknown men 
 
 It seems a day .... 
 
 I've watched you now a full half-hour 
 
 I wandered lonely as a cloud . 
 
 I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile 
 
 I watch, and long have watched, with calm regret 
 
 Loud is the Vale ! the Voice is up . 
 
 Milton ! thou should'st be living at this hour 
 Most sweet it is, with unuplifted eyes 
 
 Page 
 174 
 
 238 
 
 159 
 
 58 
 201 
 
 159 
 
 153 
 128 
 
 III 
 
 29 
 185 
 166 
 161 
 
 151 
 195 
 
 88 
 
 32 
 191 
 
 190 
 
 210 
 
 160 
 
 213 
 
 151 
 158 
 
 245 
 
Page 
 My heart leaps up when I behold . . i8, 242 
 
 Nor can I not believe but that hereby 
 Nor, sedulous as I have been . 
 Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep 
 Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell 
 Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room 
 
 O blithe New-comer ! I have heard . 
 
 O Friend ! I know not which way I must look 
 
 Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray 
 
 Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee 
 
 O Nightingale ! thou surely art 
 
 On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life . 
 
 O Soul of Nature ! 
 
 O thou ! whose fancies from afar are brought 
 
 Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies 
 
 Rotha, my Spiritual Child i this head was grey 
 
 197 
 150 
 
 71 
 149 
 
 200 
 
 20 
 
 59 
 136 
 
 187 
 157 
 
 Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned 152 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways . . 87 
 She was a Phantom of dehght . . .172 
 
 Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played 164 
 
 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God . . 217 
 
 Strange fits of passion have I known . . 85 
 
 Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind . 156 
 246 
 
Page 
 Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower . .169 
 
 Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense 
 The fairest, brightest, hues of ether fade . 
 
 The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor 117 
 The old inventive Poets, had they seen . .164 
 There is a change — and I am poor . . .141 
 
 There is a Yew-tree, pride of liOrton Vale . 30 
 
 There's not a nook within this solemn Pass . 157 
 
 There was a Boy ; ye knew him well, ye cliffs . 25 
 
 There was a roaring in the wind all night . 142 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and 
 
 stream ....... 229 
 
 The sky is overcast ..... 27 
 
 The world is too much with us, late and soon . 150 
 
 Those incidental charms which first attached . 49 
 
 Though I beheld at first with blank surprise . 155 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower . . 89 
 
 Thus while the days flew by, and years passed on 52 
 
 Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men 
 'Twere long to tell .... 
 
 Two Voices are there ; one is of the sea . 
 
 Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale 
 Up ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books 
 
 Wansfell ! this Household has a favoured lot 
 We ran a boisterous course 
 
 166 
 160 
 
 149 
 
 51 
 148 
 
 92 
 115 
 
 153 
 
 45 
 
 247 
 
We talked with open heart, and tongue . 
 We walked along, while bright and red 
 What, you are stepping westward ? — Yea 
 When first, descending from the moorlands 
 When first I made .... 
 
 When Ruth was left half desolate . 
 Where art thou, my beloved Son 
 
 Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go 1 62 
 
 Who is the happy Warrior ? Who is he 
 
 Why, William, on that old grey stone 
 
 Wings have we, — and as far as we can go 
 
 Within our happy Castle there dwelt One 
 
 With sacrifice before the rising morn 
 
 Page 
 
 133 
 130 
 
 168 
 
 183 
 
 55 
 
 74 
 108 
 
 214 
 113 
 154 
 
 138 
 220 
 
 Yes, it was the mountain Echo . . . 199 
 
 248 
 
TABLE OF YEARS 
 
1798 A NIGHT PIECE 
 We are Seven 
 
 Lines written in Early Spring 
 To my Sister 
 Expostulation and Reply 
 The Tables Turned 
 Lines composed on revisiting the Banks of 
 the Wye ..... 
 
 1799 The Simplon Pass .... 
 There was a Boy . . . 
 
 Nutting 
 
 Strange fits of passion have I known 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
 
 I travelled among unknown men 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower 
 
 A slumber did my spirit seal 
 
 Matthew 
 
 The Two April Mornings 
 
 The Fountain 
 
 Lucy Gray ; or Solitude. 
 
 Ruth .... 
 
 1800 Michael 
 
 Hartleap Well 
 
 1 80 1 The Sparrow's Nest 
 250 
 
i8o2 My heart leaps up when I behold . i! 
 To a Butterfly . . . . . 
 
 To the Small Celandine . . . . 
 
 The Leech-gatherer .... 
 
 Earth has not anything to show more fair 
 
 Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the 
 
 west ...... 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free . 
 Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee 
 Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men 
 O Friend ! I know not which way I must look 
 Milton ! thou should'st be living at this hour 
 It is not to be thought of that the Flood 
 Within our happy Castle there dwelt one 
 To Hartley Coleridge 
 To the Daisy 
 
 1803 The Green Linnet . 
 Yew-trees 
 To a Highland Girl 
 Glen Almain 
 Stepping Westward 
 The Solitary Reaper 
 Kilchurn Castle 
 Yarrow 
 
 1804 To the Cuckoo 
 She was a Phantom of delight 
 
 Page 
 >, 242 
 191 
 187 
 142 
 162 
 
 148 
 161 
 149 
 149 
 150 
 
 151 
 
 151 
 138 
 
 136 
 
 112 
 
 192 
 
 30 
 169 
 
 185 
 
 168 
 
 181 
 
 208 
 
 174 
 
 197 
 172 
 251 
 
1804 I wandered lonely as a cloud 
 The Affliction of Margaret 
 
 &' 
 
 Page 
 190 
 108 
 
 1805 Ode to Duty 
 Fidelity .... 
 Peele Castle .... 
 The Prelude, 1 795-1 805 
 On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life . 
 
 1806 Character of The Happy Warrior 
 
 A Complaint ..... 
 
 Yes, it was the mountain Echo 
 
 Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow 
 
 room ...... 
 
 I am not One who much or oft delight 
 Wings have we, — and as far as we can go 
 Nor can I not believe but that hereby 
 The world is too much with us ; late and soon 
 Where lies the Land to which yon Ship 
 
 miust go ? 
 Loud is the Vale ! . 
 Intimations of Immortality . 
 
 1807 Two Voices are there ; one is of the sea . 
 O Nightingale ! thou surely art 
 Brougham Castle ..... 
 
 1 8 14 Laodamia ...... 
 
 Yarrow Visited ..... 
 
 252 
 
Page 
 1815 How clear, how keen, how marvellously 
 
 bright 159 
 
 The fairest, brightest, hues of ether fade . 160 
 Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful 
 
 hour . . . . . .159 
 
 Brook ! whose society the Poet seeks . 163 
 Surprised by joy — impatient as the wind . 156 
 
 1818 Had this effulgence disappeared . . 238 
 
 1 8 19 I watch, and long have watched, with calm 
 
 regret ...... 160 
 
 1820 Child of the clouds ! remote from every 
 
 taint . . . . . • 163 
 
 Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that 
 
 played . . . . . .164 
 
 The old inventive Poets, had they seen . 164 
 
 Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep 165 
 
 But here no cannon thunders to the gale . 1 65 
 I thought of Thee, my partner and my 
 
 guide ...... 166 
 
 1 82 1 Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense 166 
 
 1823 Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous 
 
 swell 158 
 
 253 
 
Page 
 1827 Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have 
 
 frowned . . . . .152 
 
 Rotha, my Spiritual Child ! this head was 
 
 grey 157 
 
 1 8 3 1 A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain . 161 
 There's not a nook within this solemn Pass 157 
 
 1833 A point of life between my Parents' dust 156 
 Most sweet it is, with unuplif ted eyes . 158 
 
 1835 Upon the Death of James Hogg . -183 
 
 1 841 All praise the Likeness by thy skill por- 
 
 trayed . . . . . '155 
 Though I beheld at first with blank surprise 155 
 
 1842 Wansfell ! this Household has a favoured 
 
 lot 153 
 
 254 
 
NOTES 
 
TWO adjustments have been made for the text of 
 the Anthology which must be mentioned. 
 
 Page 34, Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up 
 Fostered alike by beauty and by fear. 
 
 have been made into an emphatic preface and repeat | 
 in a portion of the Induction, whereas in the original 
 they occur but once. 
 
 Page 59, O Soul of Nature ! excellent and fair ! 
 
 has been detached from its immediate context in The 
 Prelude and made the preface to an earlier passage 
 in the same book, which by repetition of O Soul 
 of Nature ! has been linked on to the later ; whilst 
 that I might tell What ye have done for me, the 
 concluding line, or portions of lines of the earlier, have 
 been repeated at the end of the later. 
 
 Printed at The Complete Press, West Norwood, London 
 
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